Ability Quotient

Chapter One

Bert Alshuler said, “The one thing I learned in the army that was worth learning was never to volunteer.”

Professor Katz did his rueful smile. “I was in Korea,” he said. “It seems a long time ago, and, of course, it was.” It would have been difficult to put your finger on the professor’s age; he might have been in his early sixties, his late seventies. His hair was gray, rather than white, and he was vitally alert.

The younger man didn’t respond to the smile. “Then you should know.”

Leonard Katz shifted in his chair, leaned forward and touched the tips of his fingers together. He said, “It’s not exactly a matter of volunteering… ah… Alshuler. You were selected.”

“By whom?”

“By the computers of the National Data Banks.”

“Why me?”

“Remember the tests you took, immediately before release from the military?”

“How in the hell could I forget? They must have taken at least two weeks. Why, I couldn’t figure. We were getting out of the army, not in. It was just two more weeks of typical army snafu.”

“They were compiling your Ability Quotient,” the professor told him.

“Never heard of it.”

“Very few have. At this stage of the game, we who are on the project are keeping it minimized.”

Bert Alshuler recrossed his legs. He was beginning to become intrigued. “Kay,” he said. “Tell me about the Ability Quotient tests. Something like I.Q.?”

“It goes far beyond I.Q.” The professor made with his rueful smile again. “You see, the I.Q. tests were early in the game. They were the infancy of the tests of today. They didn’t and couldn’t measure all-round intelligence. There is no such thing. But they were a beginning. Today we still utilize an upgraded form of the I.Q. tests but we also test for verbal ability, verbal fluency, numerical ability, spatial ability, perceptual ability, memory, speed of reflexes, accident proneness, digital dexterity, analogizing power, mechanical aptitude, clerical aptitude, emotional maturity, veracity, tone discrimination, taste sensitivity, even natural charm, color blindness, accuracy, persistence, drive, neurosis, powers of observation, health and a few others.”

“Don’t I know it?” Alshuler remarked. “Like I said, it took two weeks to get through them all. Some were pretty silly. Anyway, and…?”

“And you came out on top.”

Alshuler scowled at him. “You mean of all the people in the country?”

Professor Katz shook his head. “No, of course not. All the people in the United States of the Americas have not been given the tests. However, most of those in your age group being released from the military and particularly those who were single and about to enter college have been. For one thing, we were in a position to give such persons our tests without arousing much interest in our project. The military is endlessly giving examinations and tests.”

“And …?”

The professor leaned back in his chair again and looked at the younger man thoughtfully, as though wondering whether or not to go on. He obviously wasn’t completely happy at the other’s attitude.

He said finally, “We want you to enter into an experiment which will continue throughout the period you attend this university.”

“I figured on working toward a doctorate, seven or eight years.”

“It won’t take you seven or eight years.”

Bert Alshuler looked at him. “Why not?”

The professor said, “That’s part of the experiment.”

“Kay. We’ve finally got to the point. What experiment?”

Leonard Katz said, “My dear Alshuler, we want you to leave the selection of all your courses in the hands of the computers.”

The younger man’s face was blank. “How do you mean?”

“We want them to decide what you will study, at what pace you will go, whose lectures you assimilate, that sort of thing—for the whole period of your work here.”

Bert Alshuler was dumbfounded. “You mean machines are going to decide if I become a doctor, an engineer, a lawyer, a—”

“Yes.”

The student came to his feet. “No thanks. I may be silly but not that silly. I’m willing to allow my faculty adviser, or whatever you call him, to advise me on my courses but I’ll be damned if I’m going to have a punch card machine breathing down my neck every time I decide something like whether I want pica or elite size type on my voco-typer.”

The professor smiled. He said, “The tests indicated that you had a sense of humor, my dear Alshuler. Sit down. There’s more to it than that, of course.”

Bert Alshuler resumed his chair, but his expression was still hostile.

Katz put more urgency in his voice. “Have you ever considered how few persons really study what they should, or even what they would like?”

“I don’t think I follow that.”

“In grammar school, the student is told what he shall learn. All are given the same courses, all at the same rate of progress, no matter the individual’s abilities. Many youngsters hate history, or math, or whatever, but must study them. Some love these subjects but are not given the opportunity to delve into them to the extent they would like. Very well, when they achieve to high school they are given a bit of choice, but it is usually a decision made, by parents. If they do not have the wherewithal to see the child through college, or if they are anxious to have his services on the farm or in the family’s small business, the child is enrolled in a commercial or mechanical course, and very often drops out before graduation, once again, no matter his abilities.”

The professor paused for a moment. “On the other hand, you take the son of a well-to-do family who has a flair for mechanics, or possibly one of the arts or sciences. Unfortunately, his father is a businessman who attended an Ivy League college. He’s going to see his son through the same school and eventually into the family business, if hades freezes over.”

Bert Alshuler grunted understanding.

“Or,” the professor pursued, “the student who does have freedom of choice but the inability to exercise it intelligently. Immediately before enrollment he sees a Tri-Di show involving a sympathetic doctor. Very well. Inspired, he signs up as a pre-med. A year later, bored, he meets an artist, or writer, or whatever, who sends him off on another tangent. Nothing will do but that he enter the arts. Which he does, possibly to his eventual sorrow. Next year…”

“Kay,” Bert Alshuler said. “I get your point. And it sounds valid. But why in the hell should these punch card machines be in a better position to decide than I am?”

“They don’t utilize punched cards any more, my dear Alshuler. But the reason is that they know more about you than you do.”

“Oh, now… really.”

The professor leaned forward again, put his fingertips together and looked very sincere. “But they do, you know. Since your birth, the National Data Banks have been filing away the information on Albert… ah… Alshuler. Not only data on you, but both of your parents. The doctor who presided at your birth recorded all pertinent information. So did every doctor who has treated you since. So have all your teachers. So have all the police with whom you have had dealings. All the information you ever supplied to census takers, to the Internal Revenue offices, to the military, is there, and the results of all the I.Q., Ability Quotient and other tests. You have no idea, my dear Alshuler. The National Data Banks contain information that your own faulty memory has long since forgotten.”

Bert Alshuler said abruptly, “What’s in it for me if I… temporarily… accept this, uh, project?”

The professor nodded and flicked on a desk screen. He looked into it and made a rueful moue. “You are not in a very good bargaining position, I fear. Currently, your sole source of finances is your Guaranteed Annual Income. Of course, as a veteran, all your school expenses are paid.”

Bert Alshuler held his peace.

The other said, “Your GAI will be doubled during the period you work with us. If you finish the whole project, that is, if you remain with us for as long as we wish, you will be awarded an additional five thousand pseudo-dollars.” He twisted his mouth in amusement. “Which will undoubtedly be meaningless to you.”

Alshuler scowled. “Why? Five thousand is no small sum to a student, and that’s all I am now.”

“Because, Mr. Alshuler, if the project is a success, by that time you will be wealthy beyond your dreams of avarice.”

Chapter Two

Bert Alshuler looked at him sarcastically. “I have some pretty avaricious dreams,” he said. “Why will I be wealthy? Frankly, I’ve always been a little on the lazy side. I rather doubt that I’ve got the push to make myself very rich in the world as it is today.”

“I can’t tell you at this stage of the game,” the professor said.

The other grunted and thought about it He said finally, “How many other students are there in this deal?”

Katz hesitated before saying, “One other in the whole university. We would have liked to have more controls but the nature of the experiment is such that the fewer we have connected with it, the better.”

“Why does it have to be kept secret?”

“I can’t tell you at this stage,” the professor said again. “However, if you do decide to cooperate, then you must pledge not to discuss it with anyone whomsoever that is not connected with the project.”

Alshuler cocked his head slightly. “How do you know I’d keep the pledge?”

“Among the other tests you took was one for veracity. We must trust you to keep your word, and shall.”

“Make it three times the amount of my government Guaranteed Annual Income and I’ll accept for the first semester. From then on I’ll either renew or drop out, each semester that comes up.”

“Very well. However, you won’t be doing your studying by semesters.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t tell you at this stage, but you’ll probably find out on your own in very short order.” There was a tone in Leonard Katz’ voice that indicated that the interview was over.

Bert Alshuler stood. “Kay. When do I start? Where do I go to sign up, or whatever?”

The professor stood too and extended a hand to be shaken. “You just signed up,” he smiled. “You’ll be contacted.”

When Bert Alshuler had gone, another entered the office from an adjoining room. He was attired in the uniform of a lieutenant general of Security and was scowling.

Katz looked up at him, “What do you think, my dear General Paul?”

The other shook his head. “He doesn’t sound very cooperative.”

“We don’t want a wishy-washy. We want a man with push, his own ideas, with strength.”

“But we also need somebody we can control. I’d say take this slowly, until we’re sure about him.”

“Very well. Possibly you are correct.”

Bert Alshuler took an express elevator from the fiftieth floor of the high-rise building that housed the administration offices, including that of Professor Leonard Katz, to the ground floor and strode through the masses of milling students and instructors out onto the campus.

He muttered skeptically, “Beyond my dreams of avarice.”

He would have taken on the offer at the original price, that is, double the Guaranteed Annual Income that was the right of every citizen of the United States of the Americas. He had asked for triple just to see what Katz reply would be and had expected to be refused. Surely, no matter how high his Ability Quotient, as the professor had called it, there must be scores of others who had placed approximately as high. But evidently they had wanted him, and fairly badly. The professor hadn’t hesitated at all. He wondered now what the other’s response would have been if he had demanded even more. He might keep it in mind, if he decided to remain on a second semester or more—but what had that been about his not being on a semester basis?

He lit out across the campus to one of the auto-cafes which he found almost deserted at this early time of the day. However, Jim Hawkins was seated at a corner table where they usually met.

When Bert came up, Jim said, “Scram. I’m waiting for a girl.”

“So am I,” Bert said, taking a chair across from the other. “So far, the right one hasn’t come along, old buddy.” He began fishing his Identity Card from his pocket.

Jim said, “This is the right one, but I saw her first. Scram.”

“What’s this scram thing?”

“Go away.”

Bert put the card in the table slot and said, “How about a beer? I’m springing.” He said into the screen, “Two large glasses of beer.”

His old time army buddy said, “You’ve got a lot to learn, freshman. When you’re living the student life on Guaranteed Annual Income, you can’t go around buying beers for people this early in the day. By the end of the month you’ll be starving.”

The table top dipped and rose again with two chilled glasses of beer. They reached out for them.

“Mother’s milk,” Jim said appreciatively. “You all signed up?”

“I suppose so.”

“What courses are you taking? Maybe I can give you some words of wisdom, old buddy.”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“I thought you said you were all signed up.” Jim took a long draught, half emptying the glass. He was a tall, thin specimen, prone to sprawl his lanky body all over anything sprawlable upon, and his face was as easy going as his form.

Bert Alshuler caught himself. Katz had emphasized that he was to discuss the mysterious project with absolutely no one.

He said, “Look. You were here last year. Who is Professor Leonard Katz?”

Jim Hawkins finished the rest of his beer and looked clown into the glass longingly. “Katz? You won’t be having anything to do with him. He’s a big mucky-muck. Always working on some government research program or other. He doesn’t teach.” He wiped the back of his right hand over his mouth to clean off the last of the beer head and added, “Katz doesn’t even know you exist.”

Bert said, “Another brew?”

Jim looked at him. “I keep warning you, old buddy. You can’t afford to waste your dough on booze.”

Bert ordered two more beers and said, “I just got a windfall, beyond my dreams of avarice.”

Jim grunted skepticism and said, “Then you’d better make it three beers. Here comes Jill.” He came to his feet, his expression subtly changed.

A pint-sized girl was approaching the table. Though quite petite, she had the graceful stride of an athlete or possibly a professional dancer. Her features, delicate save for a slightly wide mouth, bore no make-up whatsoever. A natural type, somewhat out of tune these days, Bert thought.

Even as he also stood, Bert wondered why it was that six and a half footers, such as Jim Hawkins, so often went for girls in the five foot category. Who was left for those poor girls who exceeded six feet in altitude?

She said, “Hi, Jim,” and looked at Bert.

Jim groaned and said, “All my instincts tell me not to introduce you, Killer, but I suppose I can’t get around it. Jill Masterson, Albert Alshuler. Jill, Bert. Watch out for him, Sweetie Pie, when it comes to women, he’s a fink.”

Jill held out a hand, man fashion. “Any enemy of Jim’s is a friend of mine,” she said. “He has the most fascinating enemies.”

Bert shook her hand and grinned. “Unfortunately, he happens to be my closest friend.” He held a chair for her. “Beer?”

“Fine.”

He pushed his glass of beer over to her and ordered another for himself.

The girl looked at Jim. “We’re not going to be seeing as much of each other as we thought. I’m going to have to change my schedule. I’m dropping both the Chaucer and the French.”

Jim said in protest, “Aw, the devil.”

Bert looked at him. “Chaucer? You?”

Jim was indignant. “What’s wrong with me and Chaucer? Maybe I love all those old Greeks, too.”

Jill looked at him suspiciously. “Jim Hawkins, did you sign up for that course because I was in the class?”

The lanky one cleared his throat and looked at his watch. He jerked his head in a gesture of resignation. “I’m going to have to go.” He looked at Bert suspiciously. “I don’t trust you with my girl, old buddy.”

Bert Alshuler put his hand over his heart. “You’re my own old buddy.”

Jim said, “Ha.” He came to his feet, and said, “Don’t you two do anything I would do.”

Jill said, “Ha.”

When Jim was gone, Jill looked after him reflectively. “He’s a nice guy,” she said, but there was friendly camaraderie in her voice, rather than an emotion indicating a relationship between man and woman.

He said, “Yeah. He saved my life eleven times.”

She looked at him, startled. “Eleven times? Where in the name of heavens were you?”

“Saving his life.”

She frowned, as though seeking the joke. “I mean where were the two of you?”

“Back to back in a machine gun nest. The gun was jammed and all we had were our automatics. Later on when the relief came, we counted them. There were ten on my side and eleven on his. If he hadn’t been there, those eleven gooks would have come up on my back. If I hadn’t been there, those ten would have come up on his. I figure I owe him one life.” He added softly, “And I hope some day to catch up with him. Jim’s the best.”

“Gooks?”

He looked at her. “Listen, when they’re trying to kill you, you don’t have polite names for them. They’re Gook’s, or Krauts, or Huns, or some such.”

She nodded. “I see.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll have to hustle along too.” She looked into his face frankly. “Rather short notice, but I think I like you, Bert Alshuler. What was that Killer bit when he introduced us? Are you mad for the ladies or something?”

He stood at the same time she did and walked along beside her to the door. “No,” he said wryly. “Kind of a old nickname back in the army. I’m not very smart with the ladies. I… I guess I got a late start. They hauled me into the military before I was out of short pants practically. At the door he said, I suppose I ought to go on back to my mini-apartment and get around to unpacking. Things have been so hectic these past couple of days that I’m still living out of my suitcases.”

“Which way are you going?”

“I’m over in the Parthenon Building.”

“Well, so am I. I understand that the juniors and seniors call our quarters the dungeons. They’re not as bad as all that, though.”

“Sort of cramped. The new buildings have more room, now they’ve got the housing shortage licked. What’s the population of this university city now?” He fell in step beside her, somewhat surprised that he didn’t have to slow his pace to accommodate to her hers. She was a brisk little thing.

“Something like three hundred thousand,” she said. “The use of TV and the computers came just in time. What in the name of heavens would they have done with this educational revolution if they had to teach in the old manner?”

“When the need for railroads came along, railroads were invented,” he misquoted. He took her in from the side of his eyes. “Jim likes you pretty well. I know Jim.”

She looked straight ahead. “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? Jim’s the best.”

She sighed and said, “I have to look up twice to see the top of him.”

He was unhappy, but there was nothing to say. Jim Hawkins had always had hard luck with his women— the women he was serious about. Practically all men liked him. Well, practically all women liked him too, but those who had really mattered to him didn’t go further than that; they only liked him.

They were coming up to the high-rise building that contained their respective apartments. They were silent now. At the elevator banks, she turned to him and extended her hand again. “Nice to have met you, Bert, Jim has mentioned you, more than once.”

He stared at the elevator door which closed behind her. In the past, when Jim Hawkins had come up with a new girl he was hot about, Bert Alshuler had steered clear. He didn’t know if he was going to be able to do it this time, or not.

Chapter Three

He entered an empty elevator and said into the screen, “Sixty-third floor.”

He was still bemused, thinking of Jim and the girl, when he reached his floor and walked down the corridor to his door. The door screen picked him up upon approach and opened, and he was in the small living room-cum-bedroom-cum-kitchenette before the other had any indication of his approach.

Bert Alshuler stopped abruptly. “Looking for something?” he snapped.

The stranger had been bent over one of his suitcases, rummaging through it. He came erect and faced the apartment’s tenant, his face embarrassed.

He was a fraction smaller than Bert which made him about five-eight, about one-fifty and he looked to be in his middle thirties which gave him almost another ten years. He was dressed well but conservatively by present day standards, and was obviously no ordinary prowler.

Bert said, “How in the hell did you get in here?”

The stranger sat down on the couch which became a bed at night and looked defiant. He said, “What did you discuss with Professor Katz? I came to find what you discussed with Katz.”

“Did you expect to find it in my suitcase?”

“I thought I might find some indication. What did he want of you?”

Bert Alshuler was intrigued. He sat down on the mini-apartment’s sole comfort chair and eyed the newcomer. “Why don’t you ask him?”

Over the other’s face came a look of determination. He said, “I insist that you divulge to me the reason for your interview this morning with Leonard Katz.”

Bert said mildly, “Fine. Who are you?”

“That I am not ready to tell you.”

“Great. Then why don’t you get lost, in view of the fact that I’m about to hang one on your for breaking into my apartment and going through my private possessions?”

The stubborn determination intensified. The stranger put his hand inside his jacket and came forth with a pistol. He pointed it at Bert Alshuler. “Tell me immediately what it was that Professor Katz wanted with you this morning.”

Bert Alshuler looked at the other for a long considering moment. He ran the palm of his right hand over his mouth in a gesture of disgust and leaned forward slightly in the chair.

“You want to know something?” he said. “I’m an old combat man. I’ve been hit more times than I can offhand remember, but never with a gun of that small a caliber. It’s a twenty-two with a two-inch barrel, a very inaccurate gun. You want to know something else? On top of everything else, I’ll bet you’re a lousy shot. And I’ll bet that I can get out of this chair and rush you before you can finish me with that popgun.” He waited another long moment before adding, “Want to try? If you do, start shooting, friend.”

The other bug-eyed him.

Bert tensed up and repeated, “Start shooting, friend.”

“Why… why…” The other darted a surprised look down at the gun, as though the small weapon had betrayed him.

Bert held his peace, only looking coldly at the other. There were butterflies in his stomach, a whole bevy of them, but his eyes were level and he knew that the interloper was more frightened than he was. He had been shot at before—all too, many a time—and he doubted that this one had ever heard the sound of a gun, outside a shooting gallery, or hunting rabbits, or whatever.

The stranger, his face working, came to his feet, the gun still at the ready. He began edging for the door. Bert Alshuler stayed where he was. There was no point in pushing his luck.

When the would-be gunman reached his avenue of escape he said, trying to keep his voice firm, “I warn you. For your own good, tell me what it was that Katz wanted with you.”

“Go on, get out of here,” Bert said in disgust. “Or maybe I’ll change my mind and take that peashooter away from you and stick it where it won’t do you much good at all.”

The other was upset, but he had already lost the game and obviously knew it. He wasn’t ready to shoot, and a gun is valueless in controversy if you aren’t willing to use it.

He grabbed the door open, fled through it, banged it behind him.

Bert Alshuler continued to sit there in disgust. “Now what the hell was that all about?” he snarled.

On second reflection, now, he decided that he should have taken on the twitch, got in contact with Katz and delved into the thing. Kay, great. But suppose the other had had luck and managed to drill him between the eyes. That’s all he needed. Two more holes in the head, one neatly centered between the eyes, the other taking out the back of the skull.

Well, he’d mention it to Katz the next time he came in contact with the professor. He began to come to his feet to get about unpacking. The identity screen on the door pinged, and he looked at it.

A stranger’s face was there, but was staring as though down the corridor, rather than looking directly ahead, so that Bert could see who it was.

Bert Alshuler grunted and went over and opened up. The other was still looking down the hall and frowning unhappily.

“Confound it, who was that?” he said, his voice highly testy. He was a somewhat pompous looking type, in his mid-fifties perhaps, about five and a half feet tall and too plump for his height. He had a very good tailor, a very good barber, and the briefcase he carried must have set him back a small fortune.

“Who was who?” Bert said.

“That man I just passed in the corridor.”

“How would I know?” Bert said reasonably. “And just who are you?”

“You’re Alshuler, aren’t you?”

“That’s right, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’m a colleague of Professor Katz. You can call me Doctor Smith.”

“John, I’ll bet.” For some reason this newcomer irritated Bert Alshuler. Possibly it was a carry-over from his last visitor. He said, “Just a minute,” and went over to the phone screen on the small desk of his mini-apartment.

He sat down before it and said, “Professor Leonard Katz, please.”

A robot voice said, “The number is restricted. Who is calling, please?”

“Albert Alshuler.”

“Your name is listed. Thank you.”

Professor Katz’ face faded in, frowning.

Bert said, “You impressed me with all your hush-hush gobbledygook. Kay. A character has shown up here calling himself Doctor Smith. Do you want to identify him?”

Smith came over and looked into the screen.

“Hello, Ralph,” Katz said to him, then looked back to Bert. “The doctor is one of your, ah, advisers. Anything else, Alshuler?”

“No, I suppose not, except that when I got back to my rooms here, I caught a jittery type prowling my luggage. He wanted to know what it was you wanted to see me about.”

Leonard Katz looked startled. “What was his name?”

“He was a bit on the secretive side. But emphatic. He pulled a gun on me and insisted I tell him.”

The professor’s eyes widened. “What did you do?”

“What could I do?” Bert said sarcastically. “I offered to take it away from him if he didn’t get the hell out.”

Dr. Smith leaned over again and said, excitement in his voice, “As I approached this place, I saw him coming out of Alshuler’s apartment…”

“Hold it,” Katz said. “We’ll discuss it later. Anything else, my dear Alshuler?”

“Listen, if this project of yours involves people who don’t know how to handle guns, I’d like to put it on the record that it makes me nervous.”

“According to your Ability Quotient tests, you don’t get nervous,” Leonard Katz said. He looked at Dr. Smith. “Get him out of there,” he said, and evidently flicked off the phone.

Doctor Smith looked at Bert. “How long will it take you to pack?”

“About two minutes. I’m already packed. But why?”

“I haven’t the time to go into details now. Please get your things and come with me.”

Bert shrugged his disgust and began putting the few odds and ends he had removed from his bags, back into them. He had two medium large suitcases and a highly battered smaller one. He handed the smaller one to the self-named Doctor Smith.

“Here you are, Ralph,” he said.

The other took it, as though grudgingly, possibly because it looked so very proletarian compared to his get-up. But he led the way out the door and to the elevator banks, and jittered unhappily, looking up and down the hall, while they waited.

In the elevator, he said into the screen, “Metro,” and the robot voice said, “Yes, Professor Marsh.”

Bert looked at him and laughed. “One hell of a cloak and dagger man you turned out to be,” he said. “What’s all this about?”

He who was obviously Professor Ralph Marsh, rather than Doctor Smith, John or otherwise, flushed in irritation. “I’ll tell you all you are to know when we get you to your new quarters.”

“What was wrong with the old ones? I was satisfied.”

“You’ll see.”

Alshuler gave up and held his peace. Shortly, they arrived in the Parthenon Building’s metro station and his guide dialed a two-seater. They put the bags in the luggage rack and took their places on the seats. Marsh dialed the little vehicle’s controls and they took off through the automated underground. Bert didn’t bother to ask where they were going. He was moderately surprised at himself, but then in the army he had learned to follow instructions.

They entered another metro station, took up the bags again and approached the elevator banks. Bert followed Marsh to the far end and to an elevator that seemed somewhat smaller in cubic content than the others. They stepped inside.

Marsh said, “Stand in front of the screen.”

Bert’s eyebrows went up a bit, but he followed orders.

Marsh said, “Albert Alshuler, now assigned to Suite G.” He looked at Bert. “Do you have any close friends who might be inclined to call on you?”

Mystified, Bert said, “I only know one person in this whole university city. I just got here a couple of days ago.”

“What is his name? Is he registered here? How long have you known him?”

“James Hawkins. He’s a sophomore. I’ve know him, let’s say five or six years.”

“Very good.” Professor Marsh looked into the screen.

“James Hawkins, registered as a sophomore, is to have access to Suite G.”

“What the hell…” Bert began.

The professor said testily, “You’ll see, you’ll see,” and to the screen, “Suite G.”

“Yes, Professor Marsh.”

Bert gave up, temporarily, at least. He was getting fed to the gills with all this razzle. He bent his knees to accommodate to the acceleration, and then again. And again. He looked at his guide. “What floor is this Suite G. on, anyway?”

“Top.”

Bert pursed his lips. He had already come to understand that the level of the floor on which you have your quarters was a status symbol even superior to what building you were in here in Mid-West University City.

“By the way, what’s the name of this building? Just in case I might want to come home some night?”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Mr. Alshuler. This is the Administration Building.”

A suite on the top floor of the Ad building. He thought they were reserved for gods.

Marsh said, as though just remembering, “This elevator is the one you will always use. The others don’t go as high as your floor. This is semi-restricted.”

Bert was suitably impressed but couldn’t think of anything to say.

The elevator began to decelerate and shortly they emerged into a swank corridor. Bert hissed appreciatively through his teeth, picked up his bags again and followed the leader. Evidently, the door screen on Suite G. was attuned to Professor Marsh. The door swung open at their approach.

Bert followed on through, down a short hall, and put his bags on the living room floor and looked around. One whole wall was glass and looked out over the valley and the mountains beyond in such a manner that none of the other buildings of the ultra-large university could be seen without coming very near to the window and the terrace beyond.

In his time, Bert Alshuler, on leave in some of the cities of the Far East, and with his pockets heavy with accumulated pay that he had never expected to live to spend, had stopped in some of the most luxurious hostelries in the world, and some of the most expensive. However, he had never witnessed an apartment such as this, no matter what the tariff.

Marsh said, his voice condescending and a smirk on his face, “There are four of these. The university reserves them for V.I.P.s who visit us. The last occupant of this suite was the President.”

“The president of what?”

“The President of the United States of the Americas,” Marsh said, pompishness there. “And now, if you’ll follow me.”

He led the way to a side room, saying, “We’ve made some alterations to convert this former bedroom into a study for you. As you’ve probably become aware, it is sometimes preferable, particularly if you are consulting more than one reference at a time, to have your reference works in the old book form, when you are working on a screen connected with the National Data Banks, as a library booster.”

He gestured with his hand.

Bert said, “Jesus.”

The decor of the room was that of an English mansion’s library of the 17th or 18th centuries, up to and including a small, old-fashioned bar in a corner. It had been a long time since Bert Alshuler had made a drink himself, or had one other than that supplied by an auto-bar.

The only thing off-beat, due to its modern quality, was set in the very center of the room. It was an auto-teacher.

Marsh said, “I’ll instruct you on the mechanics of that.”

“You won’t have to. The army gave me some courses.”

“All right, but this is a bit updated.”

“Kay. When do we start?”

The professor looked at his wrist chronometer. “It is still morning. You have time for an hour or so of instruction before you will wish your mid-day meal. You can begin as soon as you’ve had your shots and pills.”

Bert looked at him coldly. “What shots and pills?”

The other was fiddling with his fancy briefcase. “When I introduced myself as Doctor Smith, only one half was inaccurate. I am a doctor, you know.”

“That’s fine. But I’ve never felt better in my life.”

The other ignored him and began drawing various medical equipment from his oversized case. “This has nothing to do with your health,” he said. “We’ve already checked that out. Your health is excellent. Disgustingly so.”

“Well, I figure on letting it stay that way. What shots and pills? This wasn’t in the bargain.”

Even as he prepared a hypodermic, the Doctor-Professor, or whatever he was, said, “According to the information we have on you from the National Data Banks, Alshuler, you have no medical training. You would be unable to understand my terminology. Next week, or so, I’ll go into it with you a bit. Meanwhile, will you lower your trousers so that I may inject this into your hip?”

Bert looked at him in frustration. “If I can’t understand it now, why should I be able to next week? What does it do?”

“Confound it,” the other said testily. “You’ll find out in due time.”

It was evidently a matter of put up or shut up. It was the time to take his stand, if he wanted to turn down this whole confusing mess. Damn it, he had come to this university to cash in on his veteran’s rights to a free education of top quality. Also in the back of his mind was the fact that he had a free ride for at least eight years. Like many a long-term army man he was basically lazy. His inclination was to take life easy. It could be awfully short—you found that out in the military. The thing was, he was getting more intrigued by the minute. The triple Guaranteed Annual Income. That wealth beyond dreams of avarice gobbledygook. This suite. He assumed everything went with it. From food to liquor. He had half a mind to ask Marsh whether or not he could have a call-girl sent up. That’d probably shock the puffy old buzzard.

He said, “Kay,” and began to unbuckle his belt.

The doctor was a pro. Bert Alshuler didn’t even feel the injection.

The other turned and fiddled in his briefcase some more, to emerge with two rather large pill bottles, one brown, one green. He held them up to the light, for some reason or other, as if to check the contents, though as far as Bert could see, both the bottles were opaque.

Marsh said with satisfaction, “The brown ones will turn you on, the green ones, off.” He began to unscrew the top of the brown bottle.

“Now wait a minute. Turn me on what?”

“You’ll see.”

“The hell I will. I tried charas once, in India, and I can stand without being turned on.”

The other ignored him and extended a chubby hand, complete with long-sized brown pill. Bert looked at it. The hand shoved further forward.

Hell, he had already taken the shot. What was the point in chickening out at this mid-point? He took it. Marsh went over to the beautiful antique bar and brought back a glass of water.

He said, extending the glass, “Never take more than one of these at a time. Nor the green ones either, for that matter?”

“What happens if I take more than one at a time?”

“You’ll get deathly sick. I believe the military term is, you toss your cookies.”

“Maybe in your day in the military, not in mine,” Bert grumbled, but he tossed back the pill and washed it down. “Now what?”

“Now you begin your studies.”

Bert looked around the room, not being able to restrain his approval. “So this is where I do my homework, eh?”

“This is where you do all your work.”

It was time to scowl again. “How do you mean? How about my classes, my lectures, my lab work and so on?”

“Some lab work we might have, later on. You’ll have special tutors. Also, possibly a few lectures, though you can get most of these on tape, of course, if not all. But no classes.”

Bert Alshuler stared at him. “No classes? Are you completely around the bend? The whole idea is that the computers decide what courses I’m to take.”

“Courses, not classes. Now if you’ll just come over here.” Marsh led the way to the auto-teacher. He looked at his wrist chronometer again and murmured something that Bert didn’t catch, then, “Now, if I’m not mistaken, the computers have decided that your first course is this Refresher in Mathematics from Elementary Arithmetic Through Infinitesimal Calculus.”

Alshuler said, “It’s going to have its work cut out refreshing me in anything more advanced than high school solid geometry. That’s as far as I got and that was a long time ago.”

“It takes everything step by step, you won’t have any difficulty,” the other said with satisfaction.

“Kay. Great. But when I get to that next step, after geometry, I’m going to stumble over it and fall flat on my kisser.”

“We’ll see. Now, this button speeds things up as you go along.”

“Where’s the one that slows things down?” Bert growled.

Marsh ignored him. “If you have questions, simply speak into the screen. Go at whatever pace you wish. When you weary, take one of the green pills. Any questions?”

Bert looked at him. “Any questions? I have so damn many questions I can’t even think of the first one.”

The professor-doctor was returning things to his briefcase very briskly. “All right, ask them tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning. I assume you know how to utilize the auto-kitchen and so forth. I hope you find your quarters satisfactory, Mr. Alshuler.”

Bert looked after him as the plump little man trotted off to the living room and evidently the front door.

He turned back to the auto-teacher. It was obviously spanking new. He rubbed his right palm over his mouth. He supposed that he should check out the rest of the apartment, locate his bedroom and possibly do a bit of unpacking, but he was increasingly intrigued.

He sat down before the screen and activated it. A book was there. The title: Refresher in Mathematics from Elementary Arithmetic Through Infinitesimal Calculus. He grunted contempt of that and pressed the button that turned pages.

A voice said, “Chapter One. Elementary Arithmetic. Addition.”

Bert said, “We don’t have to start quite that elementary. I can add.”

The voice, an even, firm, cultured voice but with still a mechanical something in its tone, said, “It is best to review each chapter in turn, taking the examination at the end of each before proceeding to the next. Your stylus for marking the examinations is to your right hand.”

“Kay, all right,” Bert grumbled.

When they said elementary arithmetic, they evidently meant elementary arithmetic. They started out with one plus one equals two. Unconsciously, Bert flicked the switch to speed things up. They went through addition, subtraction, multiplication and division in short order and before he knew it he was into elementary algebra. It had been a long time since he had done any algebra. He was surprised how well it came back to him. Once again, he was able to speed up the lesson. The pages flicked past. Once or twice in each chapter, and particularly at the tests, the screen voice brought him up. Once or twice, he asked questions on his own. The book, he realized, was very well down. Each step was absolutely clear to him before he went on to the next. It was a flow. He never hesitated. Trigonometry he had never studied before and was astonished to find how easily he went through it, amazed that he found himself speeding up the lessons still once again.

It came as a shock when he reached the end of the hook.

He sat back in his chair and stared, put down the stylus with which he had been marking the tests.

A voice, a different voice, said, “You have been credited with Math One.”

Bert Alshuler blinked. It came to him, almost like a slap in the face, that he had completed a course meant to take a semester. He staggered to his feet, went over to the table on which Professor Marsh had left the two bottles and picked up the brown one and stared at it.

He looked at his watch and stared again. It was lunch time. It had been about two hours since Marsh had left. Then he scowled and shook the wrist chronometer. Something was wrong with it. The second hand was going very slowly.

He went over to the massive mahogany desk, set in one corner, leaned over it and dialed the time on the phone screen. The time was exactly the same as his own wrist chronometer proclaimed. He looked at the watch again, uncomprehendingly. The second hand was still going at approximately one quarter or less what he would have thought normal speed.

Without thinking, he returned to the table and took up the green bottle. He opened it, shook out a pill and took it. There was still some water in the glass Professor Marsh had brought him earlier. He finished it, to wash down the pill. He felt as though in a daze. Nothing made sense. And then he realized that he felt ravenously hungry. For the first time he explored the apartment.

The balance of the suite lived up to the promise of the living room and study. It was luxurious and done in a taste that could only be thought of in terms of tomorrow.

There was a dining room, a large one, but the auto-kitchen also had a table with a serving unit and he wound up there, sitting down and flicking the switch for the lunch menu. Then something came to him. He looked at the watch again. The second hand was speeding around the face at normal rate.

“The green pills turn it off,” he muttered wonderingly.

He gave his order into the screen, realizing all over again that he had an appetite greater than he could remember for years. He was ravenous.

He had assumed that the steak would be from the whale herds, but it wasn’t. It was beef. Who could afford beef these days? He ate two of them, a monstrous amount of potatoes, a king-size salad and a huge dish of ice cream and strawberries.

Lunch over, he pushed the dishes and utensils onto the table’s center and pressed the button that would return them to the kitchens in the bowels of the basement floors of the building.

He made his way back to the study and stared at the auto-teacher accusingly for a long moment, his hands jammed into his jacket pockets. Then he shook his head and went over to the table and got himself one of the brown pills. Something came to him and he put the pill down and returned to the auto-teacher and sat down before the screen.

He activated it and said, “What’s next?”

A voice said, “Have you taken your stimulant?”

Bert said, “No. I’d like to take a crack at this without it.”

“Please take your stimulant.”

How in the hell can you argue with a computer’s robot voice? He glared at the screen for a moment but then got to his feet and went back for the pill.

“The brown one turns you on,” he growled. “I feel like Alice In Wonderland.” He began to take the pill but then thought of something. He returned to the student’s chair and sank back into it and activated the screen again. “Kay. Let’s go,” he said.

“Have you taken your stimulant?”

“Yes.”

“The next subject will be Anthropology One, Elementary Ethnology.”

Bert groaned. He had a very vague idea of what anthropology was but didn’t even know the definition of ethnology.

A book appeared on the screen. Elementary Ethnology.

The screen said, “Ethnology, the branch of anthropology which utilizes the data furnished by ethnography, the recording of living cultures, and archeology, to analyze and compare the various cultures of mankind. In short, social anthropology which evolves broader generalizations based partly on the findings of the other social sciences.”

Inwardly, Bert groaned again but flicked his button to turn to Chapter One, page one.

Shortly, the voice said, “You have not taken your stimulant.”

He looked at the screen in disgust. “How did you know?”

“Please take your stimulant.”

Bert got to his feet and went back to where he had left the brown pill. “How could you brazen out a lie to a damn computer?”

He took the pill and returned to the student’s chair and slumped down into it. “Kay,” he said. “So I’ve taken the stimulant.”

Within a few minutes he was speeding up the rate of page turning. The tests at the end of each chapter seemed irritatingly simple He wanted to get on with it. He plowed on through, speeding up, speeding up. And, once again, came to the end of the course, startled.

The screen said, “You have been credited with Anthropology One.”

He sat there for a moment and stared at it. He licked his lips and said, “Kay. What’s next?”

“Ancient History One. Our Oriental Heritage.”

“Jesus,” Bert said in resignation.

“No,” the screen said. “The period previous to the emergence of the Christian ethic.”

Who could expect a computer to have a sense of humor?

“Kay, let’s go.”

At six o’clock he called it quits and stumbled from his chair and to the bar in the corner. He looked up at the selection of potables. It looked as though it had been chosen by a multi-millionaire Some of the Scotch was forty years old. If they wanted to woo him with forty-year-old whisky, he’d be glad to cooperate. He reached up for bottle and glass and poured himself a healthy slug, a very healthy one. The military had taught him to take his drink where he could find it and to get it down quickly before somebody, or something, changed the situation under which you could imbibe.

He held the glass up in a sarcastic toast and said, “Here’s to education,” and belted it down.

It was ultra-smooth, ultra-strong and had an absolutely wonderful bouquet. He had never tasted a more delicate spirit in his life. He hadn’t known that strong liquor could go down so wonderfully.

He looked into his now empty glass and then at the bottle from which he had poured it and said, admiringly, “Now that’s what I call whiskey.”

And then he fell unconscious.

Chapter Four

He had awakened how many hours later, he didn’t know. He had failed to check the time between finishing his last lesson and taking the drink. He felt nauseated, but, surprisingly, at the same time desperately hungry. He was starved. He looked out the fabulous picture window. It was pitch dark outside. He looked at his wrist chronometer. The second hand was creeping.

“Oh, oh,” he said. He pushed himself to his feet, groaning, and made his way over to the table where—how many centuries ago?—Professor Ralph Marsh, the fink, had left the two pill bottles. What was it? Brown turned you on, green turned off. Oh great. He felt like one of the victims of some mad scientist type.

However, he shook out one of the green pills, knocked it back and went over to the bar for water.

He couldn’t imagine getting any food into his stomach, feeling as it did, but on the other hand he was still desperately hungry It came to him that when he was stimulated, turned on, or call it whatever you will, that he burned up energy like a dynamo. Nervous energy, perhaps, but where physical consumption of energy ended and nervous began, he didn’t know. In combat you could spend several days sitting in a foxhole, immobile for endless hours at a time, and come out having lost as much as ten pounds, although you had eaten reasonably well of the high energy foods the military provided.

He stumbled to the kitchen and, lacking imagination, ordered the same dishes he had eaten at lunch. He managed to get down three steaks this time. The nausea had largely disappeared after the first few bites of hot food.

He went back into the study, irritation growing in him by the minute, and sat down at the desk phone screen. He activated it and said, “Professor Ralph Marsh.”

“The number is restricted. Who is calling, please?”

He grunted sarcastically. These people were really exclusive. “Albert Alshuler.”

“You name is listed. Thank you.”

“It had better be,” he growled.

Marsh’s face faded in. By the grain, he was evidently on his pocket phone and from the appearance of his image, evidently in a moving vehicle.

“Yes, Alshuler?”

Bert said, “Look. The booze in this apartment. Somebody’s put a mickey in it.”

“Mickey?”

“Somebody’s poisoned it. I took a slug a few hours ago and bang, passed out. I still feel a little sick.”

The other was staring at him. “But that’s impossible!”

“Great. And here I stand, wasting my time telling you fairy stories, eh?”

“How do you feel now?”

“Better. I got some food into my stomach.”

Marsh thought about it, his plump face pouting. “Well, I’ll go over it with you in the morning. I’d suggest you don’t drink anything more before then.”

Bert looked at him in disgust and switched the phone off.

He awoke at first dawn, opened one eye to take a look at the light, growled and turned over again.

But there was no sleep in him. Too much was pounding away in his mind. He got up and explored the bathroom that led off the master bedroom. It was ultramodern, as was the rest of the suite, and was well stocked with a man’s toilet articles.

He performed standard ablutions, then returned to where he had left his suitcases. He opened them in search for clean clothing but then something came to him He went over to one of the huge closets and opened it. There were at least a dozen suits, obviously brand new, inside. He turned and went over to a set of drawers and inside found a wide selection of shirts, underclothing, socks, a veritable warehouse of clothing. He had a sneaking suspicion that it would fit him. It did, suits and all, and was of a quality he had never experienced. He went on a search for shoes and found them, a score of pairs, running from dress shoes to loafers.

When he was fully dressed, he stared at himself in a full length mirror. “Beyond dreams of avarice,” he muttered.

The door screen summoned him before he had decided whether to take another of the brown pills and give his next subject a whirl.

It was the lardy Professor Marsh, as well turned out and as condescending as ever, and with oversized briefcase in hand. As soon as he was in the door, he said, “Now, what was this about being poisoned? How do you feel?”

“Better,” Bert said, leading the way back to the living room. “Listen, what’s all this about?”

“First, the alleged poisoning.”

Bert took him to the bar and indicated the Scotch. “I knocked back about two ounces of that and in no time flat, passed out like a light.”

At Bert’s nod, he removed the top, poured himself a small portion and drank it.

“You’ll be sorry,” Bert told him sourly.

But there was no reaction. Marsh said testily, “You were under the influence of the ganglioside?”

“The what?”

“The brown pill.”

“That’s right.”

“It never occurred to us. Evidently, alcohol is toxic when you are, ah, turned on.”

Bert Alshuler was indignant. “You mean to tell me you haven’t worked this out any further than that?”

“We’ll look into it further. It’s not important. Now, how far did you get yesterday?”

Bert glared at him. “Through that math, through elementary ethnology and ancient history one. If I hadn’t been bombed with that drink, I probably…”

“All right, all right,” Marsh cut him off. He bent over his briefcase and began extracting medical equipment. “You are doing even better than we had hoped.”

“Listen, who’s we, and what’s this all about?”

“All in good time.”

“All in good time, hell. I want an answer, Marsh. For all I know, this turn on, turn off stuff will turn my brain into mush after a few sessions. It’s obviously based on some psychedelic—”

“No, not exactly. We’ve gone far beyond the early psychedelics.”

“Kay. It’s not my field, but I object to being the first customer cruising through this rat maze. I want some answers. ”

The professor was loading a hypodermic nonchalantly. “I’m afraid it is not my position to tell you, Alshuler. In good time, I am sure Leonard Katz will make you privy to the fullest details.”

Bert stared bafflement at him.

“Your trousers, please,” Marsh told him.

The other ignored him and stabbed him expertly and took up another needle. “Have no fears.”

“What do you mean, have no fears? I take up a glass of whiskey and it knocks me for a loop. How do I know what comes next? You’re lousing up my metabolism, or whatever you call it First thing I know, I’ll break my arm picking my nose, or something.”

“Very amusing, I’m sure,” Marsh murmured, returning his things to his briefcase. “And now, I’ll drop in on you the same time tomorrow.”

“Wait a minute,” Bert snapped. But the other was gone.

The younger man stared after him in high irritation.

Something came to him. He reversed his engines and went into the study and took down one of the brown pills. He went to the shelves of reference books and fiddled around for a time before coming up with the term he wanted.

He marched over to the auto-teacher, activated the screen and said, “I want a course in neuro-physiology.”

“The next course is English Literature One, Beowulf to Chaucer.”

“I’ll take that one later. I want to bone up on…”

The screen lit and there was a book there. The screen voice said, “English Literature One…”

Bert glared at it. “We’ll see about this,” he snarled and flicked the screen off, taking a childish pleasure in being able to do so.

He sat there for a while, thinking about it, then got up and went over to the desk. He sat down before the library booster screen, dialed the National Data Banks and said, “I want a listing of books in English dealing with neuro-physiology.”

The screen said, “Please put your identity card in the slot.”

“Why?” Bert demanded.

“So that we may check your priority rating, sir.”

He grunted, brought his identity card out and stuck it in the slot. A listing of books appeared on the screen. There were surprisingly few of them and, by the titles, were aimed at the layman and on a rather elementary level at that.

Bert said, “I am able to study on a higher level than this. I want the latest material on the subject.”

“Your priority rating is One. Such volumes are not available to your priority rating, sir.”

He dialed the National Data Banks again and said, “Information. What is a college student’s priority rating?”

The screen said, “To whom does a priority rating of One apply?”

“To the mentally retarded, convicted criminals, children below the age of ten and those with less schooling than the fifth grade.”

He closed his eyes in pain for a moment, then said, “I am Albert Alshuler Caine, Identity Number 454-K-872-R-1245. I am a discharged veteran of the Asian War, rank Major. Medal of Honor, Distinguished Service Cross, Bronze Star and Silver Star, both with clusters. There is a mistake in my National Data Banks priority rating. I wish to have it protested.”

There was a long moment before the screen said, impassively. “There is no mistake in your priority rating, sir. However, since you have protested, the matter will he investigated. You will be notified.”

Chapter Five

Well, there was nothing more he could do with the data bank foul-up at this point. He returned to the auto-teacher, sighed and sat down before the screen. “Kay,” he said. “English Literature One.”

The screen lit up and he began to flick pages.

When he had finished, he looked down at his chronometer and scowled. If anything, the second hand seemed to be going slower than ever. He wondered if this thing was accelerating. He went on to Elementary Chemistry and on completing that suddenly felt weary of it all. He took one of the green pills, sat down at the desk phone screen and gave Jim Hawkins’ identity number.

Jim’s less than handsome face faded in. He was obviously on his pocket transceiver phone. He said, “Hi, old buddy. Where’ve you been?”

“Getting over a hangover. Where are you?”

“Auto-Cafeteria 32. It’s on the ground floor of the Ad building.”

“See you,” Bert said.

In the hall, as he waited for the special elevator, he looked up and down the corridor. He could see the doors of four other suites and he wondered vaguely who lived in them. Marsh had said that this level was reserved for V.I.P.s.

On the street level, he had a little difficulty in locating the Auto-Cafeteria, since the building was largely strange to him. However, he asked questions a couple of times from passing students and found it. The students evidently took him for an instructor, his age being what it was, and possibly his conservatively cut but expensive clothing being unlike their own.

Auto-Cafeteria 32 was on the large side and even at this time of day must have held two thousand. He wandered around until he finally spotted Jim Hawkins who was sitting at a table with three others. As Bert Alshuler came nearer he recognized Jill Masterson, the perky little brunette Jim was currently hot after. The others were strangers.

Jim introduced them and last names were promptly forgotten They were named Clyde and Betty, had some classes in common with Jim—and seemed incredibly young and naive to Bert Alshuler. Why not? He was less than ten years their senior but had lived ten times the amount of life.

He had grinned a hello to Jill and she had smiled her generous smile back at him.

As he took a seat, she said, “I owe you a beer. I’m springing.”

Jim Hawkins groaned. “The second time she sees him, she’s buying him drinks. What a sheik.” He took in Bert’s clothing. “Holy Moses, where’d you get the glad rags?”

“Holy Moses?” Bert said. “Glad rags? The only place I’ve ever heard those terms was on historic Tri-Di shows.”

“The latest thing,” Jim said airily.

Jill had summoned a beer for the newcomer. Now she said, “It goes in cycles The latest thing is to use the terminology of our grandfathers. Heavens to Betsy, it’ll only he a matter of time before 23 Skidoo comes back in.”

“I love my wife, but oh you kid,” Bert told her, taking up the beer. He sipped it cautiously, in memory of the last drink he had taken. However, there was no subversive effect.

“Mind your language,” Jim told him. “You’re talking to the woman I love.” He looked at Jill accusingly. “You didn’t tell me that Chaucer course wasn’t in English.”

Bert said, “Chaucer wrote in English, Jim. It was just that it was Old English. He wrote back in the 14th Century.”

Jim scowled at him. “It doesn’t sound like English to me, and doesn’t look like it.”

“You’ve got to develop an ear for it, is all. For instance, take this from the Canterbury Tales:

Jim looked at him in disgust. “That’s Greek to me.”

But Jill was frowning questioningly. “Bert, you just don’t look like the Chaucer type.”

He shrugged. “I had an opportunity to study him a little.”

Clyde looked at his watch. “Hey, Betty, we’ve got French.” The two younger students stood.

Jill got up as well. “I’ll go along with you. I’ve got some moving to do So long, Jim. See you, Bert.”

The two men left at the table looked after her as she went off, chattering brightly with the two others. She had a quick, cute charm, but there was no connotation of her being a lightweight. Her figure, tiny as it was, was perfect, and Jim sighed deep down.

Bert stood and said, “Come along, I’ll buy you a real drink.”

Jim uncoiled his lanky self from his chair. “A real drink? Are you kidding? I keep telling you, for as long as we’re in this racket we can’t even afford all the beer we’d like. Where’d you get those grand duds?”

Bert ignored the question and led the way through the mass of tables back to the elevator row.

Jim looked at the elevator as they stood there at the end of the bank. “Hey, this isn’t for us, old buddy. This is some kind of private deal for the high mucky-mucks in the faculty.”

However, the screen had identified Bert Alshuler and the door opened. Jim followed him inside, wonderingly.

Bert said, “Suite G.”

“Yes, Mr. Alshuler.”

Jim’s eyes widened.

Bert said, “What kind of a priority does your identity card give you on the National Data Banks?”

Jim looked at him. “Three. It’s the same with all students, except some fields like medicine or nuclear physics. You’ve got to be cleared for some of the material in them.”

Bert shook his head. “Mine’s all fouled up. I’m protesting it.”

When they got to the top floor, Jim Hawkins followed him blankly as he led the way to Suite G. Several times his lips moved as though he was about to blurt a question, but he held silence. Bert Alshuler would have enjoyed the whole thing more if he hadn’t been so full of questions himself.

The door screen identified him and opened as they approached.

Jim Hawkins, hands on hips, stood in the middle of the living room and stared about.

“How in the devil did you get in here?” he demanded, “What’re you doing here?”

His war time companion led the way to the bar. “I had to promise to keep it all secret before I fell into this deal. I’m not paying for it. It’s a special arrangement with one of the professors.”

Jim shook his head in admiration. “Kind of babysitting, eh? The old boy wants kind of a guard in a place like this while he’s gone.”

“Not exactly,” Bert told him, unhappy at being less than candid with his best friend. “Anyway, how about a belt?”

“Holy smokes, he even lets you drink his liquor?”

“That’s right,” Bert said, reaching his hand out for the bottle of stone age Scotch which had laid him low the day before. “I hate to use you for the royal taster, old buddy, but how about a slug of this?”

“Why not?” Jim leered.

“Because it floored me yesterday,” Bert said, pouring the other a hefty amount.

The other chuckled amusement. “You never could hold your booze, old buddy.”

“I warned you.”

Bert’s lanky companion knocked the drink back with nonchalant ease, “Man,” he said, “that’s sippin’ whiskey.”

Bottle in hand, Bert watched him. Nothing happened. Bert sighed and filled the other’s glass again and poured a drink for himself.

He motioned to the bar and said, “Make yourself at home, Jim. Meanwhile, lend me your Identity Card.”

“What?”

“Your Identity Card. I told you mine was fouled up. I’ve got a priority One and I want yours to order up a book or so that I need for something I’m working on.”

“It’s against the law to lend your Identity Card.”

Bert said, “Since when did you give a damn about the law—particularly where I’m concerned, old buddy?”

The other sighed and handed over the card.

Bert said, “I’ll be an hour or so. Help yourself to the liquor. There’s a library booster screen on the desk. There’s one in every room in this place Do some of your homework, or look up some books, whatever. There’s a king-size Tri-Di box over there.”

“Take your time, take your time,” Jim gushed, eyeing the bar with a fond eye.

Bert left him and went to the study. For the first time, he noticed that the door had a key on the other side. He locked the door behind him and went over to the desk with its library booster screen. He put his friend’s Identity Card into the slot and dialed for the list of books on neuro-physiology.

Since he was completely at sea in the subject, he had difficulty finding what he wanted. When finally he had a book that looked promising, something came to him and he stood and went over to his bottles of pills. He took a brown one and went back to the screen.

He skimmed one book, skimmed another, got a smattering of background and terminology, but wasn’t happy. His texts would mention some reference to another work which was then found to be beyond his priority Three card. It mystified him. Did you have to be a doctor of medicine, or even a specialist in this field before its full literature was available? He could see that various works in say, nuclear physics, might have to be banned to those without clearance There were evidently methods of constructing nuclear mini-bombs in a home laboratory these days and obviously the information couldn’t be made available to every crackpot that came along. But medical information pertaining to the brain? Who could care that the information be available to anyone who could understand it?

Various passages gave him pause. Early in his research he ran into: “… Three major areas of excitement and progress can be detected among the numerous enquiries in the field. First, there is a growing power to intervene in the non-intellectual functions of the brain: a growing ability to alter moods and emotional states—a development which is based on the realization that the brain is not simply an electrical or computer-like mechanism, but a complex chemical system as well. Secondly, a spirit of extreme optimism has sprung up concerning the possibility of discovering the nature of memory. Finally, there is a guarded belief that one may be able to effect considerable improvement in the level of intelligence of future generations.

He sat back for a moment and ran the palm of his right hand over his lips. The passage had been written more than two decades previous.

Later on, he came up with: “… the brain is a complex chemical device. Its parts respond in subtle ways to the influence of substances in the fluids which bathe them, and contain specialized chemical agents—gangliosides, cerebrosides, sphingomyelin and so on—the functions of which are still obscure.”

He finally looked at his wrist chronometer. He couldn’t leave Jim Hawkins alone indefinitely. The other was probably already wondering what Bert was doing so long with his Identity Card. The second hand on his watch seemed to be barely crawling. He snorted inwardly and realized that he hadn’t checked the time when he had first entered the study, so he didn’t know how long he had been at his books. He had better return.

He went over to his pills and took one of the green ones and then unlocked the door and returned to the living room.

Jim Hawkins was at one wall, glass in hand and staring owlishly at a display set in the wall that Bert Alshuler hadn’t realized was there. Evidently, the other had opened some panel that had been sunken in such a way that a casual inspection wouldn’t indicate its presence.

Bert came up behind him. “What’s this?” he said.

Jim, frowning, said in gentle reproof, “Old buddy, didn’t you know it was illegal for private citizens to possess laser weapons?”

Chapter Six

“Laser weapons?”

Bert stared into the case. There were, neatly displayed, a dozen firearms, ranging from gyro-jet pistols and carbines, to, yes, two laser pistols and even a folding type laser rifle. To Bert’s experienced eye, the latter seemed on the sophisticated side, more compact than the arms with which he’d been familiar in the Asian War. Evidently, the very latest.

“Maybe they’re just models,” he said, reaching out for the larger of the lasers.

Jim, who was looking a little blurry around the edges as a result of the sampling of the bottled goods, snorted. “With that machining?”

His old comrade in arms handled the weapon professionally, expertly. He slapped the side and dislodged the power pack. There was a red dot at the top.

Jim muttered, “Loaded.” He looked at the other laser hand guns “There’s enough firepower here to bring down half of this building. And look at that supply of extra power packs; ammo enough to stand off a division.”

Bert put the folding rifle back into its place. He said unhappily, “The professor told me that the suites upon this level were for V.I.P.s. The last occupant of this one was the president himself. I suppose they get a lot of visiting foreign dignitaries, that sort of thing. Maybe the Department of Security has this little cache here for emergencies.”

“Some little cache,” Jim said skeptically.

Bert looked at the tiny keyhole in the secret door, then at his companion. “How’d you find this, and how’d you ever get the lock open?”

Jim looked innocent. “Didn’t I ever tell you what I did before the army snagged me?”

“No.”

“I was an apprentice second story man.”

“Second story man? What in the hell’s that? More of your grandfather’s slang?”

“Secondary story man, second story man; a burglar.”

Bert winced. “My old buddy,” he murmured. “What’d you mean, apprentice?”

“It runs into the family,” Jim told him earnestly. “My old man was breaking me in.”

“Oh, great. I thought the army didn’t induct felons.”

“Felon?” Jim said indignantly. “We weren’t amateurs. My family hasn’t taken a fall in three generations. There’s nothing on my police record any worse than a couple of traffic violations.”

Bert was intrigued, in spite of himself. “Well, now that the war’s over, how come you’re here in school on a lousy Guaranteed Annual Income set-up?”

Jim nodded “My old man’s teed off, sort of like I was betraying the family traditions, but the fact in crime doesn’t pay any more. Not enough, at least. The flatfeet.”

“The who?”

“The fuzz, the coppers, the police. My grandfather used to call ’em flatfeet. Anyway, they’re so advanced today it’s a hazard. Besides, with the Universal Credit Identity Card and the cashless-checkless exchange system, you can’t gloam, uh, swipe, uh, put the snatch on.”

“Kay, kay. I get the import.”

“Cash money. And with the computers and the National Data Banks it’s practically impossible to fence jewelry or any other items of much value.” A slightly indignant element came into Jim Hawkins’ voice. “They’ve automated us right out of business. ”

Bert Alshuler closed the door of the arms cache with a sigh. He said, “So you’re a retired apprentice burglar. Just take it easy from now on keeping your hand in practice around my digs, old buddy, old buddy.”

“I’ll try to remember,” Jim said penitently. “Listen, this booze is beginning to work on me. What do you say we look up Jill and get her to dig up a friend and we’ll go out on the town tonight. You haven’t been shown the entertainment spots the area offers. I got all checked out last year.”

Bert led the way back to the bar, saying, “Dig up a friend? What kind of corpses does Jill associate with?”

“Aw, they’re not as bad as all that,” Jim protested.

Bert Alshuler thought about it as he made them a final drink for the road. Why not? He had spent so much time the past two days sitting at the auto-teacher that he felt a little relaxation was in order. Besides, admit it, he wouldn’t mind seeing a little more of Jill, even though she would be Jim’s date rather than his own. He had the feeling that his attraction to her was reciprocated.

The drinks down, they made their way to the suite’s door, talking about army acquaintances they had lost track of in the short time that had elapsed since they had been in Asia.

Jim Hawkins was saying, “What the devil ever happened to Dick Ruhling and Pirtle?” as they emerged into the corridor and came to an abrupt halt.

Down the hall, a dozen yards or so, another group was emerging from the neighboring suite. There were four men and a girl and she was putting up a worthy fight considering that she was only pint-sized and had a man on each arm and a tape over her mouth.

The girl was Jill Masterson.

Jim Hawkins blurted, “Come on!” and his lanky, always lazy-like body exploded forward, his arms extended in a karate attack readiness, a Kiai yell blasting from his throat.

Bert was immediately behind, fading slightly to the left to give operating room. But they skidded to a halt. One of the four had come up with a handgun.

He snarled, “Get out of here, you two. This is a private matter.”

“You ain’t just a whistlin’ Dixie,” Jim Hawkins snapped, his right hand blurring for his belt, his legs spread and slightly crouched in a practiced gunman’s stance, his left arm extended to the left and forward for balance.

The eyes of the armed kidnapper widened and he fired, went far off aim, fired again, and Jim Hawkins’ gun arm went limp.

He grunted pain and snapped, “Killer! Catch!” and obviously with a supreme effort flicked the gun in Bert’s direction.

Bert Alshuler, in much the same stance as his wartime comrade had assumed, caught it in mid-air There was no need to flick off the safety, nor to depress the range stud, Jim would have already done that automatically.

The gunman was swinging his gyro-jet pistol around to bring it to bear on his new foe.

Bert muttered, “Tyro,” even as he burnt the man’s face off. The other’s last act in life was to scream agony.

The elevator door was open and the others, dragging Jill with them, were backing into it, their faces in full alarm.

He couldn’t fire, not with anything as sweeping as a laser beam. Inadequately, Bert yelled, “Halt!” dashing forward.

The elevator door slammed shut, just as Bert crashed against it. He made two steps back, in frustration, yelling over his shoulder, “How bad?”

Jim Hawkins, leaning against a wall, his face pale, said, “Not too bad. Double entry, side and right arm. I’m okay… get them!”

Bert snatched his pocket phone from his jacket pocket, nipped the lid open with his thumb, pressed the activating stud and snapped, “Emergency! Building Security Four men have just kidnapped a girl from the top floor of the Administration…”

He came to a halt and glared down at the instrument The screen was a blur. He ran over to his companion. “Where’s your phone?”

“In my right pocket. I can’t get at it.”

Bert grabbed at the pocket, brought forth the other’s phone and opened it. He flicked the stud, flicked it again. The screen remained a blur.

Jim groaned, “They’ve got some kind of a musher around.”

The other’s eyes darted up and down the corridor “It has to be a portable. It can’t be too…”

Jim was pointing with his left hand at the crumpled corpse. “It has to be on him. It can’t be anywhere else, unless it’s in that apartment they just came out of.”

Bert bent over the body, frisking it rapidly, ignoring the mess that was the former gunman’s head. Bert Alshuler had seen blood and gore before. He came up finally with an electronic device, slammed it to the floor and ground his heel down on it.

He brought his pocket phone out again and opened it, but then looked up at the elevator and shook his head in despair. “They’re already gone.”

Jim said urgently, “Try it anyway.”

But Bert said, “No No, they’re willing to shoot. Why, I wouldn’t know. They’re willing to shoot and they’ve got Jill. Besides, I doubt if whatever Security officers a building like this has ordinarily go around heeled.”

He stood, his face agonized, and tried to think. He looked at his friend. “How are you?”

“Dripping a little ink, but I’m better now. Those rocket slugs pack a wallop, but he didn’t nick me bad.”

Bert said, “Come on back into the suite. They must have some kind of a medical kit in the bathroom. They’ve got everything else.”

The door identity screen picked them up and opened.

Bert led his companion into the bath of the master bedroom and helped him strip off jacket and shirt. The double wound didn’t look too bad. He had seen Jim shot up considerably worse than this He fumbled around in the medical chest set into the wall and came up with iodine, bandages and tape.

Jim growled, “I can handle it. Get going on Jill.”

Bert went back into the living room and sat before the phone screen there. He flicked it on and said, “Professor Ralph Marsh. Restricted. I’m listed. Albert Alshuler.”

“Thank you.”

The professor’s face faded in after a moment. He was petulant. “What is it this time, confound it? I’d think…”

“Shut up and listen. I’m in Suite G. We’ve just had a shoot-out. One man’s dead and one wounded. Get up here soonest with a medical kit.”

The other’s eyes were bugging. “Are you jesting?”

“Do I look like a clown? Get up here, damn it. A friend and I jumped four men who were kidnapping Jill Masterson, a girl who—”

“Jill Masterson!”

Chapter Seven

“Oh, so you know her, eh?” Bert said grimly. “Get up here and bring some muscle along. We’ve got problems, Marsh, and you’d better have some answers” Bert slapped the phone off.

He leaned back in the chair, trying desperately to think.

Jim Hawkins came in, trying to button a clean white shirt he had evidently appropriated from those in the master bedroom that Bert had discovered that morning. Bert got up and helped him. The shirt was a poor fit.

Bert said, “We’ve got to get that stiff out of the hall. Evidently, there’s nobody else living in this part of the building or they would’ve come out when that gyro-jet went off. However, you never know when somebody might come along. Where in the hell did you get that laser pistol? As though I didn’t know, you damn crook.” He began to lead the way back to the hall.

Jim was aggrieved. “What if we hadn’t had it? I had a feeling that something was off-beat. You being in this suite with your fancy clothes and fancy hooch and all the rest of it. Besides, ever since I got out of the army I’ve felt half naked going around without being heeled I just thought I’d borrow it for a while.”

Bert growled, “Great. But now we’re up on the top floor of this building with a corpse on our hands, a corpse killed with a highly illegal laser gun. And we’ve got one whale of a suspicious story to explain it all.”

Out in the hall, he went over to the body, took it by the heels and dragged it back in the direction of Suite G. Jim Hawkins bent down and picked up the shattered electronic device. Frowning at it, he re-entered the apartment, closing the door behind him.

Bert Alshuler put a small throw rug under the head of the dead man so that the blood wouldn’t stain the foyer floor and bent over the body again, shaking it down more completely than he had before.

He finally came to his feet in disgust “No Identity Card, no wallet, no nothing.”

Jim had been inspecting the electronic device. He said, “Look at this, Bert. It’s jury-rigged.” He held forth the compact but awkward appearing musher.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, it’s obviously not government issue. They don’t have any this small. Dad and I used to use them in our business. But they don’t make mini-mushers in this country, so we had to get them illegally from Japan. You set one up when you’re on a job. It prevents anybody from calling for help in case you’re flushed while you’re stripping an apartment or whatever.”

“I don’t get it,” Bert said.

“It’s home-made. Looks like some amateur put it together in some little electronic shop, or maybe a basement hobby-room—or, better still an electronic lab in some school.”

Bert scowled. “I see your drift. Those guys weren’t pros, Jim. That one that nicked you didn’t know guns. He missed the first time, even at that range And if he’d been up on being a gunman he would have gotten me too. Besides that, pros wouldn’t have sent four men to pick up a girl no bigger than Jill. Makes it too conspicuous. One or two would have been plenty. And there’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“They were all kids. Young fellows.” He dropped the subject. “Listen. Do you think you could get into that suite next to us? You haven’t got the use of your right mind.”

“Let’s give it a try.”

They left the apartment again and made their way to the door from which Jill had emerged with her abductors less than fifteen minutes before.

Jim said, “Stand to one side. Don’t let the identity screen pick you up. Devil only knows what kind of an alarm system they have rigged with a joint as classy as this.”

Bert Alshuler stood with his back to the wall, as Jim Hawkins, also taking care to keep out of the screen’s range, worked on it. He had brought a pocket knife forth which seemed to be a miniature tool kit.

He grinned over his shoulder at his companion. “Carry a burglar kit around with you and if somebody searches you, you’ve had it. But you can have one of these and everybody just figures you’re gadget-happy.”

Bert rolled his eyes upward, in a plea to the gods. “My old buddy,” he muttered.

The screen evidently disposed of, Jim went to work on the lock. He said, to nobody in particular, “If they’d automate doors completely, it’d be another thing, but they’ve got it half and half, on the off-chance of a breakdown.”

The door swung open and they both hurried inside and closed it after them.

The suite was considerably similar to that occupied by Bert Alshuler, with the difference that it had obviously been meant for female occupancy.

In the living room were half a dozen suitcases. Bert bent over them. He looked up. “Locked.”

Jim snorted at that and bent over each momentarily, his gadget pocketknife in hand. “There you are.”

Bert opened the largest and fumbled through it. There were various papers and documents among the feminine clothing and toilet articles.

Jim said, “It’s Jill’s stuff, all right. She was evidently just moving in. Hadn’t the time to unpack.” He paused. “She mentioned something about moving. But what in the hell would she be doing in a place like this? She was over in the Parthenon Building, watching her credits, just like the rest of us. She couldn’t afford to stay in a place like this for one day.” He looked suspiciously at Bert. “For that matter, what are you doing here?”

Bert Alshuler had been going through the rest of Jill’s things, trying to find some clue, but he drew a blank.

He stood and looked into his friend’s eyes “I can’t tell you.”

“The devil you can’t, old buddy. Start talking.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t, damn it, Jim. I said I can’t I don’t know what I’m doing here. It’s a madhouse. But I know one thing. I’m going to get a lot of explanations in the near future. Come on, let’s get back into the other suite. Our alleged friends should be turning up. How do you feel?”

They went on back to Suite G and to the bar in the living room. They had hardly poured a couple of straight drinks before the screen on the door pinged. Bert went to get it.

Professor Ralph Marsh bustled in, followed by two others who had been stamped from the same mold. That is, they were in their late fifties, or early sixties, were conservatively dressed and obviously from the professional class. The second two were on the nervous side, and very unhappy.

But Marsh snapped to Bert, “All right, all right, confound it. What is this, what is this?”

Bert closed the door behind them and indicated the body stretched out on the foyer floor. “You tell me, friend.”

The professor stared down at the dead man.

“Who is that?”

Bert was disgusted He said sarcastically, “How would I know? You people haven’t told me a damn thing. I can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys without some sort of program. Come on into the living room and start talking.” He led the way.

At the entry Professor Ralph Marsh pulled up short at the sight of Jim Hawkins, who leered at him from the bar upon which he leaned.

“Who is that?” Marsh blurted.

“That,” Bert said, “is Mr. James Hawkins. Late captain in the Asian War and my long time comrade in arms.”

“What have you told him?”

“What the hell could I tell him? I don’t know anything. Who are these jokers?” Bert indicated Marsh’s two companions with a thumb and they looked slightly apprehensive. “I told you to bring some muscle. This is muscle in your books?”

Marsh said testily, “It is not important who they are, as of the moment. And what do you mean, muscle?” He looked at Jim “You’ve been wounded?”

“Many times,” Jim Hawkins said laconically. “Most recently, this afternoon.”

Marsh said to his lead companion, who carried a doctor’s bag, “David, that is, Doctor Smith, take a look at him.”

Bert said, “You used Smith before. I’m beginning to suspect you haven’t much imagination, Marsh.”

The other ignored him and the new Doctor Smith led Jim into the bathroom.

Marsh said, “Where is Miss Masterson?”

“I told you,” Bert said. “As we were leaving this apartment, we ran into Jill in the corridor, coming from the next suite. Four young goons were hustling her along. We jumped them. One of them plugged Jim. I plugged him. The rest got away with Jill. We couldn’t call for help quickly enough since they had a musher on in the vicinity.”

“A musher?”

“As I said before, some cloak and dagger man you’ve turned out to be. A musher is an electronic device that smothers any bug, transceiver, or any other transmitter or receiver in its vicinity.”

“Bug?”

“Oh, shut up. Listen, Jim and I are in the soup. You’ve got to get rid of that stiff out in the foyer. Then you’re going to have to sit down and tell me a few things. Jill was in on the same deal I am, wasn’t she? Katz said there was another student acting as a control.”

Professor Marsh said stubbornly, “I can’t tell you.”

“The hell you can’t, friend.”

Marsh turned and said to his remaining companion, “Make arrangements for the disposal.”

“Now wait a minute,” Bert said. “What do you figure on doing? I can just see you parading through the lobby with…”

Marsh looked at him peevishly. “We are not without resources. The doctor is… that is, he has access to the Medical College of this university city.”

Bert looked at him blankly.

Marsh said, his voice impatient. “Your… victim, Alshuler, will be utilized in the dissecting room in the surgery department as a cadaver.”

The third of the trio said to Bert, in a somewhat timorous voice, “Give me a hand.”

Bert followed him into the foyer, mystified. The other opened the suite’s door. In the hall was a hospital cart of the type utilized to transport patients to and from surgery. Bert stood aside as the doctor—he assumed he was a doctor—pushed the wheeled stretcher into the foyer and then helped him to raise the corpse onto it. The other stretched a white sheet over the dead man. Bert picked up the bloodied rug he had put under the body’s head and stuck it under the sheet as well.

Something came to him and he picked up a hospital towel from the cart, went out into the corridor and swabbed up the blood there, to the best of his ability. He returned to the suite and stuck the towel under the sheet.

He looked at the doctor. “You really think you can get this over to your medical school?”

The man jittered unhappily but squeaked, “Yes.”

“What’s in all this for you?”

The other shook his head.

In disgust, Bert went back into the living room. Jim was at the bar again, his right arm immobilized in a sling.

Bert Alshuler looked at Marsh. “Kay. What about Jill Masterson?”

“We’ll immediately do what we can.”

“That’s not enough. Who has her?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“What was she doing here?”

“As you’ve already mentioned, the same thing you were.”

“What am I doing?”

“See here, Alshuler, you took this assignment and pledged yourself to silence.”

“That’s not enough now, obviously. We want Miss Masterson back… safely.”

“In spades,” Jim said, his voice even.

Marsh suppressed irritation “Very well, Alshuler. I’ll go over all this with Professor Katz and undoubtedly he will go into it further with you tomorrow. He is out of town today.” Marsh made a motion with his head toward Doctor Smith. “We had better be on our way.” He looked at Bert. “Meanwhile, do nothing further in this regard.”

Jim rapped, “Who in the devil were those guys that snatched Jill?”

Marsh looked at him. “I’ve already told you I don’t know. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Come along, David.”

Doctor Smith followed him.

When they were gone, Jim said, “Who were they?”

Bert shook his head. “You know almost as much as I do. I got into this because they promised me a nice financial deal. I decided it was some sort of new departure in teaching, involving speeding up the brain so you can learn faster and evidently retain more of what you assimilate. Now I don’t know what the hell it is.”

Jim said, “They couldn’t have snatched her for money. She didn’t have any. She was on Guaranteed Annual Income, just like you and me.”

“I think I’ve got one possible lead,” Bert said, heading for the phone screen. “Give me your Identity Card.”

Jim handed it over.

Bert Alshuler put the card in the slot and said, “I would like the faces and names of all professors in this university city.”

Chapter Eight

Jim leaned over his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“I’m looking for somebody I had a run-in with yesterday morning. He might be connected with this gang.”

It was a lengthy process. There were a good many full professors in an educational institution of this magnitude. It was a lengthy process and without result. Bert grunted disgust.

He thought for a while and said, “He was too young to be a full professor anyway and, into the screen, “I would like the faces and names of all the assistant professors and instructors in this university city.”

The faces began to flash before him again, alphabetically, as before. He drew pay dirt in the Ks. His mysterious visitor was named Kenneth Kneedler.

He said into the screen, “University Information, please. Let me have what is available to students on Assistant Professor Kenneth Kneedler, I am considering taking one of his classes.”

The screen said, “Yes, Mr. Hawkins.”

Kenneth Kneedler taught several courses in political economy, including one on Communism.

“Communism,” Jim snorted. “In this country? In a government-run university?”

Bert said into the screen, “University Information, please Where is Assistant Professor Kenneth Kneedler, at the present?”

“In his office. Administration Building, floor forty-three, Office Number 385.”

Bert came to his feet and jerked his head at his companion. “Come on over here and open this case for me.” He led the way to the panel behind which was hidden the collection of weapons.

“Now you’re talking,” Jim growled. He brought forth his oversized pocketknife.

Bert shrugged out of his jacket and took up one of the shoulder rigs and two spare power packs. He began to work into the quick-draw holster. Jim reached out and appropriated the remaining laser pistol and tucked it into his belt on the right side of his body.

Bert said, “What do you think you’re going to do with that?” He brought the gun he had used against the kidnapper from the hip pocket in which he had been carrying it, and slipped it into the holster.

Jim said, “I’m coming with you.”

“The hell you are. Not in your condition. You stay here and get some rest.”

Jim looked at him stonily.

Bert grumbled, “Kay. Come on.”

They went out into the corridor again and summoned the elevator. Bert told him about the disposal of the body and also described his run-in with Kneedler.

Jim said, “So that body will wind up with some kid medical student butchering it tomorrow. Some professors.”

They took the elevator down to the forty-third floor, Jim wincing in pain at the precipitate drop. There were few persons in the corridors. When they found Office Number 385, they stood to one side, against the wall, and pretended to be deep in conversation, until the hall was temporarily clear.

Bert said slowly, “This joker knows me. He might not open up if he saw my face on the door screen. We’ll go in fast, not giving him a chance to yell for help. You cover my back and the door.”

Jim loosened the pistol in his belt, and nodded. Bert brought forth his own laser gun, flicked the stud flown to shortest range, stepped forward quickly and burned out the door’s lock. He threw his shoulder against the panel and burst through, Jim immediately behind.

In the middle of the room, a sheaf of papers which he was scanning in his hand, stood Bert Alshuler’s demanding visitor of the morning before.

Even as Jim slammed the door shut behind them, Bert had moved forward at full speed. Before Kneedler’s eyes had time to widen in surprise, the former combat man was upon him. He’ grabbed Kneedler by his jacket front with both hands and dashed him backward toward the wall of the room’s far side, all but lifting him bodily from the floor.

He smashed him brutally against the wall, so that the other’s head was so shaken that his contact lenses popped from his eyes and dropped to the floor. Bert snarled, “Where’s Jill Masterson?”

“What… what…!”

Bert Alshuler smashed him in the mouth with his right fist, mashing his lips, loosening several of his teeth.

“Where’d you bastards take Jill Masterson?”

The other tried to struggle, but the fear in him made his less than muscular body even more inadequate against his aggressive attacker.

Bert Alshuler, his face cold as bleak death, took his right forefinger and jammed it up into one of the writhing man’s nostrils, raising him up to tiptoe in agony. He squealed.

Bert snarled, “Now listen, Kneedler, listen real good, because you’re almost dead right now. Some guys think they can’t be made to talk. They’d rather die, they think. But they’re wrong. Anybody can be broken. It’s not pretty. But anybody. Believe me, I know. Jim here, and I, are experts. We got to be experts the hard way.”

“I won’t… I won’t.”

It was all the admission that Bert Alshuler wanted. He kneed the man brutally, and let him drop to the floor.

“Real tough, ain’t he?” Jim said pleasantly. He was leaning against the door.

It was a full five minutes before the fallen man tried to bring himself to his hands and knees, even as he groaned. Bert Alshuler kicked him in the side, flattening him again.

Jim said, “Hey, Bert, that one was pretty good. I think you got at least three ribs. You going to kill him?”

Bert said, “Not yet. How’d you think we ought to do it, Jim?”

Jim said easily, “Oh, some way not too simple. I don’t much like characters that rough up little girls.”

The other on the floor spluttered through broken mouth and teeth, “Miss… Miss Masterson is in no physical danger.”

Bert kicked him again.

Jim said in mild protest, “Easy, Bert, you don’t want to kill him until we know where Jill is.”

Their victim was breathing in desperate gasps He said, “Please… please. I’ll tell you… I’ll tell you. No danger… she’s in no danger.”

“Yeah,” Jim said. “Your boys aren’t playing for keeps. This slug I took in my side was all fun and games.”

Bert reached down and grabbed Kneedler by the jacket collar and hauled him to his feet. He pulled him so close that their faces almost touched.

“Where is she?”

“In… in a house on the outskirts… outskirts of town.”

Bert looked at Jim. “We can’t leave him here… alive. He might get in touch with somebody. And if we tie him, somebody might come in and let him loose.”

“Please… please… I’m not lying.”

Bert snarled at him. “You’re damn right, you’re not lying. You’d better not be. “He said to Jim, “We’ll have to take him along.”

Jim looked at their victim critically. “Golden boy’s not in any too good a shape to be seen on the streets.”

Bert let go of the man and brought a handkerchief from his pocket. “Here. Hold this over your mouth, as though you have a toothache.”

“My… my glasses.”

“The hell with your glasses. I prefer you blind. Jim, lead the way Back to that semi-private elevator. There won’t be anybody else in it.”

They made a parade down the hall, Jim going first.

Bert bringing up the rear. They passed only half a dozen persons, all of them too preoccupied with their own thoughts to notice anything strange. Assistant Professor Kenneth Kneedler was evidently too demoralized to attempt an appeal for assistance.

Bert Alshuler could almost, but not quite, feel pity for the man. Not more than five minutes ago, he had been in the security of his private office, some university paper work in hand. Now he was a broken, terrified man in the hands of what he must have thought homicidal maniacs, expecting, at best, sudden death. All his plans, all his schemes, forgotten. Survival the only thing in him, his only desire. It was the brutal suddenness of it all that had broken him. It had been a gamble but it had paid off.

In the elevator, Bert said, “Metro, please.”

“Yes, Mr. Alshuler.”

They had to move fast now, while the other remained demoralized. They couldn’t afford to give him the opportunity to erect new defenses. They couldn’t give him the chance to reason out the fact that they wouldn’t kill him, wouldn’t dare kill him. Not in this age of ultra-modern police methods. The kidnapper had been one thing, but you didn’t abduct a professor from his office and take him out and destroy him without leaving clues behind. Among others, there was, in the data banks, a record of the fact that someone had searched out Kenneth Kneedler’s name, appearance and where he was immediately before his disappearance. And that someone had used the Identity Card of James Hawkins.

No, they wouldn’t kill him, even it that had been their desire. And it wasn’t. They needed him alive.

Chapter Nine

In the metro, in view of the fact that they were leaving the automated system of the university city, Bert Alshuler summoned an electro-steamer with manual controls. The three of them crowded into the front seat, Bert behind the wheel.

He said to the browbeaten teacher, making his voice dangerous, “Kay. What are the coordinates of the house on the outskirts?”

The other hesitated and Jim Hawkins backhanded him across his swollen mouth. Kneedler winced in pain and answered.

Jim said to Bert, “Your best city entry would be the southwest. That’d be Number Eight.”

Bert put his Identity-cum-Credit Card in the car’s screen slot and dialed the entry. He had been in a hurry to set the coordinates of the house before their captive had recovered any further. Kneedler was obviously no man of action. His life was not such that he was accustomed to violence, even though he had carried a gun the day before. However, Bert Alshuler was also unfamiliar with what motivated the man but suspected it was an ideological reason, no matter how mistaken. If so, the other might at any time strengthen and become difficult so far as further information was concerned. And information was what they were in particularly dire need of.

The vehicle smoothed into the underground traffic and Bert leaned back in his seat.

lie said conversationally, “So you teach communism, eh? It’s been a long time since I met a commie here in the United States of the Americas.”

Kneedler said through puffed lips, which he was presently trying to clean up with the handkerchief, “You don’t have to be a communist to teach communism, any more than you have to be an American to teach early American history.”

Jim said with a chuckle, “Our boy is getting chipper, real chipper. Maybe I’d better knock out a few more of his teeth, just to keep him in line.”

The teacher cringed. “Please… I’m badly hurt.”

Which he wasn’t, Bert thought inwardly. He didn’t know what being badly hurt was. He had never been exposed to it. Jim was probably in considerably more pain —unless that doctor friend of Marsh’s had given him a shot. But Jim in his time had taken many a hit. Not that you ever got used to being hit, but you learned to ride with it.

“So you’re not a communist?” Bert said.

The other took a deep breath. “You might keep in mind that you can’t fight a thing effectively if you don’t understand it. In my classes, I try to keep without prejudice, either… either way. In the past, many universities didn’t even have a copy of Das Kapital in the library, evidently afraid students might read it. I teach communism right from the days of Marx and Engels down to today’s Number One in the Soviet Complex, and whatever you might call the present socio-economic system that prevails over there. I have no idea if any of my more intelligent students are subverted by what they learned in my class. I doubt it.”

Bert said suddenly, “Why was Jill Masterson kidnapped?”

“I… can’t tell you.”

Jim said, looking at him benignly, “You’re beginning to irritate me a little again, buddy. Now, I picked up a little trick a few years ago that involves ramming a sharp pencil down a man’s ear. You’d be surprised at the effects. For one thing, later he can’t hear out of it so good any more.”

It was a new one to Bert Alshuler and he suspected that it was new to Jim too, but he held his peace. They had to keep this customer under a condition of intimidation if they were going to get any more out of him. He was inwardly amused at the fact that Kneedler had crowded over a little in his direction, to get as far away from Jim Hawkins as possible.

“Can’t tell, or won’t?” Bert said.

They had arrived at the entry and the vehicle came to a halt on the dispatcher. Bert took over the controls manually, and they merged onto an open road. He flicked on the map screen and dialed the coordinates the other had given him. The appropriate map faded in, a red cross marked on the house that was his destination.

He said to Kneedler, “Come, come, friend.”

Kneedler said, “Miss Masterson is in no danger. She has simply been… been taken to a place where the true nature of Katz and his clique can be explained to her. But I warn you that the men she is with are dedicated and will put up with no interference from you.”

“Oh, they won’t, eh?” Bert said grimly. “Kay. Well just keep that in mind.”

“Who’s Katz?” Jim said.

Bert said, “Professor Leonard Katz. I’ll tell you more about him later.” He turned back to Kneedler. “Go on, friend. This all sounds so cozy. Just wanted a little talk with Jill. Unfortunately, there’s already one man dead, and Jim, here, was nicked a bit. Your explanations better improve.”

From the side of his eyes, he could see the other tighten up. He was beginning to regain some of his lost confidence.

Kneedler said stubbornly, “I tried to warn you, too.”

“No, you didn’t. You tried to browbeat me into telling you what Katz wanted of me.”

Jim said, “We’re coming up on this place.”

Bert said, “Kay. Well use the old house-to-house, clean-up deal. You blast the door down, I’ll go in shooting.” He looked at Kneedler. “You stay in the car. Don’t try to make a break for it, or Jim will gun you down. These are laser pistols we’re carrying. Jim’s a crack shot, but he doesn’t have to be with a laser beam. He could cut you down a couple of blocks away and several of the houses in the vicinity along with you. Understand?”

“I… I understand. I’ve read about laser weapons.”

“Good. Jim, I’m going to drive up as near as I can get to the front door. Move fast. We don’t know what sort of defenses they might have.”

“I know, I know,” Jim said. “Holy smokes, I thought we’d gone through this routine for the last time.”

Bert Alshuler made out the house for which they were heading. It was one of various smaller constructions built for those who rebelled against living the ant-like existence of the high-rise buildings in the university city proper. All very fine, if you could afford it.

There was a short stretch of lawn, two steps that led up to a small porch. There were three windows on the front of the house If there had been an armed guard posted at any of them, he and Jim would have had it.

However, once again, he was of the opinion that these adversaries were amateurs. Hell, practically anybody was an amateur compared to him and to Jim.

He came up fast, slammed up against the curb, jammed on the brakes. He and Jim bolted out of the car, and they dashed, zig-zagging and crouching almost double as combat men run under fire, for the door.

Jim bounced to one side when he reached the entry. He aimed the laser and burnt off doorknob and lock. Bert hit the door with his shoulder, slammed on through and kept on the move. A very short hallway. Down it as fast as he could go, the pistol extended.

Into a living room, into the center of the room, moving fast. There were two men there, one seated with a book, one in the process of entering through a far door. Their eyes popped at him. Leaning up against the wall next to the seated one, was a rifle. He reached for it—far too slowly.

Bert burned him down.

The other made a dash for a table in the room’s center. There was an old-fashioned revolver on it. Bert cut him nearly in two, and the body crashed to the floor, upsetting and crumbling a straight chair on his way down.

Bert kept moving, the gun ever at the ready. He yelled, “Jill!”

There was a door that would seemingly lead to a bedroom. It opened and another man came dashing in. Even at the speed with which things were developing, Bert Alshuler recognized him as one of the four who had abducted Jill Masterson. He blasted him in the belly, let the laser beam mount higher. The newcomer folded forward and collapsed to the floor.

“Jill!” he yelled.

A voice from the room from which his last adversary had emerged called shakily, “In here!”

He didn’t know if she was alone. He bounced through the door, into the room’s center, swinging the gun around as he whirled. But she was alone, seated on the bed, her eyes wide.

“How many of them in the house?” he barked.

“Three. What’s happened?”

“Jim Hawkins and I came to get you. Jim’s outside, covering. Come on, let’s get out of here. Close your eyes when we go through the living room. It’s messy. I’ll take your arm.”

But she seemed rooted to where she sat. Her eyes were still round.

As though by intuition she said, very slowly, “Jim Hawkins. Jim’s outside covering. James Hawkins. Captain James Hawkins of the Elite Service. The right hand man of… he called you Killer. Why… why you’re Killer Caine.”

His face stiffened slightly. “My mother’s name was Alshuler. I took it to avoid… notoriety. Let’s go, Jill. I think you’re safe, but it’s just possible that there’re more of them in the vicinity.”

“But what are you doing here? How are you connected with this whole affair?”

He said urgently, “Listen. We don’t have time for explanations. I’m evidently in the same thing you are. Katz told me I ran up the highest Ability Quotient of all the demobilized military, so I was picked for this educational project. Let’s go.”

But she was still staring, and there was a sick expression on her face. She said, very slowly. “Ability Quotient? You, the highest of all discharged men? The millions of them? In what field is your real greatest ability. Killer Caine?”