Part 1

The Assistant Self

by F. L. Wallace

_Sympathy for others may be one of the seven cardinal virtues. But man does not live by virtue alone, and a superabundance of any one attribute--however admirable in itself--can lead to stark tragedy. To appreciate fully the breadth of that tragedy you must follow in the footsteps of F. L. Wallace as he scatters golden nuggets of science fantasy entertainment along the frontiers of tomorrow with a prodigality undreamed of by lesser scribes. Here is a yarn that takes you straight into realms of abiding mystery and surmise_.

=It was a world of Utopian dreams and industrial strife--buffeted by the winds of human unreason. But Hal Talbot was a man apart.=

“You always see the other person’s side,” said Laura. “Even the boss’s, especially when he fires you.”

She swept the compact into her purse and stood up. “Now see if you can understand _my_ point of view.” With a withering contempt in her eyes she swung the purse to her shoulder and walked rapidly away.

Hal Talbot stared morosely at his drink. The worst of it was--he knew exactly how she felt. In spite of what everyone professed to believe empathy was a dreadful handicap. He had more than his share of it, and he couldn’t even hold down a simple lousy job.

He raised the glass and saw through it a man--a total stranger--standing beside the booth in amused expectation. _The hell with him_, Talbot thought. He drank the beer and set the glass down.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” the stranger asked.

Talbot looked him over carefully. He was well-dressed--too well-dressed--and he conformed in virtually every other respect to the popular conception of the executive, suave and so completely sure of himself. Therefore--he probably wasn’t.

“Suit yourself,” grunted Talbot.

The man sat down and ordered for both of them. It was all right with Talbot. He _could_ have paid for the drinks, but he was keenly aware that his dwindling resources wouldn’t last long.

“I couldn’t help overhearing the conversation,” said the man.

“We have all our fights in public,” said Talbot, with embittered irony. “It makes things more final.”

The stranger stared at him steadily for an instant, his brows contracted. Then he asked: “Are you sure this is final?”

“You heard what she said. I can’t hold a job.”

“That’s precisely what I mean. You seem capable enough. I’m curious as to the reason.”

Talbot looked at the other more intently. He was a man of much the same general build as Talbot, but he appeared to be five or six years older.

“I mean no offense,” said the man. He fumbled in his pocket and held out a card.

Talbot took it. There was a single word in bold black letters on one side: TRANSPORTATION. The crosses on the T’s were spaceships. On the other side was a name: EVAN SOLERI, _vice-president in charge of research_. Talbot curled his fingers around the card.

The man smiled. “Just call me Evan.”

“All right, Evan. You’re going to offer me a job.” Talbot settled back comfortably. Things were falling into the routine pattern again.

“Perhaps. But first--do you mind telling me why you keep getting fired?”

“I don’t mind,” said Talbot. He was used to impertinent and stupid questions. He was used to getting jobs in odd places and to the ups and downs that always seemed to straighten themselves out eventually. Some day perhaps he’d find himself in a situation from which all his empathy couldn’t rescue him. But he’d worry about that when it came.

“You want to know why I get fired?” he asked, drawing the beer to him, and scowling across it. “Well, I’ll tell you. I meet someone like you. We talk, and are friendly. First thing you know he is offering me a job. I take it. In the beginning everything’s fine. I have a knack of knowing exactly what he wants. I get a raise practically overnight.

“Then one day _his_ boss comes in and wants something in a hurry. So he talks to me very earnestly about it. Before anyone realizes what has taken place his boss is depending on me instead of on him. So what can he do? He finds some pretext and fires me.”

Evan Soleri nodded. “And you don’t object?”

“I get mad, naturally,” said Talbot. “But what else _could_ he do? He’s worked hard for the job and I come along and threaten to take it away. The point is--I’ve got no special qualification.”

“Except empathy.”

“Except that,” agreed Talbot. He took a long drink and set the glass down. “It’s funny. I get along well with people but my adjustment index isn’t so good.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Soleri. “Do you mind showing me your employment card?”

“Sure--step number one,” said Talbot. “When do I start?” He handed over the card, and waved to the waiter for refills in the same motion.

Soleri frowned at the card. “I notice you haven’t been tested in seven years. Why haven’t you gone back for re-evaluation?”

“It costs money,” Talbot replied. “Anyway, aptitudes don’t change much after twenty-four.”

“That’s usually true,” said Soleri, returning the card.

“When do I start?” said Talbot. “To save trouble shall I have them make out the termination notice at the same time? They can safely date it two months in advance. I usually last that long.”

“You may be surprised.” Soleri smiled. “I’ve a feeling you can work well at the top. You’ve been starting too low.”

Talbot studied the executive. Curiously enough, he had the same feeling--if he ever got to the top. It was hard to do on ability alone. He never lasted long enough for anyone to find out how good he was. “What sort of work am I supposed to do?” he asked.

“Interested?” said Soleri. “Have you heard of the perfect rocket motor?”

“I’ve heard of it. Everybody has.” Talbot disposed of the beer. “It’s out of my line, though. I’m strictly business administration.”

“Don’t prejudge what I have in mind,” said Soleri. “Have you also heard of Fred Frescura?”

“The heat scientist?”

“That’s right. The _foremost_ heat and rocket scientist.” Soleri moved the glass aside. “As you know, present rockets are pretty poor. They take us around the solar system, but that’s all. And they don’t do that very well. Anyway, there’s mathematical proof that the theoretically perfect rocket motor can be built. We’ve been working on it for the past six years.”

“Why come to me?” said Talbot. “I can’t help.”

“Don’t be so sure. We want your empathy.”

“You can have it,” said Talbot. “Look. One point five on the card, maybe actually one point four by now. It levels off. You know the standard curve as well as I do.”

“The standard curve doesn’t always fit. That’s what I want to discuss.”

Talbot might have stayed to talk it over, but he caught a strong surge of panic from the executive. Panic or trouble--or both. He didn’t want either. He had quite enough of his own. It wasn’t every day he lost his job and his girl walked out on him.

“I don’t feel in the mood for hashing this over,” he affirmed. “You’re expecting a woman anyway.”

Soleri smiled quizzically. “See? I told you that you’re underestimating the strength of your empathy.”

“Nothing to it. You were looking at every pair of legs that came by.”

“I don’t think it was that easy. Why don’t you wait? Randy will be here any minute.”

Talbot shook his head. “There’s no telling what Laura will do when she wanders out like this. She won’t go home, that’s for sure.”

“I wish you’d reconsider.”

“You can’t get a test tonight,” argued Talbot. “And a test is the only thing that will give us real information. I know what you’re going to suggest--that I come in tomorrow morning. Fine. So I’ll do it--tomorrow morning.”

Again Soleri smiled. “I said that you were my man. Now I’m sure of it. Will you come in early, at seven thirty, say?”

Talbot could feel the other’s panic diminish. Maybe he was even better than he thought--if he could produce that effect just by agreeing. “Seven thirty is pretty early,” he said.

“There’s a reason for it,” Soleri assured him.

“I bet.”

Soleri took out a card and scribbled some careful directions on it. “Here,” he said. “Come in this way. Just walk right in. There won’t be anyone there at that hour of the morning except me.”

“Sure.” Talbot stuffed the card in his pocket and wandered over to the screen booth. He had trouble getting the connection, but when he did her father answered.

He had been correct in his assumption. He came out of the booth and stood for an instant at the bar, gulping down a drink. His head turned to follow the progress of a woman who had just entered the cafe. She had deep brown eyes and blonde hair, and a great deal more. That helped. She was not only pretty--she was spectacular. He liked spectacular women.

She went on by, and stopped at the booth occupied by Soleri. Quite obviously she was Randy. For a moment he regretted his decision to go in search of Laura. But only for a moment. Common sense told him he wouldn’t have a chance of taking a woman like that away from a vice-president of TRANSPORTATION. The company just happened to be the largest in existence.

Still, it felt good to have a man of Soleri’s importance seek him out. He rolled the thought around in his mind. It was unquestionably true. Soleri had come looking for him. He knew it the way he knew so many things--without thinking, by feeling alone, by the ability to put himself in another’s place.

By the time the thought had come full circle in his mind Randy and Soleri were gone. It was Laura now--or nothing.

He went in search of her. She was not in any of the bars she usually frequented. She was nowhere. There could be no doubt that she was mad at him this time, and would be for weeks--even when she learned what he had coming up. She wanted to get married and was furious with him for daring to put her off.

It took him quite a while to become absolutely convinced he wasn’t going to find her on what remained of his time, money, and drinking capacity. He started home and Laura slipped out of his mind.

It certainly wasn’t accidental--his meeting with Soleri. Soleri had been looking for him. But why? How had he known where to look? Talbot couldn’t concentrate solidly on the problem. It was all he could do to figure out where the street was going to sway to next.

One thing was certain. He’d have a lot of questions to ask Soleri in the morning.

II

Talbot dressed numbly. It was early, damned early, and his head throbbed. Aside from the physical discomfort involved he didn’t mind a hangover. He was more sensitive when he hung one on.

He was going to need that sensitivity when he talked to Soleri.

The man had a pretty phenomenal empathy index himself--say about 0.95. The more he thought about it the more certain he became that it must be at least 0.95. The executive had displayed uncanny acumen the night before.

Talbot swung a rack out of the closet and automatically selected a light conservative suit. Soleri would expect him to dress conservatively. He didn’t care what Soleri thought, but it was a matter of pride with him to fit neatly into any situation.

He dialed a cup of coffee, and then on second thought changed it to two cups, and gulped both of them. He studied his reflection in the mirror. It would do. He was the perfect picture of the successful executive. All he lacked was success.

He resisted the impulse to phone Laura. He was convinced she wouldn’t answer at seven in the morning. Probably she wouldn’t answer later in the day. Maybe in a week he’d call her _after_ he got the job with TRANSPORTATION.

He went down and hailed an aircab which took him to the far side of the city. He alighted and read for the third or fourth time the instructions Soleri had written on the card. He located the entrance without difficulty and went in. Normally, he supposed, there would be a receptionist in the lobby. He didn’t see one. It was not important, for Soleri had cleared the way for him.

He ascended three flights of stairs, walked around a turn at the corridor, and there he was--in front of Soleri’s office. It would be just his luck to find that he had arrived too early. But there was definitely someone in the office. He conquered his trepidation and went in.

Soleri smiled and came toward him from behind the desk. His hand was extended and he was laughing. It was friendly laughter, and Talbot could sense the friendliness. But he was unemployed, and for that reason he resented it.

“My God,” said Soleri. “If we looked anything alike we’d be twins.”

Talbot stared intently, reviewing and adding to his original impressions of the other. They were within an inch and a pound of each other. Moreover they now wore identical suits and identical shoes and if there was a difference in their ties and shirts, it would have taken an expert to detect it. Talk about empathy! Soleri really had it.

But actually they didn’t resemble each other at all. Soleri’s hair was black, and Talbot’s was brown. Soleri’s eyes were dark, Talbot’s gray. Viewed from the back with a hat on they were indistinguishable. But face to face no one could have mistaken one for the other.

“It’s an impressive trick,” Soleri chuckled. “If you’re trying to convince me you’re good--relax. I believe it.”

“I’m not trying to convince you of anything,” said Talbot.

Soleri looked at him keenly. “You probably aren’t,” he said. “It ties in.”

Talbot blinked. “Are you saying it’s _my_ empathy? One point four or five isn’t _that_ good. Your own index must be zero point ninety-five.”

“How did you know?” said Soleri. “I never told you.”

“Why--” began Talbot, and stopped. How _had_, he known? It was one thing to think you knew, quite another to be always right. Something was startlingly out of place.

Empathy measurements started in adolescence. Before then the body was in a state of flux. It was still building, exploring. It did not have the experience on which to base valid opinions.

The adolescent was primarily aware of himself. He scarcely knew why he thought and felt the way he did, and had no time to encompass the emotions of others. But as he matured and some of his own problems became settled, an increasing awareness grew in him. He became better able to anticipate and participate in the feelings of others. Not merely to react to them, but to feel them as if they were his own.

After adolescence the ability to identify with others continued to increase--rapidly at first, and then more slowly. Plotted out as age against understanding, the curve resembled an hyperbola reaching for the asymptote.

Soleri smiled. “I see you’ve figured it out for yourself. We don’t think you’re usual either. A test will decide the matter.”

“The test can come later. Who’s ‘we’?”

“Myself and Randy, my secretary.”

Inwardly Talbot sighed. He could hardly blame the guy. With a secretary like that he couldn’t picture himself spending much time in an office either. Evidently Soleri and Randy didn’t. No doubt Soleri would claim that last night’s meeting had come under the heading of business as usual.

“Another thing,” he said. “How did you know I’d be at that bar?”

Soleri shook his head in humorous resignation. “You don’t let much get by you. To be wholly frank, that’s why we want you. Well, if you must know, we called your apartment several times in the last few days. You were never home. So we put plant protection on you. It’s outside their normal jurisdiction, but they learned your habits quickly enough.”

“I don’t like to be snooped at,” protested Talbot. “I don’t even know how you got my name.”

“That one’s easy,” said Soleri. “Several years ago you filed an application with us. I looked it over recently. I’m a mathematician--an amateur but fairly good. I decided that if you’d put down the various empathy measurements correctly you might be better than you thought. Over a short portion of the curve, you know, a cubic or another equation can resemble an hyperbola. After Randy gets here we’ll see.”

Talbot nodded. He could accept that. It helped to explain why he’d had so much trouble. People resented his competition. The thought gave him confidence, and he reached out easily for the next conclusion.

“But you’re not being altruistic about this,” he said. “I may have an index of zero point nine, better than yours, way at the top of the executive class. But for all you know I may have no knowledge, no subject matter in my head.” He paused to formulate the thought clearly. “You want me for something else. Specifically you’re in trouble.”

“We may not need that test. But we’ll take it anyway,” said Soleri. “Yes, it’s trouble. Do you want to see if you can tell me what it is?”

Talbot didn’t so much think as contact Soleri’s personality. He knew that atomic energy was advanced and with it almost any degree of temperature could be attained. And the hotter the exhaust, every other factor being equal, the faster the rocket. He allowed the thought to float closer.

“The technical problem is liners,” he said. “You’ve got to have something that won’t be melted or eroded by the exhaust.”

“True,” said Soleri. “Metal or ceramics won’t do--not at the temperatures we’re working with. We have made certain mathematical investigations which indicate there _is_ a solution. Metal plus certain energy states might turn the trick.

“We can discuss techniques later. It’s sufficient for now that we’ve narrowed it down to a matter of trial and error. The rest should be easy enough: a million or so experiments and we’ll have it. We’ve hired the best brains in the field, and you can be sure we haven’t spared time or money. Only we aren’t making progress. The perfect rocket motor should drive us at--or near--the speed of light. We’re nowhere near that.”

* * * * *

Talbot leaned on the desk. “Competition?” he asked thoughtfully.

Soleri smiled painfully. “Perhaps. We’re big, but we’re not the only company after the motor. The difficulty arises from the fact that there’s nothing definite we can point to as wrong. If there was, plant protection would find the person or persons responsible and put an end to the obstruction in short order. What happens is simply this. Costly experiments have one insignificant detail wrong, and blow up or fail to function at all. Elaborate computations have one decimal point moved and it takes a month to locate the impediment. Who’s behind it? What official or worker is out to sabotage us? That’s what we’re trying to discover.”

“Did it ever occur to you that the perfect rocket motor may be an illusion? Perhaps it can’t be built.”

“We have Frescura to say otherwise. Rocket construction is his life’s work. Other experts in the field agree with him--though they are not always able to follow his theoretical explanations.”

“I won’t argue with them,” said Talbot. He glanced uneasily at the door of the office. A breeze was blowing it open slightly. “I see now why you wanted me to come so early. It was to make sure I wouldn’t be seen?”

“Right,” Soleri said. “I wanted to explain the situation and have you leave before the regular shift gets here. I’ll make arrangements for the test to be given outside the plant. When you come back you’ll be hired through regular channels. That way there’ll be no apparent connection with me. You’ll simply be given a position in the shop. It will be high enough to enable you to meet everyone, but it won’t be so top-level that you’ll be prevented from mingling freely.”

“I’m not sure I’m interested,” said Talbot. “If I’m as good as you think I am--why should I take a job like that?”

“It’s temporary, don’t you see? With your degree of empathy you can track down the trouble without arousing suspicion. After that we’ll put you where you belong. And your salary will be scaled to your test rating from the beginning, regardless of your workshop status. How does that sound to you?”

“Forthright,” said Talbot. “And quite generous.” He didn’t like to snoop any better than he liked being snooped at. But he’d listen.

“Randy’s due any moment,” said Soleri. “Let’s see that employment card again.”

Talbot reached for his wallet. The container the card was in didn’t detach easily. He opened it, and handed the wallet to Soleri.

Soleri examined the card with interest. He made a rough sketch of it on paper, plotting the points of the series of tests and joining them with a free-hand curve. He was so intent on the task that he failed to notice that the office door had opened the width of a man’s hand.

Talbot wouldn’t have noticed either, had he not turned at that precise instant to get a better view of the sketch and seen the hand in the crack. The hand threw a small dark object on the floor, then whipped back quickly. The door closed.

Talbot’s reactions were good but not good enough. He jogged Soleri’s elbow. “What’s that?” he said uneasily, indicating the object.

It was round and dark, hard to distinguish on the floor. It took Soleri a second to see it--a second too long. “Get down,” he shouted, shoving Talbot behind the desk.

The action threw Soleri offbalance and he fell the wrong way. He scrambled frantically for the protection of the desk but only his hand with the wallet still in it reached the merciful shadow.

A chaotic sound echoed somewhere near Talbot. He’d never heard anything like it. He didn’t have time to wonder where it came from because it was followed by another louder sound.

Instinctively he closed his eyes as an incandescent sheet of flame whipped across the room. It was accompanied by a vast thermal concussion which blotted out all sound. Take a tiny piece of the interior of the Sun--not the center, but somewhere between that and the visible outer portion--and wrap it with unimaginable insulation. Transport it to an office and strip away the covering in a microsecond. Within a limited area the explosion was even more frightful than that.

At first the desk shielded Talbot. In the intolerable light paint and pictures were burned from the wall. Chairs disappeared and the fireproof floor bubbled and vaporized. By the time the thick steel and thermoplastic desk collapsed in ashes around Talbot’s body the tiny speck of matter had dissipated most of its energy and there was only fire to fear.

Clouds of steam came from the ceiling as the sprinkler system went into action. It didn’t function well because most of it had been melted away in the first blast. Nevertheless water gushed out and turned to steam.

Talbot struggled to get out. But he was badly burned. Steam and smoke were searing his lungs, and a section of the ceiling had peeled off and fallen on his legs, pinning him to the floor. He saw a hand, all that was left of Soleri, clutching the wallet. And then he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see or feel anything at all.

III