Fredric Brown - The Second Fredric Brown Megapack

Bob chuckled appreciatively. “If he’s in a kidding mood, then your job’s safe for one more day. Good luck.”

The soundproof door closed and locked behind Carmody, and he nodded to the two armed guards who were posted on duty outside it. He tried to think things out carefully as he walked down the long stretch of corridor to the Chief Operator’s office.

Had something gone wrong with Junior? If so, it was his duty to report the matter. But if he did, he’d get himself in trouble, too. An Operative wasn’t supposed to ask private questions of the big cybernetics machine—even big, important questions. The fact that it had been a joking question would make it worse.

But Junior had either given him a joking answer—and it couldn’t be that, because Junior didn’t have a sense of humor—or else Junior had made a flat, unadulterated error. Two of them, in fact. Junior had said that Carmody would be busy tonight and—well, a wheel could come off his idea of spending a quiet evening reading. But the idea of his getting married tomorrow was utterly preposterous. There wasn’t a woman on Earth he had the slightest intention of marrying. Oh, someday, maybe, when he’d had a little more fun out of life and felt a little more ready to settle down, he might feel differently. But it wouldn’t be for years. Certainly not tomorrow, not even on a bet.

Junior had to be wrong, and if he was wrong it was a matter of importance, a matter far more important than Carmody’s job.

So be honest and report? He made his decision just before he reached the door of Reeber’s office. A reasonable compromise. He didn’t know yet that Junior was wrong. Not to a point of mathematical certainty—just a billion to one odds against. So he’d wait until even that possibility was eliminated, until it was proven beyond all possible doubt that Junior was wrong. Then he’d report what he’d done and take the rap, if there was a rap. Maybe he’d just be fined and warned.

He opened the door and stepped in. Chief Operative Reeber stood up and, on the other side of the desk, a tall gray-haired man stood also. Reeber said, “Ray, I’d like you to meet the President of the United States. He came here to talk to you. Mr. President, Captain Ray Carmody.”

And it was the President. Carmody gulped and tried to avoid looking as though he was doing a double take, which he was. Then President Saunderson smiled quietly and held out his hand. “Very glad to know you, Captain,” he said, and Carmody was able to make the considerable understatement that he felt honored to meet the President.

Reeber told him to pull up a chair and he did so. The President looked at him gravely. “Captain Carmody, you have been chosen to—have the opportunity to volunteer for a mission of extreme importance. There is danger involved, but it is less than the danger of your trip to the Moon. You made the third—wasn’t it?—out of the five successful trips made by the United States pilots?” Carmody nodded.

“This time the risk you will take is considerably less. There has been much technological advance in rocketry since you left the service two years ago. The odds against a successful round trip—even without the help of the space station, and I fear its completion is still two years distant—are much less. In fact, you will have odds of ten to one in your favor, as against approximately even odds at the time of your previous trip.”

Carmody sat up straighter. “My previous trip! Then this volunteer mission is another flight to the Moon? Certainly, Mr. President, I’ll gladly—”

President Saunderson held up a hand. “Wait, you haven’t heard all of it. The flight to the Moon and return is the only part that involves physical danger, but it is the least important part. Captain, this mission is, possibly, of more importance to humanity than the first flight to the Moon, even than the first flight to the stars—if and when we ever make it—will be. What’s at stake is the survival of the human race so that someday it can reach the stars. Your flight to the Moon will be an attempt to solve the problem which otherwise—”

He paused and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Perhaps you’d better explain, Mr. Reeber. You’re more familiar with the exact way the problem was put to your machine, and its exact answers.”

Reeber said, “Carmody, you know what the problem is. You know how much data has been fed into Junior on it. You know some of the questions we’ve asked him, and that we’ve been able to eliminate certain things. Such as—well, it’s caused by no virus, no bacteria, nothing like that. It’s not anything like an epidemic, because it struck the whole Earth at once, simultaneously. Even native inhabitants of islands that had no contact with civilization.”

“We know also that whatever happens—whatever molecular change occurs—happens in the zygote after impregnation, very shortly after. We asked Junior whether an invisible ray of some sort could cause this. His answer was that it was possible. And in answer to a further question, he answered that this ray or force is possibly being used by—enemies of mankind.”

“Insects? Animals? Martians?”

Reeber waved a hand impatiently. “Martians, maybe, if there are any Martians. We don’t know that yet. But extra-terrestrials, most likely. Now Junior couldn’t give us answers on this because, of course, we haven’t the relevant data. It would be guesswork for him as well as for us—and Junior, being mechanical, can’t guess. But here’s a possibility:”

“Suppose some extra-terrestrials have landed somewhere on Earth and have set up a station that broadcasts a ray that is causing the phenomenon of all children being girlchildren. The ray is undetectable; at least thus far we haven’t been able to detect it. They’d be killing off the human race and getting themselves a nice new planet to live on, without having to fire a shot, without taking any risk or losses themselves. True, they’ll have to wait a while for us to die off, but maybe that doesn’t mean anything to them. Maybe they’ve got all the time there is, and aren’t in the slightest hurry.”

Carmody nodded slowly. “It sounds fantastic, but I guess it’s possible. I guess a fantastic situation like this has to have a fantastic explanation. But what do we do about it? How do we even prove it?”

Reeber said, “We fed the possibility into Junior as a working assumption—not as a fact—and asked him how we could check it. He came up with the suggestion that a married couple spend a honeymoon on the Moon—and see if circumstances are any different there.”

“And you want me to pilot them there?”

“Not exactly, Ray. A little more than that—”

Carmody forgot that the President was there. He said, “Good God, you mean you want me to—Then Junior wasn’t crazy, after all!”

Shamefacedly, then, he had to explain about the extracurricular question he’d casually asked Junior and the answer he’d got to it.

Reeber laughed. “Guess we’ll overlook your violation of Rule 17 this time, Ray. That is, if you accept the mission. Now here’s the—”

“Wait,” Carmody said. “I still want to know something. How did Junior know I was going to be picked out? And for that matter, why am I?”

“Junior was asked for the qualifications he’d recommend for the—ah—bridegroom. He recommended a rocket pilot who had already made the trip successfully, even though he was a year or two over the technical retirement age of twenty-five. He recommended that loyalty be considered as an important factor, and that the holding of a governmental position of great trust would answer that. He further recommended that the man be single.”