 Art 1 of The Variable Man by Philip K. Dick. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Phil Schenevere, Baton Rouge, Louisiana. The Variable Man by Philip K. Dick. Art 1. Security Commissioner Reinhardt rapidly climbed the front steps and entered the Council building. Council guards stepped quickly aside as he entered the familiar place of great whirring machines. His thin face wrapped, eyes alight with emotion, Reinhardt gazed intently up at the central SRB computer studying its reading. Straight gain for the last quarter, observed Kaplan, the lab organizer. He grinned proudly as if personally responsible. Not bad, Commissioner. We're catching up to them, Reinhardt retorted. But too damn slowly. We must finally go over and soon. Kaplan was in a talkative mood. We designed new offensive weapons, they counter with improved defenses, and nothing is actually made. Continual improvement, but neither we nor Centaurus can stop designing long enough to stabilize for production. It will end, Reinhardt stated coldly, as soon as terror turns out a weapon for which Centaurus can build no defense. Every weapon has a defense. Design and discord, immediate obsolescence, nothing lasts long enough to what we count on is the lag, Reinhardt broke in annoyed. His hard gray eyes bore into the lab organizer and Kaplan slugged back. The time lag between our offensive design and their counter-development, the lag varies. He waved impatiently toward the masked banks of SRB machines, as you well know. At this moment, 9.30 a.m., May 7, 21.36, the statistical ratio on the SRB machines stood at 21 to 17 on the Centaurian side of the ledger. All facts considered, the odds favored a successful repulsion by Proxima Centaurus of a Terran military attack. The ratio was based on the total information known to the SRB machines on a gestalt of the vast flow of data that poured in endlessly from all sectors of the Sol and Centaurus systems. 21 to 17 on the Centaurian side. About a month ago it had been 24 to 18 in the enemy's favor. Things were improving slowly but steadily. Centaurus, older and less virile than terror, was unable to match terror's rate of technocratic advance. Terror was pulling ahead. If we went to war now, Reinhardt said thoughtfully, we would lose. We're not far enough along to risk an overt attack. A harsh, ruthless glow twisted across his handsome features, hurting them into a stern mask. But the odds are moving in our favor. Our offensive designs are gradually gaining on their defenses. Let's hope the war comes soon, Kaplan agreed. We're all on edge. This damn waiting. The war would come soon. Reinhardt knew it intuitively. The air was full of tension. The Elan. He left these SRB rooms and hurried down the corridor to his own elaborately guarded office in the security wing. It wouldn't be long. He could practically feel the hot breath of destiny on his neck, for him a pleasant feeling. His thin lips set in a humulus smile showing an even line of white teeth against his tanned skin. It made him feel good all right. He'd been working at it a long time. First contact a hundred years earlier had ignited the instant conflict between Proxima Centaurian outposts and exploring Terran Raiders. Flash fights sought an eruptions of fire and energy beams, and then the long dreary years of inaction between enemies where contact required years of travel even at nearly the speed of light. The two systems were evenly matched. Screen against screen, warship against power station, the Centaurian Empire surrounded Terran and iron ring that couldn't be broken, rusty and corroded as it was. Radical new weapons had to be conceived if Terran was to break out. Through the windows of his office Reinhardt could see endless buildings and streets, buildings hurrying back and forth. Bright specks that were commute ships, little eggs that carried businessmen and white-colored workers around. The huge transport tubes that shot masses of workmen to factories and labor camps from their housing units. All these people waiting to break out, waiting for the day. Reinhardt snapped on his vid-screen, the confidential channel. Give me military designs," he ordered sharply. He sat tense, his wiry body taut as the vid-screen warmed into life. Abruptly he was facing the hulking image of Peter Cherikov, director of the vast network of labs under the Ural Mountains. Cherikov's great bearded features heartened as he recognized Reinhardt. His bushy black eyebrows pulled up in a sullen line. What do you want? You know I'm busy. We have too much work to do as it is, without being bothered by politicians. I'm dropping over your way," Reinhardt answered lazily. He adjusted the cuff of his immaculate gray cloak. I want a full description of your work and whatever progress you've made. You'll find a regular departmental report plate filed in the usual way, around your office someplace. If you'll refer to that, you'll know exactly what we—I'm not interested in that. I want to see what you're doing, and I expect you to be prepared to describe your work fully. I'll be there shortly, half an hour. Reinhardt cut the circuit. Those heavy features dwindled and faded. Reinhardt relaxed, letting his breath out. Too bad he had to work with Cherikov. He had never liked the man. The big Polish scientist was an individualist, refusing to integrate himself with society. Independent, atomistic in outlook, he held concepts of the individual as an end, diametrically contrary to the accepted organic state of the world. But Cherikov was the leading research scientist in charge of the military designs department, and on designs the whole future of terror depended. Victory over Centaurus, or more waiting bottled up in the sol system, surrounded by a rotting, husk-style empire, now sinking into ruin and decay, yet still strong. Reinhardt got quickly to his feet and left the office. He hurried down the hall and out of the council building. A few minutes later he was heading across the mid-morning sky in his high-speed cruiser toward the Asiatic landmass, the vast Ural mountain range, toward the military designs lab. Cherikov met him at the entrance. Look here, Reinhardt. Don't think you're going to order me around. I'm not going to take it easy, Reinhardt fell into step beside the bigger man. They passed through the check and into the auxiliary labs. No immediate coercion will be exerted over you or your staff. You're free to continue your work as you see fit for the present. Let's get this straight. My concern is to integrate your work with our total social needs. As long as your work is sufficiently productive, Reinhardt stopped in his tracks. Pretty, isn't he? Cherikov said ironically. What the hell is it? Icarus, we call him. Remember the Greek myth? The legend of Icarus? Icarus flew. This Icarus is going to fly one of these days. Cherikov shrugged. You can examine him, if you want. I suppose this is what you came here to see. Reinhardt advanced slowly. This is the weapon you've been working on? How does he look? Rising up in the centre of the chamber was a squat metal cylinder, a great ugly cone of dark grey. Technicians circled around it, wiring up the exposed relay banks. Reinhardt caught a glimpse of endless tubes and filaments, a maze of wires and terminals and parts criss-crossing each other layer on layer. What is it? Reinhardt perched on the edge of a workbench, leaning his big shoulders against the wall. An idea of Jameson Hedge, the same man who developed our instantaneous interstellar vidcasts forty years ago. He was trying to find a method of faster-than-light travel when he was killed, destroyed along with most of his work. After that FTL research was abandoned. It looked as if there was no future in it. Wasn't it shown that nothing could travel faster than light? The interstellar vidcasts do? No. Hedge developed a valid FTL drive. He managed to propel an object at fifty times the speed of light. But as the object gained speed its length began to diminish and its mass increased. This was in line with familiar twentieth century concepts of mass-energy transformation. We conjectured that its Hedge's object gained velocity. It would continue to lose length and gain mass until its length became nil and its mass infinite. Nobody can imagine such an object. Go on. But what actually occurred is this. Hedge's object continued to lose length and gain mass until it reached the theoretical limit of velocity, the speed of light. At that point the object, still gaining speed, simply ceased to exist. Having no length it ceased to occupy space. It disappeared. However, the object had not been destroyed. It continued on its way gaining momentum each moment moving in an arc across the galaxy away from the Sol system. Hedge's object entered some other realm of being beyond our powers of conception. The next phase of Hedge's experiment consisted in a search for some way to slow the FTL object down, back to a sub-FTL speed, hence back into our universe. This counter-principle was eventually worked out. With what result? The death of Hedge and destruction of most of his equipment. His experimental object in re-entering the space-time universe came into being in space already occupied by matter. Possessing an incredible mass just below infinity level, Hedge's object exploded in a titanic catalysm. It was obvious that no space travel was possible with such a drive. Virtually all space contains some matter. To re-enter space would bring automatic destruction. Hedge had found his FTL drive and his counter-principle, but no one before this had been able to put them to any use. Reinhardt walked over toward the great metal cylinder. Cherukhov walked down and followed him. I don't get it, Reinhardt said. You said the principle is no good for space travel. That's right. What's this for then? If the ship explodes as soon as it returns to our universe, this is not a ship, Cherukhov grinned slyly. Icarus is the first practical application of Hedge's principles. Icarus is a bomb. So this is our weapon, Reinhardt said, a bomb, an immense bomb. A bomb moving at a velocity greater than light, a bomb which will not exist in our universe. The centaurians won't be able to detect or stop it. How could they? As soon as it passes the speed of light it will cease to exist beyond all detection. But Icarus will be launched outside the lab on the surface. He will align himself with Proxima Centaurus, gaining speed rapidly. By the time he reaches his destination he will be traveling at FTL-100. Icarus will be brought back to this universe within Centaurus itself. The explosion should destroy the star and wash away most of its planets, including their central hub planet, Arman. There is no way they can halt Icarus once he has been launched. No defense is possible, nothing can stop him. It is a real fact. When will he be ready? Cherukhov's eyes flickered. Soon. Exactly how soon. The big pole hesitated. As a matter of fact there's only one thing holding us back. Cherukhov led Reinhardt around to the other side of the lab. He pushed the lab guard out of the way. See this? He tapped a round globe open at one end the size of a grapefruit. This is holding us up. What is it? The central control turret. This thing brings Icarus back to sub FTL flight at the correct moment. It must be absolutely accurate. Icarus will be within the star only a matter of a microsecond. If the turret does not function exactly Icarus will pass out the other side and shoot beyond the Centauran system. How near completion is this turret? Cherukhov hedged, uncertainly, spreading out his big hands. Who can say? It must be wired with infinitely minute equipment, microscope grapples and wires invisible to the naked eye. Can you name any completion date? Cherukhov reached into his coat and brought out a manila folder. I have drawn up the data for the SRB machines, giving a date of completion. You can go ahead and feed it. I enter ten days as the maximum period. The machines can work from that. Reinhardt accepted the folder cautiously. You're sure about the date? I'm not convinced I can trust you, Cherukhov. Cherukhov's features darkened. You'll have to take a chance, Commissioner. I don't trust you any more than you trust me. I know how much you'd like an excuse to get me out of here in one of your puppets in. Reinhardt studied the huge scientist thoughtfully. Cherukhov was going to be a hard nut to crack. Designs was responsible to security, not the Council. Cherukhov was losing ground, but he was still a potential danger. Stubborn, individualistic, refusing to subordinate his welfare to the general good. All right, Reinhardt put the folder slowly away in his coat. I'll feed it, but you'd better be able to come through. There can't be any slip-ups. Too much hangs on the next few days. If the odds change in our favor, are you going to give the mobilization order? Yes, Reinhardt stated. I'll give the order the moment I see the odds change. Standing in front of the machines, Reinhardt waited nervously for the results. It was two o'clock in the afternoon. The day was warm, a pleasant May afternoon. Outside the building, the daily life of the planet went on as usual. As usual? Not exactly. The feeling was in the air, and expanding excitement growing every day. Terra had waited a long time. The attack on Proxima Centaurus had to come, and the sooner, the better. The ancient Centauran Empire hemmed in Terra, bottled the human race up in its one system, a vast suffocating net draped across the heavens, cutting Terra off from the bright diamonds beyond, and it had to end. The SRB machine's word, the visible combination, disappearing. For a time no ratio showed, Reinhardt tensed his body rigid. He waited. The new ratio appeared. Reinhardt gasped, seven to six, toward Terra. Within five minutes the emergency mobilization alert had been flashed to all government departments. The Council and President Duffy had been called to immediate session. Everything was happening fast. But there was, no doubt, seven to six in Terra's favour. Reinhardt hurried frantically to get his papers and order in time for the Council session. At histo-research the message plate was quickly pulled from the confidential slot and rushed across the central lab to the chief official. Look at this! Friedman dropped the plate on his superior's desk. Look at it! Harper picked up the plate, scanning it rapidly. Sounds like the real thing. I didn't think we'd live to see it. Friedman left the room, hurrying down the hall. He entered the time bubble office. Where's the bubble? He demanded looking around. One of the technicians looked slowly up. Back about two hundred years we're coming up with interesting data on the war of 1914. According to material the bubble has already brought up. Cut it. We're through with routine work. Get the bubble back to the present. And from now on all equipment has to be free for military work. But the bubble is regulated automatically. You can bring it back manually. It's risky. The technician hedged. If the emergency requires that I suppose we could take a chance and cut the automatic. The emergency requires everything, Friedman said feelingly. But the odds might change back. Margaret Duffy, president of the Council, said nervously. Any minute they can revert. This is our chance. Reinhardt snapped his temper rising. What the hell's the matter with you? We waited years for this. The Council buzzed with excitement. Margaret Duffy hesitated uncertainly. Her blue eyes clouded with worry. I realized the opportunity is here, at least statistically, but the new odds have just appeared. How do you know they'll last? They stand on the basis of a single weapon. You're wrong. You don't grasp the situation. That held himself in check with great effort. Cherukov's weapon tipped the ratio in our favor. But the odds have been moving in our direction for months. It's only a question of time. The new balance was inevitable sooner or later. It's not just Cherukov. He's only one factor in this. It's all nine planets of the Sol system, not a single man. Some of the Councilmen stood up. The President must be aware the entire planet is eager to end this waiting. All our activities for the past eighty years have been directed toward—Reinhardt moved close to the slender President of the Council. If you don't approve the war there probably will be mass rioting. Public reaction will be strong, damn strong, and you know it. Margaret Duffy shot him a cold glance. You sent out the emergency order to force my hand. You were fully aware of what you were doing. You knew once the order was out there'd be no stopping things. A murmur rushed through the Council gaining volume. We have to approve the war. We're committed. It's too late to turn back. Shouts, angry voices, insistent waves of sound lapped around, Margaret Duffy. I'm as much for the war as anybody, she said sharply. I'm only urging moderation. An intersystem war is a big thing. We're going to war because a machine says we have a statistical chance of winning. There's no use starting the war unless we can win it, Reinhardt said. The SRB machines tell us whether we can win. They tell us our chance of winning. They don't guarantee anything. What more can we ask beside a good chance of winning? Margaret Duffy clamped her jaw together tightly. All right, I hear all the clamour. I won't stand in the way of Council approval. The vote can go ahead. Her cold, alert eyes appraised Reinhardt, especially since the emergency order has already been sent out to all government departments. Good! Reinhardt stepped away with relief. Then it settled. We can finally go ahead with full mobilisation. Mobilisation proceeded rapidly. The next forty-eight hours were alive with activity. Reinhardt attended a policy-level military briefing in the Council rooms conducted by Fleet Commander Carlton. You can see our strategy, Carlton said. He traced a diagram on the blackboard with the wave of his hand. Cherukov states it'll take eight more days to complete the FTL bomb. During that time the fleet we have near the Centauran system will take up positions. As the bomb goes off the fleet will begin operations against the remaining Centauran ships. Many will no doubt survive the blast, but with Armand gone we should be able to handle them. Reinhardt took Commander Carlton's place. I can report on the economic situation. Every factory on Terra is converted to Arm's production. With Armand out of the way we should be able to promote mass insurrection among the Centauran colonies. An inter-system empire is hard to maintain even with ships that approach light speed. Local warlords should pop up all over the place. We want to have weapons available for them and ships starting now to reach them in time. Eventually we hope to provide a unifying principle around which the colonies can all collect. Our interest is more economic than political. They can have any kind of government they want as long as they act as supply areas for us. As our eight system planets act now. Carlton resumed his report. Once the Centauran fleet has been scattered we can begin the crucial stage of the war. The landing of men and supplies from the ships we have waiting in all key areas throughout the Centauran system. In this stage Reinhardt moved away. It was hard to believe only two days had passed since the mobilization order had been sent out. The whole system was alive functioning with feverish activity. Countless problems were being solved but much remained. He entered the lift and ascended to the SRB room curious to see if there had been any change in the machine's reading. He found it the same, so far so good. Did the Centaurans know about Icarus? No doubt, but there wasn't anything they could do about it, at least not in eight days. Kaplan came over to Reinhardt sorting a new batch of data that had come in. The lab organizer searched through his data. An amusing item came in, it might interest you. He handed a message plate to Reinhardt. It was from Histo Research. May 9, 2136. This is to report that in bringing the research time bubble up to the present the manual return was used for the first time, therefore a clean break was not made and a quantity of material from the past was brought forward. This material included an individual from the early 20th century who escaped from the lab immediately. It has not yet been taken into protective custody. Histo Research regrets this incident but attributes it to the emergency. E. Friedman. Reinhardt handed the plate back to Kaplan. Interesting! A man from the past hauled into the middle of the biggest war the universe has seen. Strange things happen. I wonder what the machines will think. Hard to say. Probably nothing. Reinhardt left the room and hurried along the corridor to his own office. As soon as he was inside he called Sherikov on the vid-screen, using the confidential line. The pole's heavy features appeared. Good day, Commissioner. How's the war effort? Fine. How's the turret wiring proceeding? A faint frown flickered across Sherikov's face. As a matter of fact, Commissioner. What's the matter? Reinhardt said sharply. Sherikov flouted. You know how these things are. I've taken my crew off it and tried robot workers. They have greater dexterity but they can't make decisions. This calls for more than mere dexterity. This calls for—he searched for the word—for an artist. Reinhardt's face heartened. Listen, Sherikov. You have eight days left to complete the bomb. The data given to the SRB machines contained that information. The seven-six ratio is based on that estimate. If you don't come through—Sherikov twisted in embarrassment. Don't get excited, Commissioner. We'll complete it. I hope so. Call me as soon as it's done. Reinhardt snapped off the connection. If Sherikov let them down, he'd have him taken out and shot. The whole war depended on the FTL bomb. The vid-screen glowed again. Reinhardt snapped it on. His face formed on it. The lab's organizer's face was pale and frozen. Commissioner, you'd better come up to the SRB office. Something's happened. What is it? I'll show you. Alarmed, Reinhardt hurried out of his office and down the corridor. He found Kaplan standing in front of the SRB machines. What's the story? Reinhardt demanded. He glanced down at the reading. It was unchanged. Kaplan held up a message plate nervously. A moment ago I fed this into the machines. After I saw the results, I quickly removed it. It's that item I showed you, from histo-research about the man from the past. What happened when you fed it? I swallowed unhappily. I'll show you. I'll do it again, exactly as before. He fed the plate into a moving intake-belt. Watch the visible figures, Kaplan muttered. Reinhardt watched, tense and rigid. For a moment nothing happened. Seven to six continued to show, then the figures disappeared. The machines faltered. New figures showed briefly. Four to twenty-four for Centaurus. Reinhardt gasped. Suddenly sick with apprehension. But the figures vanished. New figures appeared. Sixteen to thirty-eight for Centaurus. Then forty-eight to eighty-six? Seventy-nine to fifteen in Terras' favor. Then nothing. The machine whirred, but nothing happened. Nothing at all. No figures, only a blank. What's it mean, Reinhardt muttered, dazed? It's fantastic. We didn't think this could—what's happened? The machines aren't able to handle the item. No reading can come. It's data they can't integrate. They can't use it for prediction material, and it's thrown off all their other figures. Why? It's—it's a variable. Kaplan was shaken, white-lipped and pale. Something from which no inference can be made. The man from the past—the machines can't deal with him. The variable man. CHAPTER II Thomas Cole was sharpening a knife with his wet stone when the tornado hit. The knife belonged to the lady in the big greenhouse. Every time Cole came by with his fixed cart, the lady had something to be sharpened. Once in a while she gave him a cup of coffee—hot black coffee from an old bent pot. He liked that fine. He enjoyed good coffee. The day was drizzly and overcast. Business had been bad, and automobile had scared his two horses. On bad days less people were outside, and he had to get down from the cart and go to ring doorbells. But the man in the yellow house had given him a dollar for fixing his electric refrigerator. Nobody else had been able to fix it, not even the factory man. The dollar would go a long way. A dollar was a lot. He knew it was a tornado even before it hit him. Everything was silent. He was bent over his wet stone, the reins between his knees, absorbed in his work. He had done a good job on the knife. He was almost finished. He spat on the blade and was holding it up to sea, and then the tornado came. All at once it was there, completely around him, nothing but greyness. He and the cart and horses seemed to be in a calm spot in the center of the tornado. They were moving in a great silence, grey mist everywhere. And while he was wondering what to do and how to get the lady's knife back to her, all at once there was a bump and the tornado tipped him over, sprawled out on the ground. The horses screamed in fear, struggling to pick themselves up. Cole got quickly to his feet. Where was he? The greyness was gone. White walls stuck up on all sides. A deep light gleamed down, not daylight, but something like it. The team was pulling the cart on its side, dragging it along, tools and equipment falling out. Cole, righted the cart, leaping up into the seat. And for the first time saw the people. Men with astonished white faces in some sort of uniforms, shouts, noise and confusion, and a feeling of danger. Cole headed the team toward the door. Hoofs thundered steel against steel as they pounded through the doorway, scattering the astonished men in all directions. He was out in a wide hall, a building like a hospital. The hall divided, more men were coming, spilling from all sides, shouting and milling in excitement like white ants. Something cut past him a beam of dark violet. It seared off a corner of the cart, leaving the wood smoking. Cole felt fear. He kicked at the terrified horses. They reached a big door crashing wildly against it. The door gave, and they were outside, bright sunlight blinking down on them. For a sickening second the cart tilted, almost turning over. Then the horses gained speed, passing across an open field toward a distant line of green Cole holding tightly to the reins. Behind him the little white-faced men had come out and were standing in a group gesturing frantically. He could hear their faint shrill shouts. But he had got away. He was safe. He slowed the horses down and began to breathe again. The woods were artificial, some kind of park. But the park was wild and overgrown, a dense jungle of twisted plants, everything growing in confusion. The park was empty, no one was there. By the possession of the sun he could tell it was either early morning or late afternoon. The smell of the flowers and grass, the dampness of the leaves indicated morning. It had been late afternoon when the tornado had picked him up, and the sky had been overcast and cloudy. Cole considered. Clearly he had been carried a long way. The hospital, the men with white faces, the odd lighting, the accented words he had caught, everything indicated he was no longer in Nebraska, maybe not even in the United States. Some of his tools had fallen out and gotten lost along the way. Cole collected everything that remained, sorting them, running his fingers over each tool with affection. Some of the little chisels and wood gouges were gone. The bit box had opened and most of the smaller bits had been lost. He gathered up those that remained and replaced them tenderly in the box. He took a keyhole saw down and with an oral rag wiped it carefully and replaced it. Above the cart the sun rose slowly in the sky. Cole peered up his horny hand over his eyes. A big man stooped shouldered, his chin gray and stubbled, his clothes wrinkled and dirty, but his eyes were clear, a pale blue, and his hands were finely made. He could not stay in the park. They had seen him ride that way. They would be looking for him. Far above, something shot rapidly across the sky, a tiny black dot moving with incredible haste. A second dot followed. The two dots were gone almost before he saw them. They were utterly silent. Cole frowned, perturbed. The dots made him uneasy. He would have to keep moving and looking for food. His stomach was already beginning to rumble and groan. Work. There was plenty he could do. Gardening, sharpening, grinding, repair work on machines and clocks, fixing all kinds of household things, even painting and eye jobs and carpentry and chores. He could do anything, anything people wanted done, for a meal and pocket money. Thomas Cole urged the team into life moving forward. He sat hunched over in the seat, watching intently as the fixate cart rolled slowly across the tangled grass through the jungle of trees and flowers. Reinhardt hurried, racing his cruiser at top speed, followed by a second ship, a military escort. The ground sped by below him a blur of gray and green. Slag at weeds below him, and then the sudden tangle that had been Central Park. His stow research came into sight. Reinhardt swooped down, bringing his cruiser to rest at the small supply field behind the main buildings. Harper, the chief official of the department, came quickly over as soon as Reinhardt's ship landed. Frankly, we don't understand why you consider this matter important, Harper said uneasily. It shot him a cold glance. I'll be the judge of what's important. Are you the one who gave the order to bring the bubble back manually? Friedman gave the actual order, in line with your directive to have all facilities ready for Reinhardt headed toward the entrance of the research building. Where is Friedman? Inside. I want to see him. Let's go. Friedman met them inside. He greeted Reinhardt calmly, showing no emotion. Sorry to cause you trouble, Commissioner. We were trying to get the station in order for the war. We wanted the bubble back as quickly as possible. He eyed Reinhardt curiously. No doubt the man and his cart will soon be picked up by your police. I want to know everything that happened in exact detail. Friedman shifted uncomfortably. Not much to tell. I gave the order to have the automatic setting cancelled, and the bubble brought back manually. At the moment the signal reached it, the bubble was passing through the spring of 1913. As it broke loose, it tore off a piece of ground on which this person and his cart were located. The person naturally was brought up to the present inside the bubble. Didn't any of your instruments tell you the bubble was loaded? We were too excited to take any readings. Half an hour after the manual control was thrown, the bubble materialized in the observation room. It was de-energized before anyone noticed what was inside. We tried to stop him, but he drove the cart out into the hall, bolding us out of the way. The horses were in a panic. What kind of a cart was it? There was some kind of sign on it, painted in black letters on both sides. No one saw it, it was. Go ahead. What happened then? Someone fired a slim ray after him, but it missed. The horses carried him out of the building and onto the grounds. By the time we reached the exit the cart was halfway to the park. Reinhard reflected, if he's still in the park we should have him shortly, but we must be careful. He was already starting back towards the ship, leaving Friedman behind. Harper fell in beside him. Reinhard halted by his ship. He beckoned some government guards over. Put the executive staff on this department under arrest. I'll have them tried on a treason count later on. He smiled ironically as Harper's face blanched, sickly pale. There's a war going on. You'll be lucky if you get off alive. Reinhard entered his ship and left the surface, rising rapidly into the sky. A second ship followed after him, a military escort. Reinhard flew high above the sea of gray slag, the unrecovered waste area. He passed over a sudden square of green set in the ocean of gray. Reinhard gazed back at it until it was gone. Central park. He could see the police ships racing through the sky, ships and transports loaded with troops, heading toward the square of green. On the ground some heavy guns and surface cars rumbled along, lines of black approaching the park from all sides. They would have the man soon, but meanwhile the SRB machines were blank, and on the SRB machines readings the whole war depended. About noon the court reached the edge of the park. Coal rested for a moment allowing the horse's time to crop at the thick grass. The silent expanse of slag amazed him. What had happened? Nothing stirred, no buildings, no sign of life. Grass and weeds poked up occasionally through it, breaking the flat surface here and there, but even so the sight gave him an uneasy chill. Coal drove the cart slowly out onto the slag, studying the sky above him. There was nothing to hide him now that he was out of the park. The slag was bare and uniform like the ocean, if he were spotted. A horde of tiny black dots raced across the sky, coming rapidly closer. Presently they veered to the right and disappeared. More planes, wingless metal planes. He watched them go, driving slowly on. Half an hour later something appeared ahead. Coal slowed the cart down, peering to sea. The slag came to an end. He had reached its limits. Ground appeared, dark soil and grass. Weeds grew everywhere. Ahead of him, beyond the end of the slag, was a line of buildings, houses of some sort, or sheds, houses probably, but not like any he had ever seen. The houses were uniform, all exactly the same size, like little green shells, rows of them, several hundred. There was a little lawn in front of each. Lawn, a path, a front porch. Bushes and a meagre row around each house. But the houses were all alike and very small. Little green shells and precise even rows. He urged the cart cautiously forward toward the houses. No one seemed to be around. He entered a street between two rows of houses, the hoofs of his two horses sounding loudly in the silence. He was in some kind of town, but there were no dogs or children. Everything was neat and silent, like a model, an exhibit. It made him uncomfortable. A young man walking along the pavement gape at him in wonder, an oddly dressed youth in a toga-like cloak that hung down to his knees, a single piece of fabric, and sandals, or what looked like sandals. Both the cloak and the sandals were of some strange half-luminous material. It glowed faintly in the sunlight, metallic, rather than cloth. A woman was watering flowers at the edge of a lawn. She straightened up as his team of horses came near. Her eyes widened in astonishment and then fear. Her mouth fell open in a soundless O, and her sprinkling can slipped from her fingers and rolled silently onto the lawn. Cole blushed and turned his head quickly away. The woman was scarcely dressed. He flicked the reins and urged the horses to hurry. Behind him the woman stood still. He stole a brief, hasty look back, and then shouted hoarsely to his team, ear scarlet. He had seen right. She were only a pair of translucent shorts, nothing else. A mere fragment of the same half-luminous material that glowed and sparkled. The rest of her small body was utterly naked. He slowed the team down. She had been pretty. Brown hair and eyes, deep red lips, quite a good figure. Slender waist, downy legs, bare and supple, full breasts. He clamped the thought furiously off. He had to get to work, business. Cole halted the fix-it cart and leaped down onto the pavement. He selected a house at random and approached it cautiously. The house was attractive. It had a certain sepal beauty, but it looked frail and exactly like the others. He stepped up to the porch. There was no bell. He searched for it, running his hand uneasily over the surface of the door. All at once there was a click, a sharp snap on a level with his eyes. Cole glanced up, startled. A lens was vanishing as the door section slid over it. He had been photographed. While he was wondering what it meant, the door swung suddenly open. A man filled up the entrance, a big man in a tan uniform, blocking the way ominously. What do you want? The man demanded. I'm looking for work, Cole murmured. Any kind of work. I can do anything, fix any kind of thing. I repair broken objects, things that need mending. His voice trailed off, uncertainly. Anything at all. Applied to the placement department of the Federal Activities Control Board, the man said crisply, you know all occupational therapy is handled through them. He eyed Cole curiously. Why have you got on those ancient clothes? Ancient? Why, I— The man gazed past him at the Fixit Cart and the two dosing horses. What's that? What are those two animals? Horses? The man rubbed his jaw, studying cold intently. That's strange, he said. Strange? Cole murmured uneasily. Why? There haven't been any horses for over a century. All the horses were wiped out during the Fifth Atomic War. That's why it's strange. Cold tensed, suddenly alert. There was something in the man's eyes, a hardness, a piercing look. Cole moved back off the porch on to the path. He had to be careful. Something was wrong. I'll be going, he murmured. There haven't been any horses for over a hundred years. The man came toward Cole. Who are you? Why are you dressed up like that? Where did you get that vehicle and pair of horses? I'll be going, Cole repeated, moving away. The man whipped something from his belt, a thin metal tube. He stuck it toward Cole. It was a rolled-up paper, a thin sheet of metal in the form of a tube, words, some kind of a script. He could not make out any of them. The man's picture rose of numbers, figures. I am Director Winslow, the man said, Federal Stockpile Conservation. You better talk fast or there'll be a security car here in five minutes. Cole moved fast. He raced head down back along the path to the cart toward the street. Something hit him, a wall of force throwing him down on his face. He sprawled in a heap, numb and dazed. His body ached, vibrating wildly out of control. Ways of shock rolled over him, gradually diminishing. He got shakily to his feet. His head spun. He was weak, shattered, trembling violently. The man was coming down the walk after him. Cole pulled himself onto the cart, gasping and retching. The horses jumped into life. Cole rolled over against the seat, sick with the motion of those weighing cart. He caught hold of the reins and managed to drag himself to a sitting position. The cart gained speed, turning a corner. Houses flew past. Cole urged the team weekly, drawing great shuddering breaths. Houses and streets, a blur of motion, as the cart flew faster and faster along. Then he was leaving the town, leaving the neat little houses behind. He was on some kind of highway. Big buildings, factories on both sides of the highway. Figures, men watching in astonishment. After a while the factories fell behind. Cole slowed the team down. What had the man meant? Fifth atomic war? Horses destroyed? It didn't make sense. And they had things he knew nothing about. Force fields, planes without wings, soundless. Cole reached around in his pockets. He found the identification tube the man had handed him. In the excitement he had carried it off. He unrolled the tube slowly and began to study it. The writing was strange to him. For a long time he studied the tube. Then, gradually, he became aware of something in the top right hand corner. A date. October 6, 2128. Cole's vision blurred. Everything spun and wavered around him. October 2128. Could it be? But he held the paper in his hand. Thin metal paper, like foil. And it had to be. It says so right in the corner. Prink it on the paper itself. Cole rolled the tube up slowly, numbed with shock. Two hundred years. It didn't seem possible, but things were beginning to make sense. He was in the future. Two hundred years in the future. While he was mulling this over, the swift black security ship appeared overhead, diving rapidly toward the horse-strawing cart as it moved slowly along the road. Reinhardt's vit screen buzzed. He snapped it quickly on. Yes. Report from security. Put it through. Reinhardt waited tensely as the lines locked in place. The screen re-lit. This is Dixon, western regional command. The officer cleared his throat, shuffling his message plates. The man from the past has been reported moving away from the New York area. Which side of your net? Outside. He evaded the net around Central Park by entering one of the small towns at the rim of the slag area. Evaded? We assumed he would avoid the towns. Naturally the net failed to encompass any of the towns. Reinhardt's jaw stiffened. Go on. He entered the town of Petersville a few minutes before the net closed around the park. We burned the park level but naturally found nothing. He was already gone. An hour later we received a report from a resident in Petersville, an official of the Stockpile Conservation Department. The man from the past had come to his door looking for work. Winslow, the official, engaged him in conversation, trying to hold onto him, but he escaped, driving his cart off. Winslow called security right away, but by then it was too late. Report to me as soon as anything more comes in. We must have him, and damn soon. Reinhardt snapped the screen off. It died quickly. He sat back in his chair, waiting. Cole saw the shadow of the security ship. He reacted at once. A second after the shadow passed over him, Cole was out of the cart running and falling. He rolled, twisting and turning, pulling his body as far away from the cart as possible. There was a blinding roar and flash of white light. A hot wind rolled over Cole, picking him up and tossing him like a leaf. He shut his eyes, letting his body relax. He bounced, falling and striking the ground. Gravel and stones tore into his face, his knees, the palms of his hands. Cole cried out, shrieking in pain. His body was on fire. He was being consumed, incinerated by the blinding white orb of fire. The orb expanded, growing in size, swelling like some monstrous sun, twisted and bloated. The end had come. There was no hope. He gritted his teeth. The greedy orb faded, dying down. It sputtered and winked out, blackening into ash. The air reeked a bitter, acrid smell. His clothes were burning and smoking. The ground under him was hot, baked dry, seared by the blast. But he was alive at least for a while. Cole opened his eyes slowly. The cart was gone. A great hole gaped where it had been. A shattered sore in the center of the highway, an ugly cloud hung above the hole, black and ominous. Far above, the wingless plane circled, watching for any signs of life. Cole lay, breathing shallily, slowly. Time passed. The sun moved across the sky with agonizing slowness. It was perhaps four in the afternoon, Cole calculated mentally. In three hours it would be dark. If he could stay alive until then. Had the plane seen him leap from the cart? He lay without moving. The late afternoon sun beat down on him. He felt sick, nauseated and feverish. His mouth was dry. Some ants ran over his outstretched hand. Gradually the immense black cloud was beginning to drift away, dispersing into a formless blob. The cart was gone. The thought lashed against him, pounding at his brain, mixing with his labored post-beat. Gone, destroyed. Nothing but ashes and debris remained. The realization dazed him. Finally the plane finished its circling, winged its way toward the horizon. At last it vanished. The sky was clear. Cole got unsteadily to his feet. He wiped his face, shakily. His body ached and trembled. He spat a couple of times trying to clear his mouth. The plane would probably send in a report. People would be coming to look for him. Where could he go? To his right a line of hills rose up, a distant green mass. Maybe he could reach them. He began to walk slowly. He had to be very careful. They were looking for him and they had weapons. Incredible weapons. He would be lucky to still be alive when the sun set. His team and fixed cart were gone and all his tools. Cole reached into his pockets searching through them, hopefully. He brought out some small screwdrivers, a little pair of cutting pliers, some wire, some solder, the whetstone, and finally the lady's knife. Only a few small tools remained. He had lost everything else. But without the cart he was safer harder to spot. They would have more trouble finding him on foot. Cole hurried along, crossing the level fields toward the distant range of hills. The call came through to Reinhardt almost at once. Dixon's features formed on the vitz screen. I have a further report, Commissioner. Dixon scanned the plate. Good news! The man from the past was sighted moving away from Petersville along Highway 13 at about ten miles an hour on his heart-drawn cart. Our ship bombed him immediately. Did you get him? The pilot reports no sign of life after the blast. Reinhardt's pulse almost stopped. He sank back in his chair. Then he's dead. Actually, we don't know for certain until we examine the debris. A surface car is speeding toward the spot. We should have the complete report in a short time. We'll notify you as soon as the information comes in. Reinhardt reached out and cut the screen. It faded into darkness. Had they got the man from the past? Or had he escaped again? Weren't they ever going to get him? Couldn't he be captured? And meanwhile the SRB machines were silent, showing nothing at all. Reinhardt sat brooding, waiting impatiently for the report of the surface car to come in. It was evening. Come on! Stephen shouted, running frantically after his brother. Come on back! Catch me! Earl ran and ran down the side of the hill over behind a military storage depot, along a neotex fence, jumping finally down into Mrs. Norris' backyard. Stephen hurried after his brother, sobbing for breath, shouting and gasping as he ran. Come back! You come back with that! What's he got? Sallie Tate demanded, stepping out suddenly to block Stephen's way. Stephen halted, his chest rising and falling. He's got my inner system, vid-sender. His small face twisted with rage and misery. He better give it back. Earl came circling around from the right. In the warm gloom of evening he was almost invisible. Here I am, he announced. What are you going to do? Stephen glared at him hotly. His eyes made out the square-box in Earl's hands. You give that back or I'll tell Dad. Earl laughed. Make me. Dad'll make you. You better give it to him, Sallie said. Catch me. Earl started off. Stephen pushed Sallie out of the way, lashing wildly at his brother. He collided with him, throwing him sprawling. The box fell from Earl's hands. It skidded to the pavement, crashing into the side of a guideline post. Earl and Stephen picked themselves up slowly. They gazed down at the broken box. See? Stephen shrilled, tears filling his eyes. This is to see what you did. You did it. You pushed in to me. You did it. Stephen bent down and picked up the box. He carried it over to the guideline, setting down on the curb to examine it. Earl came slowly over. If you hadn't pushed me it wouldn't have got broken. Night was descending rapidly. The line of hills rising above the town were already lost in darkness. A few lights had come on here and there. The evening was warm. A surface car slammed its door someplace off in the distance. In the sky ships droned back and forth, weary commuters coming home from work in the big underground factory units. Thomas Cole came slowly toward the three children grouped around the guideline. He moved with difficulty. His body soared and bent with fatigue. Night had come, but he was not safe yet. He was tired, exhausted, and hungry. He had walked a long way and he had to have something to eat soon. A few feet from the children Cole stopped. They were all intent and absorbed by the box on Stephen's knees. Suddenly a hush fell over the children. Earl looked up slowly. In the dim light the big, stooped figure of Thomas Cole seemed extra menacing. His long arms hung down loosely at his sides. His face was lost in shadow. His body was shapeless, indistinct. A big, unformed statue standing silently a few feet away, unmoving in the half-darkness. Who were you? Earl demanded, his voice low. What do you want? Sally said. The children edged away nervously. Get away. Cole came toward them. He bent down a little. The beam from the guideline crossed his features. Lean, prominent nose, beak-like, faded blue eyes. Stephen scrambled to his feet, clutching the vid-sender box. You get out of here. Wait. Cole smiled crookedly at them. His voice was dry and raspy. What do you have there? He pointed with his long, slender fingers. The box you're holding. The children were silent. Finally Stephen stirred. It's my intersystem vid-sender. Only it doesn't work, Sally said. Earl broke it. Stephen glared at his brother bitterly. Earl threw it down and broke it. Cole smiled a little. He sank down wirrily on the edge of the curb, sighing with relief. He had been walking too long. His body ached with fatigue. He was hungry and tired. For a long time he sat wiping perspiration from his neck and face, too exhausted to speak. Who are you? Sally demanded at last. Why do you have on those funny clothes? Where did you come from? Where? Cole looked around at the children. From a long way off. A long way. He shook his head slowly from side to side, trying to clear it. What's your therapy? Earl asked. My therapy? What do you do? Where do you work? Cole took a deep breath and let it out again, slowly. I fix things. All kinds of things. Any kind. Earl sneered. Nobody fixes things when they break you throw them away. Cole didn't hear him. Sudden need had roused him, getting him suddenly to his feet. You know any work I can find? He demanded. Things I could do? I can fix anything. Clocks, typewriters, refrigerators, pots and pans, leaks in the roof. I can fix anything there is. Stephen held out his intersystem vid-center. Fix this. There was silence. Slowly Cole's eyes focused on the box. That? My sender. Earl broke it. Cole took the box slowly. He turned it over, holding it up to the light. He frowned, concentrating on it. His long, slender fingers moved carefully over the surface, exploring it. He'll steal it, Earl said suddenly. No. Cole shook his head vaguely. I'm reliable. His sensitive fingers found the studs that held the box together. He depressed the studs, pushing them expertly in. The box opened, revealing its complex interior. He got it open, Sally whispered. Give it back, Stephen demanded, a little frightened. He held out his hand. I want it back. The three children watched Cole apprehensively. Cole fumbled in his pocket. Slowly he brought out his tiny screwdriver and pliers. He laid them in a row beside him. He made no move to return the box. I want it back, Stephen said, feebly. Cole looked up. His faded blue eyes took in the sight of the three children standing before him in the gloom. I'll fix it for you. You said you wanted it fixed? I want it back, Stephen stood on one foot, then the other, torn by doubt and indecision. Can you really fix it? Can you make it work again? Yes. All right, fix it for me, then. A sly smile flickered across Cole's tired face. Now, wait a minute. If I fix this, will you bring me something to eat? I'm not fixing it for nothing. Something to eat? Food. I need hot food. Maybe some coffee. Stephen nodded. Yes, I'll get it for you. Cole relaxed. Fine. That's fine. He turned his attention back to the box resting between his knees. Then I'll fix it for you. I'll fix it for you good. His fingers flew, working and twisting, tracing down wires and relays, exploring and examining. Finding out about the intersystem bit screen, discovering how it worked. Stephen slipped into the house through the emergency door. He made his way to the kitchen with great care, walking on tiptoe. He punched the kitchen controls at random, his heart beating excitedly. The stove began to whirr, purring into life. Meter readings came on, crossing toward the completion marks. Presently the stove opened, sliding out a tray of steaming dishes. The mechanism clicked off, dying into silence. Stephen grabbed up the contents of the tray, filling his arms. He carried everything down the hall, out the emergency door and into the yard. The yard was dark. Stephen felt his way carefully along. He managed to reach the guideline without dropping anything at all. Thomas Cole got slowly to his feet as Stephen came into view. Here, Stephen said. He dumped the food onto the curb, gasping for breath. Here's the food. Is it finished? Cole held out the intersystem bit center. It's finished. It was pretty badly smashed. Earl and Sally gazed up wide-eyed. Does it work? Sally asked. Of course not! Earl stated. How could it work? He couldn't. Turn it on. Sally nudged Stephen eagerly. See if it works. Stephen was holding the box under the light, examining the switches. He clicked the main switch on. The indicator light gleamed. It lights up, Stephen said. Say something into it. Stephen spoke into the box. Hello? Hello? This is Operator 6 Z-75 calling. Can you hear me? This is Operator 6 Z-75. Can you hear me? In the darkness, away from the beam of the guideline, Thomas Cole sat crouched over the food. He ate gratefully, silently. It was good food, well-cooked, and seasoned. He drank a container of orange juice, and then a sweet drink he didn't recognize. Most of the food was strange to him, but he didn't care. He had walked a long way, and he was plenty hungry. And he still had a long way to go before morning. He had to be deep in the hills before the sun came up. Instinct told him that he would be safe among the trees and tangle growth, at least as safe as he could hope for. He ate rapidly and tinted on the food. He did not look up until he was finished. Then he got slowly to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The three children were standing around in a circle, operating the intersystem vid-center. He watched them for a few minutes. None of them looked up from the small box. They were intent, absorbed in what they were doing. Well, Cole said at last. Has it worked all right? After a moment, Stephen looked up at him. There was a strange expression on his face. He nodded slowly. Yes, yes, it works. It works fine. Cole grunted. All right. He turned and moved away from the light. That's fine. The children watched silently until the figure of Thomas Cole had completely disappeared. Slowly they turned and looked at each other. Then down at the box in Stephen's hands. They gazed at the box in growing awe, awe mixed with dawning fear. Stephen turned and edged toward his house. I've got to show it to my dad. He murmured dazed. He's got to know. Somebody's got to know. End of part two. Part three of The Variable Man by Philip K. Dick. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part three. Eric Reinhart examined the vid-center box carefully. Turning it around and around. Then he did escape from the blast. Dickson admitted reluctantly. He must have leapt from the cart just before the concussion. Reinhart nodded. He escaped. He got away from you, twice. He pushed the vid-center box away and leaned abruptly toward the man, standing uneasily in front of his desk. What's your name again? Elliot. Richard Elliot. And your son's name? Stephen. It was last night this happened. About eight o'clock. Go on. Stephen came into the house. He acted clearly. He was carrying his intersystem vid-center. Elliot pointed at the box on Reinhart's desk. That he was nervous and excited. I asked what was wrong. For a while he couldn't tell me. He was quite upset. Then he showed me the vid-center. Elliot took a deep, shaky breath. I could see right away it was different. You see, I'm an electrical engineer. I had opened it once before to put in a new battery. I had a fairly good idea how it should look. Elliot hesitated. Commissioner, it has been changed. A lot of the wiring was different. Moved around. Relays connected differently. Some parts were missing. New parts had been jury-rigged out of old. Then I discovered the thing that made me call security. The vid-center, it really worked. Worked? You see, it was never anything more than a toy. With a range of a few city blocks. So the kids could call back and forth from their rooms. Like a sort of portable vid-screen. Commissioner, I tried out the vid-center. Pushing the call button and speaking into the microphone. I got a ship of the line. A battleship operating beyond Proxima Centaurus over eight light years away. As far out as the actual vid-senders operate. Then I called security. Right away. For a time, Reinhardt was silent. Finally he tapped the box lying on the desk. You got a ship of the line with this? That's right. How big are the regular vid-senders? Dixon supplied the information. As big as a 20 ton safe. That's what I thought. Reinhardt waved his hand impatiently. All right, Elliot. Thanks for turning the information over to us. That's all. Security police led Elliot outside the office. Reinhardt and Dixon looked at each other. This is bad, Reinhardt said harshly. He has some ability, some kind of mechanical ability. Genius, perhaps, to do a thing like this. Look at the period he came from, Dixon. The early part of the 20th century before the wars began. That was a unique period. There was a certain vitality, a certain ability. It was a period of incredible growth and discovery. Edison, Pasteur, Burbank, the Wright Brothers, inventions and machines. People had an uncanny ability with machines. A kind of intuition about machines which we don't have. You mean, I mean, a person like this coming into our own time is bad in itself, war or no war. He's too different. He's oriented along different lines. He has abilities we lack. This fixing skill of his, it throws us off out of kilter. And with the war, now I'm beginning to understand why the SRB machines couldn't factor him. It's impossible for us to understand this kind of person. Winslow says he asks for work, any kind of work. The man said he could do anything, fix anything. Do you understand what that means? No, Dixon said, what does it mean? Can any of us fix anything? No, none of us can do that. We're specialized. Each of us has his own line, his own work. I understand my work, you understand yours. The tendency and evolution is toward greater and greater specialization. Man's society is an ecology that forces adaptation to it. Continual complexity makes it impossible for any of us to know anything outside our own personal field. I can't follow the work of the man sitting at the next desk over from me. Too much knowledge has piled up in each field, and there's too many fields. This man is different. He can fix anything, do anything. He doesn't work with knowledge, with science, the classified accumulation of facts. He knows nothing, it's not in his head a form of learning. He works by intuition. His power is in his hands, not his head. Jack of all trades. His hands, like a painter and artist, in his hands. And he cuts across our lives like a knife blade. And the other problem? The other problem is that this man, this variable man, has escaped into the Albertine mountain range. Now we'll have one hell of a time finding him. He's clever in a strange sort of way, like some sort of animal. He's going to be hard to catch. Reinhardt sent Dixon out. After a moment he gathered up the handful of reports on his desk and carried them up to the SRB room. The SRB room was closed up, sealed off by a ring of armed security police. Standing angrily before the ring of police was Peter Shirokoff, his beard wagging angrily, his immense hands on his hips. What's going on? Shirokoff demanded. Why can't I go in and peep at the odds? Sorry, Reinhardt cleared the police aside. Come inside with me, I'll explain. The doors opened for them and they entered. Behind them the doors shut and the ring of police formed outside. What brings you away from your lab? Reinhardt asked. Shirokoff shrugged. Several things I wanted to see you. I called you on the VIT phone and they said you weren't available. I thought maybe something had happened. What's up? I'll tell you in a few minutes. Reinhardt called Kaplan over. Here are some new items. Feed them in right away. I want to see if the machines can total them. Certainly, Commissioner. Kaplan took the message plates and placed them on an intake belt. The machines hummed into life. We'll know soon, Reinhardt said, half-allowed. Shirokoff shot him a keen glance. We'll know what. Let me in on it. What's taking place? We're in trouble. For twenty-four hours the machines haven't given any reading at all. Nothing but a blank, a total blank. Shirokoff's features registered disbelief. But that isn't possible. Some odds exist at all times. The odds exist, but the machines aren't able to calculate them. Why not? Because a variable factor has been introduced. A factor which the machines can't handle. They can't make any predictions from it. Can't they reject it? Shirokoff said slightly. Can't they just... just ignore it? No. It exists as real data. Therefore it affects the balance of the material, the sum total of all other available data. To reject it would be to give a false reading. The machine can't reject any data that's known to be true. Shirokoff pulled Moodley at his black beard. I would be interested in knowing what sort of factor the machines can't handle. I thought they could take in all data pertaining to contemporary reality. They can. This factor has nothing to do with contemporary reality. That's the trouble. His stow research in bringing its time bubble back from the past got overzealous and cut the circuit too quickly. The bubble came back loaded with a man from the 20th century. A man from the past. I see. A man from two centuries ago. The big pole frowned. And with a radically different Wilton's shong. No connection with our present society. Not integrated along our lines at all. Therefore the SRB machines are perplexed. Reinhardt grinned. Perplexed? I suppose so. In any case they can't do anything with the data about this man. The variable man. No statistics at all have been thrown up. No predictions have been made. And it knocks everything else out of phase. We're dependent on the constant showing of these odds. The whole war effort is geared around them. The horse-shoe nail. Remember the old poem? For want of a nail the shoe was lost. For want of the shoe the horse was lost. For want of the horse the rider was lost. For want exactly a single factor coming along like this. One single individual can throw everything off. It doesn't seem possible that one person could knock an entire society out of balance. But apparently it is. What are you doing about this man? The security police are organized in a mass search for him. Results? He escaped into the Albertine mountain range last night. It'll be hard to find him. We must expect him to be loose for another forty-eight hours. It'll take that long for us to arrange the annihilation of the range area. Perhaps a trifle longer. And meanwhile. Ready, Commissioner? Kaplan interrupted. The new totals? The SRB machines had finished factoring the new data. Reinhardt and Cherakov hurried to take their places before the view windows. For a moment nothing happened. The odds were put up, locking in place. Cherakov gasped. Ninety-nine to two in favor of terror? That's wonderful! Now we— The odds vanished. New odds took their places. Ninety-seven to four in favor of Centaurus. Cherakov groaned in astonishment. Wait! Reinhardt said to him. I don't think they'll last. The odds vanished. A rapid series of odds shot across the screen. A violent stream of numbers changing almost instantly. At last the machines became silent. Nothing showed. No odds. No totals at all. The view windows were blank. You see, Reinhardt murmured, the same damn thing. Cherakov pondered. Reinhardt, you're too Anglo-Saxon, too impulsive. Be more Slavic. This man will be captured and destroyed within two days. You said so yourself. Meanwhile, we're all working night and day on the war effort. The war fleet is waiting near Proxima, taking up positions for the attack on the Centaurians. All our war plants are going full blast. By the time the attack date comes, we'll have a full-sized invasion army ready to take off for the long trip to the Centaurian colonies. The whole Terran population has been mobilized. The eight supply planets are pouring in material. All this is going on day and night, even without odds showing. Long before the attack comes, this man will certainly be dead, and the machines will be able to show odds again. Reinhardt considered. But it worries me a man like that out in the open. Loose. A man who can't be predicted. It goes against science. We've been making statistical reports on society for two centuries. We have immense files of data. The machines are able to predict what each person and group will do at a given time in a given situation, but this man is beyond all prediction. He's a variable. It's contrary to science. The indeterminate particle. What's that? The particle that moves in such a way that we can't predict what position it will occupy at a given second. Random. The random particle. Exactly. It's unnatural. Cherikov laughed sarcastically. Don't worry about it, Commissioner. The man will be captured and things will return to their natural state. You'll be able to predict people again like laboratory rats in a maze. By the way, why is this room guarded? I don't want anyone to know the machines show no totals. It's dangerous to the war effort. Margaret Duffy, for example? Reinhardt nodded reluctantly. They're too timid, these parliamentarians. If they discover we have no SRB odds, they'll want to shut down the war planning and go back to waiting. Too slow for you, Commissioner? Laws? Debates? Council meetings? Discussions? Saves a lot of time if one man has all the power. One man to tell the people what to do. Think for them. Lead them around. Reinhardt eyed the big poll critically. That reminds me. How is Icarus coming? Have you continued to make progress on the control turret? A scowl crossed Serikov's broad features. The control turret? He waved his big hand vaguely. I would say it's coming along all right. We'll catch up in time. Instantly Reinhardt became alert. Catch up? You mean you're still behind? Somewhat. A little. But we'll catch up. Sherikov retreated toward the door. Let's go down to the cafeteria and have a cup of coffee. You worry too much, Commissioner? Take things more in your stride. I suppose you're right. The two men walked out into the hall. I'm on edge. This variable man. I can't get him out of my mind. Has he done anything yet? Nothing important. Rewired a child's toy, a toy with sender. Oh? Sherikov showed interest. What do you mean? What did he do? I'll show you. Reinhardt led Sherikov down the hall to his office. They entered and Reinhardt locked the door. He handed Sherikov the toy and roughed in what Cole had done. A strange look crossed Sherikov's face. He found the studs on the box and depressed them. The box opened. The big pole sat down at the desk and began to study the interior of the box. You're sure it was the man from the past who rewired this? Of course. On the spot the boy damaged it playing. The variable man came along and the boy asked him to fix it. He fixed it all right. Incredible. Sherikov's eyes were only an inch from the wiring. Such tiny relays. How could he...? What? Nothing. Sherikov got abruptly to his feet, closing the box carefully. Can I take this along to my lab? I'd like to analyze it more fully. Of course. But why? No special reason. Let's go get our coffee. Sherikov headed toward the door. You say you expect to capture this man in a day or so? Kill him. Not capture him. We've got to eliminate him as a piece of data. We're assembling the attack formations right now. No slip-ups this time. We're in the process of setting up a cross-bombing pattern to level the entire Albertine range. He must be destroyed within the next forty-eight hours. Sherikov nodded absently. Of course. He murmured. A preoccupied expression still remained on his broad features. I understand perfectly. Thomas Cole crouched over the fire he had built, warming his hands. It was almost morning. The sky was turning violet-gray. The mountaineer was crisp and chill. Cole shivered and pulled himself closer to the fire. The heat felt good against his hands. His hands. He gazed down at them, glowing yellow-red in the firelight. The nails were black and chipped, warts and endless calluses on each finger and the palms. But they were good hands. The fingers were long and tapered. He respected them, although in some ways he didn't understand them. Cole was deep in thought, meditating over his situation. He had been in the mountains two nights in a day. The first night had been the worst. Stumbling and falling, making his way uncertainly up the steep slopes, through the tangled brush and undergrowth. But when the sun came up he was safe, deep in the mountains, between two great peaks. And by the time the sun had set again, he had fixed himself up a shelter and a means of making a fire. Now he had a neat little box-trap operated by a planted grass-rope, a pit, a notch-stake. One rabbit already hung by his hind legs and the trap was waiting for another. The sky turned from violet-gray to a deep cold-gray, a metallic color. The mountains were silent and empty. Far off someplace a bird sang, its voice echoing across the vast slopes and ravines. Other birds began to sing. Off to his right something crashed through the brush, an animal pushing its way along. Day was coming, his second day. Cole got to his feet and began to unfasten the rabbit. Time to eat. And then, after that he had no plans. He knew instinctively that he could keep himself alive indefinitely with the tools he had retained and the genius of his hands. He could kill game and skin it. Eventually he could build himself a permanent shelter, even make clothes out of the hides. In winter, but he was not thinking that far ahead. Cole stood by the fire, staring up at the sky, his hands on his hips. He squinted, suddenly tense. Something was moving, something in the sky drifting slowly through the greyness. A black dot. He stamped out the fire quickly. What was it? He strained trying to see. A bird? A second dot joined the first. Two dots. Then three, four, five, a fleet of them moving rapidly across the early morning sky, toward the mountains, toward him. Cole hurried away from the fire. He snatched up the rabbit and carried it along with him into the tangled shelter he had built. He was invisible inside the shelter. No one could find him. But if they had seen the fire, he crouched in the shelter, watching the dots grow larger. They were planes, all right. Black, wingless planes coming closer each moment. Now he could hear them, a faint dull buzz increasing until the ground shook under him. The first plane dived. It dropped like a stone, swelling into a great black shape. Cole gasped, sinking down. The plane roared in an arc, swipping low over the ground. Suddenly bundles tumbled out. White bundles falling and scattering like seeds. The bundles drifted rapidly to the ground. They landed. They were men, men in uniform. Now the second plane was diving. It roared overhead, releasing its load. More bundles tumbled out, filling the sky. The third plane dived. Then the fourth, the air was thick with drifting bundles of white, a blanket of descending weed spores settling to earth. On the ground the soldiers were forming into groups. Their shouts carried to Cole, crouched in his shelter. Fear leaped through him. They were landing on all sides of him. He was cut off. The last two planes had dropped men behind him. He got to his feet, pushing out of the shelter. Some of the soldiers had found the fire, the ashes, and Cole's. One dropped down, filling the Cole's with his hand. He waved to the others. They were circling all around, shouting and gesturing. One of them began to set up some kind of a gun. Others were unrolling coils of tubing, locking a collection of strange pipes and machinery in place. Cole ran. He rolled down a slope, sliding and falling. At the bottom he leaped to his feet and plunged into the brush. Vines and leaves toured his face, slashing and cutting him. He fell again, tangled in a mass of twisted shrubbery. He fought desperately, trying to free himself. If he could reach the knife in his pocket. Voices, footsteps. Men were behind him, running down the slope. Cole struggled frantically, gasping and twisting, trying to pull loose. He strained, breaking the vines, clawing at them with his hands. A soldier dropped to his knee, leveling his gun. More soldiers arrived, bringing up their rifles and aiming. Cole cried out. He closed his eyes. His body suddenly limp. He waited. His teeth locked together, sweat dripping down his neck, into his shirt, sagging against the mesh of vines and branches curled around him. Silence. Cole opened his eyes, slowly. The soldiers had regrouped. A huge man was striding down the slope toward them, barking orders as he came. Two soldiers stepped into the brush. One of them grabbed Cole by the shoulder. Don't let go of him. The huge man came over, his black beard jutting out. Hold on. Cole gasped for breath. He was caught. There was nothing he could do. More soldiers were pouring down into the gully, surrounding him on all sides. They studied him curiously, murmuring together. Cole shook his head, wearily, and said nothing. The huge man with the beards stood directly in front of him, his hands on his hips, looking him up and down. Don't try to get away, the man said. You can't get away. Do you understand? Cole nodded. All right, good. The man waved. Soldiers clamped metal bands around Cole's arms and wrists. The metal dug into his flesh, making him gasp with pain. More clamps locked around his legs. Those stay there until we're out of here, a long way out. Where—where are you taking me? Peter Cherikov studied the variable man for a moment before he answered, Where? I'm taking you to my labs, under the Urals. He glanced suddenly at the sky. We'd better hurry. The security police will be starting their demolition attack in a few hours. We want to be a long way from here when that begins. Cherikov settled down in his comfortable reinforced chair with a sigh. It's good to be back. He signaled to one of his guards. All right, you can unfasten him. The metal clamps were removed from Cole's arms and legs. He sagged, sinking down in a heap. Cherikov watched him silently. Cole sat on the floor, rubbing his wrists and legs, saying nothing. What do you want, Cherikov demanded? Food? Are you hungry? No. Medicine? Are you sick? Injured? No. Cherikov wrinkled his nose. Hey, Beth wouldn't hurt you any. We'll arrange that later. He lit a cigar, blowing a cloud of gray smoke around him. At the door of the room, two lab guards stood with guns ready. No one else was in the room besides Cherikov and Cole. Thomas Cole sat huddled in a heap on the floor. His head sunk down against his chest. He did not stir. His bent body seemed more elongated and stooped than ever. His hair tousled and unkempt. His chin and jowls are rough, stubbled gray. His clothes were dirty and torn from crashing through the brush. His skin was cut and scratched. Open sores dodged his neck and cheeks and forehead. He said nothing. His chest rose and fell. His faded blue eyes were almost closed. He looked quite old, a withered, dried-up old man. Cherikov waved one of the guards over. Have a doctor brought up here. I want this man checked over. He may need intravenous injections. He may not have had anything to eat for a while. The guard departed. I don't want anything to happen to you, Cherikov said. Before we go on, I'll have you checked over and delouched at the same time. Cole said nothing. Cherikov laughed. Buck up! You have no reason to feel bad. He leaned toward Cole, jabbing any mitts finger at him. Another two hours and you'd have been dead out there in the mountains. You know that? Cole nodded. You don't believe me? Look. Cherikov leaned over and snapped on the vid screen, mounted in the wall. Watch this. The operation should still be going on. The screen lit up. A scene gained form. This is the Confidential Security Channel. I had it tapped several years ago for my own protection. What we're seeing now is being piped in to Eric Reinhardt. Cherikov grinned. Reinhardt arranged what you're seeing on the screen. Pay close attention. You were there two hours ago. Cole turned toward the screen. At first he could not make out what was happening. The screen showed a vast foaming cloud, a vortex of motion. From the speaker came a low rumble, a deep-throated roar. After a time the screen shifted, showing a slightly different view. Suddenly Cole stiffened. He was seeing the destruction of a whole mountain range. The picture was coming from a ship flying above what had once been the Albertine Mountain Range. Now there was nothing but swirling clouds of gray and columns of particles and debris, a searching tide of restless material gradually sweeping off and dissipating in all directions. The Albertine Mountains had been disintegrated. Nothing remained but these vast clouds of debris. Below, on the ground, a ragged plain stretched out, swept by fire and ruin. Gaping wounds yawned. He met holes without bottom, craters side by side as far as the eye could see, craters and debris, like the blasted, pitted surface of the moon. Two hours ago it had been rolling peaks and gullies, brush and green bushes and trees. Cole turned away. You see, Cherikov snapped the screen off. You were down there not so long ago. All that noise and smoke, all for you, all for you, Mr. Variable Man from the past. Reinhardt arranged that to finish you off. I want you to understand that. It's very important that you realize that. Cole said nothing. Cherikov reached into a drawer of the table before him. He carefully brought out a small square box and held it out to Cole. You wired this, didn't you? Cole took the box in his hands and held it. For a time his tired mind failed to focus. What did he have? He concentrated on it. The box was the children's toy, the interest system vidsender they had called it. Yes, I fixed this. He passed it back to Cherikov. I repaired that. It was broken. Cherikov gazed down at him intently, his large eyes bright. He nodded, his black beard and cigar rising and falling. Good. That's all I wanted to know. He got suddenly to his feet, pushing his chair back. I see the doctors here. He'll fix you up. Everything you need. Later on I'll talk to you again. On protesting Cole got to his feet, allowing the doctors to take hold of his arm and help him up. After Cole had been released by the medical department, Cherikov joined him in his private dining room, a floor above the actual laboratory. The Pole gulped down a hasty meal, talking as he ate. Cole sat silently across from him, not eating or speaking. His old clothes had been taken away and new clothing given him. He was shaved and rubbed down. His sores and cuts were healed, his body and hair washed. He looked much healthier and younger now. But he was still stooped and tired. His blue eyes worn and faded. He listened to Cherikov's account of the world of 2136 AD without comment. You can see, Cherikov said finally, waving a chicken leg, that your appearance here has been very upsetting to our program. Now that you know more about us, you can see why Commissioner Reinhardt was so interested in destroying you. Cole nodded. Reinhardt, you realize, believes that the failure of the SRB machines is the chief danger to the war effort. But that is nothing. Cherikov pushed his plate away noisily, draining his coffee mug. After all, wars can be fought without statistical forecasts. The SRB machines only describe their nothing more than mechanical onlookers. In themselves, they don't affect the course of the war. We make the war. They only analyze. Cole nodded. More coffee? Cherikov asked. He pushed the plastic container toward Cole. Have some? Cole accepted another cupful. Thank you. You can see that our real problem is another thing entirely. The machines only do figuring for us at a few minutes that eventually we could do for our own selves. There are servants, tools, not some sort of gods in a temple which we go and pray to, not oracles who can see into the future for us. They don't see into the future. They only make statistical predictions, not prophecies. There's a big difference there, but Reinhardt doesn't understand it. Reinhardt and his kind have made such things as the SRB machines into gods. But I have no gods, at least not any that I can see. Cole nodded, sipping his coffee. I'm telling you all these things because you must understand what we're up against. Terra is hemmed in on all sides by the ancient Centauran Empire. It's been out there for centuries, thousands of years. No one knows how long. It's old, crumbling and rotting, corrupt and venal. But it holds most of the galaxy around us and we can't break out of the Sol system. I told you about Icarus and Hedge's work in FTL flight. We must win the war against Centaurus. We've waited and worked a long time for this. The moment when we can break out and get room among the stars for ourselves. Icarus is the deciding weapon. The data on Icarus tipped the SRB odds in our favor for the first time in history. Success in the war against Centaurus will depend on Icarus, not on the SRB machines. You see? Cole nodded. However, there is a problem. The data on Icarus, which I turned over to the machines, specified that Icarus could be completed in ten days. More than half that time has already passed. Yet we are no closer to wiring up the control turrent than we were then. The turret baffles us. Sherikov grinned ironically. Even I have tried my hand at the wiring, but with no success. It's intricate and small. Too many technical bugs not worked out. We are building only one, you understand. If we had many experimental models worked out before, but this is the experimental model, Cole said. And built from the designs of a man dead for years. Who isn't here to correct us? We've made Icarus with our own hands, down here in the labs, and he is giving us plenty of trouble. All at once, Sherikov got to his feet. Let's go down to the lab and look at him. They descended to the floor below, Sherikov leading the way. Cole stopped short at the lab door. Quite a sight, Sherikov agreed. We keep him down here at the bottom for safety's sake. He's well protected. Come on in, we have work to do. In the center of the lab, Icarus rose up. The gray-squat cylinder that someday would flash through space at a speed of thousands of times of that of light toward the heart of Proxima Centaurus, over four light years away. Around the cylinder groups of men in uniform were laboring feverishly to finish the remaining work. Over here, the turret. Sherikov led Cole over to one side of the room. It's guarded. Centaurus spies are swarming everywhere on terror. They see into everything, but so do we. That's how we get information for the SRB machines, spies in both systems. The translucent globe that was the control turret reposed in the center of a metal stand, an armed guard standing at each side. They lower their guns as Sherikov approached. We don't want anything to happen to this, Sherikov said. Everything depends on it. He put out his hand for the globe. Halfway to it, his hand stopped, striking against an invisible presence in the air. Sherikov left. The wall, shut it off, is still on. One of the guards pressed a stud at his wrist. Around the globe the air shimmered and faded. Now, Sherikov's hand closed over the globe. He lifted it carefully from his mount and brought it out for Cole to see. This is the control turret for our enormous friend here. This is what will slow him down when he's inside Centaurus. He slows down and re-enters this universe right in the heart of the star. Then no more Centaurus. Sherikov beamed, and no more Arman. But Cole was not listening. He had taken the globe from Sherikov and was turning it over and over, running his hands over it, his face close to its surface. He peered down into its interior, his face wrap and intent. You can't see the wiring, not without lenses. Sherikov signaled for a pair of micro lenses to be brought. He fitted them on Cole's nose, hooking them behind his ears. Now try it. You can control the magnification. It's set for one thousand times right now. You can increase or decrease it. Cole gasped, swaying back and forth. Sherikov caught hold of him. Cole gazed down into the globe, moving his head slightly, focusing the glasses. It takes practice, but you can do a lot with them. Permit you to do microscopic wiring. There are tools to go along, you understand? Sherikov paused, licking his lip. We can't get it done correctly. Only a few men can wire circuits using the micro lenses and the little tools. We've tried robots, but there are too many decisions to be made. Robots can't make decisions, they just react. Cole said nothing. He continued to gaze into the interior of the globe. His lips tight, his body taut and rigid. It made Sherikov feel strangely uneasy. You look like one of those old fortune-tellers, Sherikov said jokingly, but a cold shiver crawled up his spine. Better hand it back to me. He held out his hand. Slowly Cole returned the globe. After a time he removed the micro lenses, still deep in thought. Well, Sherikov demanded, you know what I want. I want you to wire this damn thing up. Sherikov came close to Cole, his big face hard. You can do it, I think. I could tell by the way you held it, and the job you did on the children's toy, of course. You could wire it up right and in five days. Nobody else can. And if it's not wired up, Centaurus will keep on running the galaxy, and Terra will have to sweat it out here in the Sol system. One tiny mediocre sun, one dust moat out of a whole galaxy. Cole did not answer. Sherikov became impatient. Well, what do you say? What happens if I don't wire this control for you? I mean, what happens to me? Then I turn you over to Reinhardt. Reinhardt will kill you instantly. He thinks your dad killed when the Albertan range was annihilated. If he had any idea I had saved you, I see. I brought you down here for one thing. If you wire it up, I'll have you sent back to your own time continuum. If you don't, Cole considered his face dark and brooding. What do you have to lose? You'd already be dead if we hadn't pulled you out of those hills. Can you really return me to my own time? Of course. Reinhardt won't interfere? Sherikov laughed. What can he do? How can he stop me? I have my own men. You saw them. They landed all around you. You'll be returned. Yes, I saw your men. Then you agree? I agree, Thomas Cole said. I'll wire it for you. I'll complete the control turret within the next five days. End part three.