Mack Reynolds: Ability Quotient

The other’s English was almost as poor as Bert’s German, but he said, “Yes, I am acquainted with the Herr Professor.”

Bert said carefully, “Herr Kauzchen, are you a participant in his new educational methods project?”

The other glared at him. “That is a secret!” he snapped. “I will not talk with you.” He clicked off.

Bert came to his feet and returned to the others.

He said, “That’s what I thought. Our big authority on the human brain has his project going in universities all over the world.” He checked down the list again. Dorothy Wheeler’s name was twentieth.

Jim finished off his drink and went to replenish it “Nope, you made a mistake there, old buddy.”

Bert said, “How do you mean?”

“Katz isn’t a particularly big authority on the brain. It isn’t his field at all.”

Bert said, “What in the hell are you talking about?”

“I told you I prowled his study up there in the penthouse. Went through some of the books he’s done and all. I sure as the devil was out of my depth but I can tell you one thing, his specialty has nothing to do with the brain.”

Jill said, “But he won a Nobel Prize once.”

“So I’ve heard, Sweetie Pie, but not in any field even remotely involving the brain, or education, or speeding up I.Q.” Bert and Jill stared at him for a moment “Well, what was it in?” Bert said.

“Search me. Some field of medicine, I guess, but it’s all so specialized now I didn’t even recognize the name. Shucks, all I am is a sophomore in this overgrown school.”

Bert looked at Jill. “What did he win his Nobel Prize for?”

“Why, I don’t know. I’ve heard that he won one, some years ago. When he first contacted me, I assumed that this project of his was in conjunction with the field in which he made his reputation. It was one of the reasons I had confidence in him, in spite of all the mysterious goings-on.”

Bert Alshuler ran his palm over his mouth in supreme irritation. He got up and paced the room twice, his hinds jammed into his jacket pockets. Then he looked at Jill and said, “I asked you about that bit from Arthur C. Clarke. You haven’t run into it, eh?”

“No. Not as yet.”

“I think I can remember it, word for word. It comes from an old time book of his called Profiles of the Future: ‘…the mechanical educator—or some technique which performs similar functions—is such an urgent need that civilization can not continue for many more decades without it. The knowledge of the world is doubling every ten years and the rate itself is increasing. Already, twenty years of schooling are insufficient; soon we will have died of old age before we have learned to live, and our entire culture will have collapsed owing to its incomprehensible complexity.’ ”

Jim gave him a surprised look. “Holy smokes, old buddy, have all these shots and all gotten you to the point where you can recite whole paragraphs of stuff you’ve read just once?”

“Yes.”

Jill said, “What do you conclude from that, Bert?”

“ I don’t know.” He stopped pacing and headed for the phone screen again. “Possibly that it’s time for a showdown.”

He flicked the screen alive and said, “Professor Leonard Katz.”

In a moment the screen said, “Professor Katz does not respond. He has restricted his phone to top priority.”

Bert said, “Then Professor Ralph Marsh.”

Marsh’s face faded in. “Confound it, Alshuler, what is it now? I seem to be free from your harassment only for a few hours a day.”

Bert Alshuler ignored that. “I want to get in touch with Katz.”

“He is out of town.”

“He is practically always out of town for the very good reason that this isn’t his town. And I begin to suspect that no other town is either. He keeps on the move. He has to, to cover all his territory. Kay, Marsh. This is an ultimatum. Get both Kate and General Paul up to that penthouse the professor uses when he’s here in Mid-West. You come along too, Marsh, and anybody else in this vicinity that might be a big-wig in your whole conspiracy.”

“Conspiracy, conspiracy! Are you jesting! Why, why, who do you think you are to order us about, Alshuler?”

“I’ll tell you who I am, friend,” Bert said, his voice ice. “I’m the guy on whom they hung the name Killer Caine. And I have the reputation of being able to cause more trouble than any man who survived the Asian War. Get them here soonest, Marsh. Within two hours—two hours is enough by vacuum tube transport—or I begin to blow the whistle and start one of the biggest stinks this planet has ever seen.”

He snapped the screen off.

“Holy smokes, old buddy,” Jim said. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“No.”

Jim worked his lanky form to his feet and headed for the bar. “Then we’d better have another drink, old buddy.”

“Stay away from that liquor, you rummy. I need you clear-headed.”

Jim ignored him.

Bert flicked on the phone screen again and said into it, “Captain Frank Harmon, of Security.”

Harmon’s face came on and when he saw who it was he glowered.

Bert bit out, “Can you get hold of Kenneth Kneedler?”

“Why?”

“Never mind. Answer.”

The other’s face worked, but he said, “As a matter of fact, I can. That is, I just found out where he is. But I’ve been discharged, Caine. I suspect through your efforts.”

“The hell with that. You know where Kneedler is, eh?”

“Yes. The fool is no conspirator. He left his apartment without taking anything with him. In a hurry, evidently. But just a couple of hours ago, he used his Identity Card to order a few things from an ultra-market. Pajamas and such, for Christ sake. We zeroed in on him. He’s holed up in the apartment of a friend.”

“Kay. Get him. Have him in the penthouse on top of the Acropolis Building two hours from now.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s going to be a showdown and he ought to be there. A showdown involving those four students who were finished off.”

Harmon sucked in breath, “Four?”

“Yes, four. Not three.”

“All right, Caine. We’ll both be there.”

“No, just him. You’ll be up above in a police helio-jet, waiting for me to call you in.”

“I told you, I’ve just been bounced.”

“I suspect you have close friends in local Security. You be there, Harmon.”

Frank Harmon, his face still working, held silence for a moment. Then he said, “Check… Killer.” His face faded out.

Bert Alshuler turned back to the other two. Jim, tall glass in hand, had resumed his comfort chair. His easygoing face registered boredom. “Fun and games,” he said.

Bert said, “Have you recharged your shooter since you used it?”

“Nope.”

Bert stood. “Recharge it and put a spare or two in your pocket.”

Jim muttered sourly and came to his feet. “I used to get special combat pay for this sort of thing,” he complained, heading for the arms cache.

Bert looked at Jill.

She licked her lower lip nervously and said, “You want me to be there?”

He shook his head. “There’s probably going to be trouble.”

“What kind of trouble… darling?”

Jim looked over his shoulder at her, his eyebrows raised, but continued on his way.

“I don’t really know,” Bert said, “but you don’t have to be there.” He headed for his study.

Inside, he picked up his pill bottles and shook one out of each. He put the brown pill in his right hand jacket pocket, the green in his left, not really knowing why he was doing it.

He went on back to the living room and said to Jim, “Kay, let’s go. I’d like to get the layout a little more, before the others arrive.”