Mack Reynolds: Ability Quotient

“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?”