“Absolutely,” Hamilton
agreed. He returned to the bedroom; a moment later he emerged tying his
necktie.
“But that comes later. Right
now I’m driving up the pe
ninsula. We have exactly fifty dollars left in
the bank, and I’m not going to starve to death trying to make this
prayer-business function.”
* * * * *
From the parking lot at the missile
plant, Hamilton
picked up his Ford business
coupe
. It
was still parked in
the slot
reading: Reserved for John W. Hamilton.
Heading up El Camino Real, he left
the town of Belmont Half an hour later he was entering South San
Francisco. The clock in front of the South San
Francisco
branch of the Bank of America read eleven-thirty as
he parked in the sedate gravel field beside the
Cadillacs and Chryslers belonging to the staff of EDA.
The Electronics Development Agency
buildings lay
to his right; white blocks of
cement set against the hills
of the sprawling industrial city. Once, years
ago, when
he had done his first published
paper in advanced elec
tronics, EDA had tried to hire him away from
California Maintenance. Guy Tillingford, one of the leading statisticians of
the country, headed the corporation; a brilliant and original man, he had been
in addition, a
close friend of Hamilton’s
father.
This
was the place to find a job—if he found one at all.
And, most important,
EDA was not currently engaged
in military
research. Doctor Tillingford, part of the group
that had made up the Institute
of Advanced Studies at Princeton (before that group had been officially disbanded),
was more concerned with general scientific knowledge. From EDA came some of the
most radical
computers, the great
electronic brains used in industries
and universities all over the
Western world.
“Yes,
Mr. Hamilton,” the efficient little secretary said, crisply examining his
sheaf of papers. “Ill tell the doctor
you’re here … I’m sure
he’ll be glad to see you.”
Tautly,
Hamilton paced the lounge, rubbing his hands
together and breathing a
silent prayer. The prayer came easily; at this particular moment he didn’t have
to force it. Fifty dollars in the bank wasn’t going to last the Hamilton family
very long … even in this world of
miracles
and falling locusts.
“Jack, my boy,” a deep
voice boomed. Doctor Guy Tillingford appeared at the doorway of his office,
aged face beaming, hand extended. “By golly, I’m glad to see
you. How long has it been? Ten years?”
“Darn near,” Hamilton
admitted, as they heartily grasped hands. “You’re looking well,
Doctor.”
Around
the office stood consultant engineers and tech
nicians; bright young men
with crew cuts, bow ties, alert expressions on their smooth faces. Ignoring
them, Doctor Tillingford led Hamilton through a series of wood-paneled doors
into a private chamber.
“We can talk here,” he
confided, throwing himself down in a black leather easy chair. I have this
fixed up —a sort of personal retreat, where I can take time off to meditate and
get my second wind.” Sadly, he added, “I can’t seem to stand the
steady grind, the way I used to. I crawl in here a couple times a day
…
to get back my
strength.”
“I’ve left California
Maintenance,” Hamilton said.
“Oh?”
Tillingford nodded. “Good for you. That’s a bad
place. Too much
emphasis on guns. They’re not scien
tists;
they’re government employees.”
“I didn’t quit. I was
fired.” In a few words, Hamilton
explained
the situation.
For a little while Tillingford said
nothing. Thoughtfully, he picked at a front tooth, wrinkled brow pulled
together in a frown of concentration. “I remember Marsha. Sweet girl. I
always liked her. There’s so darn much of this security-risk stuff these days.
But we don’t have to worry about that here. No government contracts at present.
Ivory tower.” He chuckled drily. “Last remnant of pure
research.”
“You suppose you could use
me?” Hamilton asked,
as
dispassionately as possible.
“I don’t see why not.”
Idly, Tillingford got out a small religious prayer wheel and began spinning it.
“I’m familiar with your work
…
I wish we could have got hold of you sooner, as a matter of fact.”
Fascinated, hypnotized with
disbelief, Hamilton stared fixedly at Tillingford’s prayer wheel.
“Of course, there’re the
regular questions,” Tillingford observed, spinning. “The routine . .
. but you won’t have to fill out the written forms. I’ll ask you orally. You
don’t drink, do you?”
Hamilton
floundered.
“Drink?”
“This business about Marsha
poses a certain problem. We’re not concerned with the security aspect, of
course … but I will have to ask you this. Jack, tell me truthfully.”
Reaching into his pocket, Tillingford got out a black-bound volume, gold-stamped
Bayan of the Second Bab,
and handed it to Hamilton. “In college,
when you two were mixed up in radical groups, you didn’t practice—shall I say,
‘free love?”
Hamilton had no answer. Mute, dazed,
he stood holding the
Bayan of the Second Bab;
it was still warm from
Tillingford’s coat pocket. A pair of EDA’s bright young men had come quietly
into the room; they now stood respectfully watching. Dressed in long white lab
smocks,
they seemed curiously solemn and
obedient. Their
smooth-cropped skulls reminded him of the polls of young
monks … odd that he had never noticed how much the popular crewcut
resembled the ancient ascetic
practice of
religious orders. These two men were certain
ly typical of bright young
physicists; where was their usual brashness?
“And while we’re at it,”
Doctor Tillingford said, “I might as well ask you this. Jack, my boy, hold
onto that Bayan and tell me truthfully. Have you found the One True Gate to
blessed salvation?”
All eyes were on him. He swallowed,
flushed beet-red,
stood helplessly
struggling. “Doctor,” he managed finally,
“I think I’ll
come back some other time.”
Concerned, Tillingford removed his
glasses and carefully eyed the younger man. “Jack, don’t you feel
well?”
“I’ve been under a lot of
strain. Losing my job …” Hastily, Hamilton added: “And other
difficulties. Marsha and I were in an accident, yesterday. A new deflector went
wrong and bathed us with hard radiation, over at
the Bevatron.”
“Oh, yes,” Tillingford
agreed. “I heard about that. Nobody killed, fortunately.”
‘Those eight people,” one of
his ascetic young technicians put in, “must have walked with the Prophet.
That was a long drop.”
“Doctor,” Hamilton said
hoarsely, “could you recommend a good psychiatrist?”
A slow, incredulous glaze settled
over the elderly scientist’s face.
“A—what?
Are you out of your
head,
boy?”
“Yes,”
Hamilton answered. “Apparently.”
“We’ll discuss this
later,” Tillingford said shortly, in a choked voice. Impatiently, he waved
his two technicians out of the room. “Go down to the mosque,” he
told them. “Meditate until I call for you.”
They departed, with an intent,
thoughtful scrutiny of
Hamilton.
“You can talk to me,”
Tillingford said heavily. “I’m your friend. I knew your father, Jack. He
was a great physicist. They don’t come any better. I always had high hopes for
you. Naturally, I was disappointed when you went to work for California
Maintenance. But, of course, we have to bow to the Cosmic Will.”
“Can I ask you a few
questions?” Cold perspiration poured down Hamilton’s neck, into his
starched white collar. “This place is still a scientific organization,
isn’t it? Or is it?”
“Still?” Puzzled,
Tillingford took back his Bayan from Hamilton’s lifeless fingers. “I don’t
get the drift of your questions, boy. Be more specific.”
“Let’s put it this way. I’ve
been-cut off. Deep in my own work, I’ve lost contact with what the rest of the
field is doing. And,” he finished
desperately, “I don’t have
any idea what other fields are up to.
Maybe—could you briefly acquaint me with the current overall picture?”
“Picture,”
Tillingford echoed, nodding. “Very com
monly lost sight of. That’s
the trouble with overspecialization. I can’t tell you too much, myself. Our
work at EDA is fairly well delineated; one might even say
prescribed.
Over
at Cal Main you were developing weapons for use against the infidels; that’s
simple and obvious. Strictly applied science, correct?”
“Correct,” Hamilton
agreed.
“Here, we’re working with an
eternal and basic problem, that of communication. It’s our job—and it’s quite
a job—to insure the fundamental electronic structure of
communication. We have electronics men—like yourself. We have top-notch
consulting semanticists. We have very
good research psychologists. All
of us form a team to tackle this basic problem of man’s existence: keeping a
well-functioning wire open between Earth and Heav
en.”
Doctor Tillingford continued:
“Although of course you’re already familiar with this, I’ll say it again.
In the old days, before communication was subjected to rigid
scientific analysis, a variety of haphazard
systems existed.
Burnt sacrifices; attempts to attract God’s attention
by tickling His nose and palate. Very crude, very unscientific. Loud prayer
and hymn singing, still practiced by the uneducated classes. Well, let them
sing their hymns and chant their prayers.” Pressing a button, he caused
one wall of the room to become transparent. Hamilton
found himself gazing down at the elaborate research labs
that
lay spread out in a ring around Tillingford’s office: layer after layer of men
and equipment, the most advanced machines and technicians available.
“Norbert Wiener,”
Tillingford said. “You recall his work in cybernetics. And, even more
important, Enrico Destini’s work in the field of theophonics.”
“What’s
that?”
Tillingford raised an eyebrow.
“You
are
a specialist, my boy. Communication between man and God,
of course. Using Wiener’s work, and using the invaluable material of Shannon
and Weaver, Destini was able to set up the first really adequate system of
communication between Earth and Heaven in 1946. Of course, he had the use of
all that equipment from the War Against the Pagan Hordes, those damned
Wotan-Worshiping, Oak-
Tree-Praising
Huns.”
“You
mean the—Nazis?”
“I’m familiar with that term.
That’s sociologist jargon, isn’t it? And that Denier of the Prophet, that
Anti-Bab. They say he’s still alive down in Argentina. Found the elixir of
eternal youth or something. He made that pact with the devil in 1939, you
remember. Or was that be
fore your time? But
you know about it—it’s history.”
“I know,” Hamilton said
thickly.
“And yet, there were still
people who didn’t see the handwriting on the wall. Sometimes I think the
Faithful deserve to be humbled. A few hydrogen bombs set off here and there,
and the strong current of atheism that
just
can’t be stamped out—”
“Other fields,” Hamilton
interrupted. “What are they doing? Physics. What about the
physicists?”
“Physics
is a closed subject,” Tillingford informed him.
“Virtually everything
about the material universe is
known—was
known centuries ago. Physics has become an
abstract side of
engineering.”
“And the engineers?”
In answer, Tillingford tossed him
the November “59 Issue of the
Journal of Applied Sciences.
The lead
article gives you a good idea, I think. Brilliant man, that
Hirschbein.”
The lead article was entitled
Theoretical
Aspects of
the Problem of Reservoir
Construction.
Underneath was
a subtitle.
The necessity of maintaining a
constant supply
of untainted
grace for all major population centers.
“Grace?”
Hamilton said feebly.
“The engineers,”
Tillingford explained, “are mainly
preoccupied
with the job of piping grace for every Babi
ite community the world over. In a sense, it’s an analogue
to
our problem of keeping the lines of communication
open.”
“And that’s all they do
“Well,”
Tillingford acknowledged, “there’s the constant
task of building
mosques, temples, altars. The Lord is a
strict
taskmaster, you realize; His specifications are quite
exact. Frankly,
just between you and me, I don’t envy those fellows. One slip and”—he
snapped his fingers—
“poof.”
“Poof?”
“Lightning.”
“Oh,” Hamilton said.
“Of course.”
“So very few of the brighter
boys go into engineering. Too high a mortality rate.” Tillingford
scrutinized him with fatherly care. “My boy, you see, don’t you, that
you’re really in a good field?”
“I
never doubted that,” Hamilton said hoarsely. “I was just curious to
find out what that field is.”
“I’m satisfied as to your moral
status,” Tillingford
told him. “I
know you’re from a good, clean, God-fearing family. Your father was the soul of
honesty and humility.
I hear from him occasionally, still.”