 Navy Day by Harry Harrison. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dale Grossman. The Army had a new theme song. Anything you can do, we can do better. And they meant anything, including up-to-date hornpipes. Navy Day by Harry Harrison. General Wingrove looked at the rows of faces without seeing them. His vision went beyond the Congress of the United States, past the Bommie June Day to another day that was coming, a day when the Army would have its destined place of authority. He drew a deep breath and delivered what was perhaps the shortest speech ever heard in the hallowed halls of Congress. The general staff of the U.S. Army requests Congress to abolish the archaic branch of the armed forces known as the U.S. Navy. The aging senator from Georgia checked his hearing aid to see if it was in operating order, while the press box emptied itself in one concerted rush and a clatter of running feet that died off in the direction of the telephone room. A buzz of excited comment ran through the giant chamber. One by one the heads turned to face the naval section, where rows of blue figures stirred and buzzed like smoked-out bees. The knot of men around a punchy figure heavy with gold braid broke up and Admiral Fitzjames climbed slowly to his feet. Lesser men have quailed before that piercing stare, but General Wingrove was never the lesser man. The Admiral tossed his head with disgust. Every line of his body denoted outraged dignity. He turned to his audience, a small pulse beating in his forehead. I cannot comprehend the general's attitude, nor can I understand why he has attacked the Navy in this unwarranted fashion. The Navy has existed and will always exist as the first barrier of American defense. I ask you gentlemen to ignore this request as you would ignore the statements of any person slightly demented. I should like to offer a recommendation that the general sanity be investigated and an inquiry be made as to the mental health of anyone else committed with this preposterous proposal. The General smiled calmly. I understand Admiral, and really don't blame you for being slightly annoyed. But please let us not bring this issue of national importance down to a shallow personal level. The Army has facts to back up this request. Facts that shall be demonstrated tomorrow morning. In the morning his back on the raging Admiral General Wingrove included all the assembled salons in one sweeping gesture. Reserve your judgment until that time, gentlemen. Make no hasty judgments until you have seen the force of the argument with which we back up our request. It is the end of an era. In the morning the Navy joins its fellow fossils, Dodo and the Brotosaurus. The Admiral's blood pressure mounted to a new record and the gentle thud of his unconscious body striking the floor was the only sound to break the shocked silence in the giant hall. The early morning sun warmed the white marble of the Jefferson Memorial and glinted from the soldier's helmets and the roofs of the parked cars that crowded forward in a slow moving stream. All the gentlemen of Congress were there. The passage of their cars cleared by the streaming sirens of motorcycle policemen. A round and under the wheels of the official cars pressed a solid wave of government workers and common citizens of the capital city. The trucks of the radio and television services pressed close. Microphones and cameras extended. The stage was set for a great day. Neat rows of olive drab vehicles curved along the water's edge. Jeeps and half-tracks shouldered close by the weapons carriers and six buys. All of them shrinking to insignificance beside the looming patent tanks. A speaker's platform was set up in the center of the line near the audience. At precisely 10 a.m. General Wingrove stepped forward and scowled at the crowd until they settled into an uncomfortable silence. His speech was short and consisted of nothing more than amplifications of his opening statement that actions speak louder than words. He pointed to the first truck in line, a two-and-a-half ton filled with an infantry squad sitting stiffly at attention. The driver caught the signal and kicked the engine into life. With a grind of gears it moved forward toward the river's edge. There was an in-drawn gasp from the crowd as the front wheels ground over the marble parapet. Then the truck was plunged down toward the muddy waters of the Potomac. The wheels touched the water and the surface seemed to sink while taking on a strange, glassy character. The truck roared into high gear and rode forward on the surface of the water surrounded by a saucer-shaped depression. It parked 200 yards offshore and the soldiers, goaded by the sergeant bark, leapt out and lined up with the showy present arms. The general returned the salute and waved to the remaining vehicles. They moved forward in a series of maneuvers that indicated a great number of rehearsal hours on some hidden pond. The tanks rumbled slowly over the water while the jeeps cut back and forth through their lines in intricate patterns. The trucks backed and turned like puffing ballerinas. The audience was rooted in a hushed silence, their eyeballs bulging. They continued to watch the amazing display as General Wingrove spoke again. You see before you a typical example of army ingenuity developed in army laboratories. These motor units are supported on the surface of the water by an intensifying of the surface tension in their immediate area. Their weight is evenly distributed over the surface, causing the shallow depressions you see around them. This remarkable feat has been accomplished by the use of the Dornifier, a remarkable invention that is named after a brilliant scientist, Colonel Robert A. Dorn, commander of the Brook Point Experimental Laboratory. It was there that one of the civilian employees discovered the Dorn Effect, under the Colonel's constant guidance, of course. Utilizing this invention, the army now becomes master of the sea as well as the land. Army convoys of trucks and tanks can blanket the world. The surface of the water is our highway, our motor park, our battleground, the airfield and runway for our planes. Mechanics were pushing a shooting star into the water. They stepped clear as flame gushed from the tailpipe, with a familiar whooshing rumble it sped down the Potomac and hurled itself into the air. When this cheap and simple method of crossing the oceans is completed, it will, of course, mean the end of that fantastic medieval anachronism, the Navy. No need for billion-dollar aircraft carriers, battleships, dry docks and all the other cumbersome junk that keeps those boats and things afloat. Give the taxpayer back his hard-earned dollar. Teeth graded in the naval section as carriers and battleships were called boats, and the rest of America's sea might lumped under the casual heading of things. Lifts were curled at the transparent appeal to the taxpayer's pocketbook. But with leaden hearts they knew that all this justified wrath and contempt would avail them nothing. This was Army Day with a vengeance, and the doom of the Navy seemed inescapable. The Army had made elaborate plans for what they called operation sinker, even as the general spoke the publicity mills ground into high gear. From coast to coast the citizens absorbed the news with their morning nourishment. Agnes, you hear what the radio said? The Army's going to give a trip around the world in a B-36 as first prize in its limerick contest. All you have to do is fill in the last line and mail one copy to the Pentagon and the other to the Navy. The Naval Mailroom had standing orders to burn all the limericks when they came in, but some of the newer men seemed to think the entire thing was a big joke. Commander Bulman found one in the mess hall. The Army will always be there, on the land, on the sea, in the air. So why should the Navy take all the gravy? To which some sea-going scribe had added, and not give us answers our share. The newspapers were filled daily with photographs of mighty B-36s landing on Lake Erie and grinning soldiers making mock beachhead attacks on Coney Island. Each man wore a buzzing black box at his waist and walked on the bosom of the now quiet Atlantic like a biblical prophet. Radio and television also carried the thousands of news releases that poured in an unending flow from the Pentagon building. Cards, letters, telegrams, and packages descended on Washington in an overwhelming torrent. The Navy Department was the unhappy recipient of deprecatory letters and a vast quantity of little cardboard battleships. The people spoke, and their representatives listened closely. This was an election year. There didn't seem to be much doubt as to the decision, particularly when the reduction in the budget was considered. It took Congress only two months to make up its collective mind. The people were all pro-army. The novelty of the idea had fired their imaginations. They were about to take the final vote in the lower house. If the amendment passed, it would go to the states for ratification, and their votes would certainly follow that of Congress. The Navy had fought a last-ditch battle to no avail. The balloting was going to be pretty much a sure thing. The wet-water Navy would soon become ancient history. For some reason the admirals didn't look as unhappy as they should. The Naval Department had requested one last opportunity to address Congress. Congress had patronizingly granted permission, for even a doomed man is allowed one last speech. Admiral Fitzjames, who had recovered from his choleric attack, was the appointed speaker. Gentlemen of the Congress of the United States, we in the Navy have a fighting tradition. We dam the torpedoes and sail straight ahead into the enemy's fire if that is what's necessary. We have been stabbed in the back. We have suffered a second Pearl Harbor sneak attack. The Army relinquished its rights to fair treatment with this attack. Therefore we are counter-attacking. Worn out by his attacking and mixed metaphors, the Admiral mopped his brow. Our laboratories have been working night and day on the perfection of a device we hoped we would never be forced to use. It is now in operation, having passed the final trials a few days ago. The significance of this device cannot be underestimated. We are so positive of its importance that we are demanding that the Army be abolished. He waved his hands toward the windows and bellowed one word. Look! Everybody looked. They blinked and looked again. They rubbed their eyes and kept looking. Sailing majestically up the middle of Constitution Avenue was the battleship Missouri. The Admiral's voice rang through the room like a trumpet of victory. The Mark I D-Binder, as you see, temporarily lessens the binding energies that hold molecules of solid matter together. Solids become liquids and a ship equipped with this device can sail anywhere in the world on sea or land. Take your vote, gentlemen. The world awaits your decision. The End of Navy Day by Harry Harrison. Am I still there? By James R. Hall. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Am I still there? By James R. Hall. Lee is lead off the examining table and began batoning his shirt. He had had a medical examination every six months of his adult life, and it always seemed strange to him that, despite the banks of machines the doctor had which could practically map a man from a single cell outward, each examination always entailed a cold end of a stethoscope against his chest. He tucked his shirt into his pants and turned to the examining doctor who was writing on a chart. Well, Lee asked him. Sound as a dollar, replied the doctor. The doctor's flotment or Dr. Roberts might turn up something on their electronic monsters, but I see no reason why we can't go ahead on schedule. Lee felt relieved. Even while being examined by technicians, medical doctors and biologists, he had been conscious of the hundreds of little dull pains which had nibbled like mice in every corner of his brain. Sometimes he felt like a piece of his brain was being completely smoothed. A horrible sensation of having a part of his head would go away, but would appear again in a different area, usually in about 15 to 30 minutes. Well, the doctor said he was fit for surgery that would end his nagging pain, just as it always had in the past. If you're ready now, Lee became aware the doctor was speaking to him. Oh, Lee said. He had no idea what the doctor was talking about. I'm sorry, I guess I didn't hear what you said. The doctor smiled tolerantly. I said, you can see Dr. Lettsmiller this afternoon to get the final OK. Lettsmiller? Who is he? I thought you said I was ready to go. Lee knew he sounded a little petulant, but he was tired from all these examinations and besides, his head hurt. The doctor, Gors Lee thought his name was, was rather young but seemed used to this kind of thing. He turned on his tolerant smile again. Dr. Lettsmiller is chief of the familiarization and post-operative adjustment section. He can explain himself better when you see him. Is he the last one? Lee asked. He was already following Dr. Gors out of the door and down a corridor. Dr. Gors stopped before a door marked Dr. C. L. Lettsmiller and opened it. The last one, you take these. He handed Lee a thick manila folder and tell the girl Dr. Gors sent you for your interview. He waited until Lee had entered, then closed the door and left. Evidently, Dr. Lettsmiller had been expecting him for very shortly, Lee found himself sitting at the doctor's desk, comfortably seated in a brown leather armchair. He was facing a rather pudgy man who was leafing through the manila folder Lee had given him. Finally, Dr. Lettsmiller looked up. Well, well now, Mr. Lee. Suppose you first tell me about yourself and then I'll tell you about me. Tell you about me? Lee asked. Dr. Lettsmiller smiled. It was another tolerant smile, but it seemed more sincere than Gors's. I suppose the best way would be for me to review these facts on your medical history. You are Vincent Bonard Lee? Yes, sir. Date of birth? August 11th, 1934. That would make you 409 years old. Lee hesitated. He never really thought of his age. It had long ago ceased to be of any importance to him. Of course, he remembered his birth date. It was one of those facts that always appears on your records, like your social security number. He did some calculation in his head as rapidly as the constantly shifting blank spots in his thinking would allow him. Yes, sir. It shows here that you first underwent replaceive surgery in 1991, correct? Yes. Remember what it was for? Yes, I had heart trouble. They fixed me up with one of those big jobs requiring my carrying batteries under my armpit. One of those early models. And this shows that at various times since then you have undergone replaceive surgery some 87 times, including three replacements of a pulmonary nature. Again Lee hesitated. The number of times he had had a worn organ or tissue repaired or replaced was more than a little hazy. After the novelty of the first few times when he found himself with a new stomach or liver or muscle he had started to take these things as a matter of course. He gave a little nervous laugh. If that paper says so, I suppose so, doctor. Yes, well, everything seems to be functioning properly now, doesn't it? With the exception of your head, of course. Yes, yes, I feel fine otherwise. Lee was feeling uncomfortable. Doctor, could you tell me what this is all about? I must have answered these questions half a dozen times before to those other people. In just a moment, first I need to know you a little better. Your medical history lists your occupation as cabinet maker. That's right. Lee was becoming more and more uncomfortable. The extensive examinations had tired him and the repetition of the answers to all these questions was making him edgy. Doctor, can't you at least tell me what type of operation I am going to have? What do you think it will be? I don't know, some sort of repair on my head, I guess. Mr. Lee, this isn't going to be a matter of repair. We have found it necessary to replace the entirety of what could roughly be called your brain as well as part of the spinal cord. My whole brain, Lee said, stunned comprehension slowly filtering into him. He voiced the only coherent thought which materialized. Why? That will mean there won't be anything left of me at all. Dr. Lutz Miller regarded him. What do you mean? Doc, you've got my records there. At one time or another, since they first put a new heart in me, every single inch of me has been replaced by an artificial part. I mean, all of me. There is not one bit of me. Heart, eye, stow nails, nothing. That is me. That bothered me quite a bit when this left eye was put in. I mean, I thought, well, this isn't me. This is my brain walking around in a jumble of artificial flesh. I tell you, it bothered me. But I went to a doctor, you know, a psychoanalyst. And he convinced me that as long as I had what he called a sense of identity, that I was me. Lee stopped. How could he explain it? But Lutz Miller seemed to understand. And you think that your brain is all that is left of you? Doc, it's a funny feeling like this. Lee raised his hands, brought them together and touched his fingertips. Say that. I can raise those hands. I can make them touch each other. I can feel them touching each other. But it is just not quite right. It is just a little bit off key, like one trumpet player out of 20, being about one-sixteenth of an old flat. Know what I mean? I think I do, said Lutz Miller, nodding slowly. No, just what does that have to do with your operation? Doctor. Lee had to stop for the patchwork quilt of blank spaces was dancing in his head. The helplessness went away slowly like smoke drifting from a fire. As his mind cleared, he realized that he didn't know why he was being interviewed by this doctor. Anything wrong, doctor Lutz Miller asked. Lee knew he wasn't being too coherent, jumping about with the conversation this way. But he asked the question anyway. Doc, why am I seeing you? You haven't guessed? No. The doctor paused to light a half-gone cigar. My job here at Merkin's Replasive is to deal with just such fears as you have expressed. I am a medical doctor and a psychologist, and, let's Miller smile to himself, a kind of historian. Historian? Well, you see, I was supposed to give you a regular formal lecture on the history of Replasive Surgery when you first came in. Like to hear it? Lee nodded. So let's Miller continue. Replasive surgery is actually quite old. Old as medicine itself, I suppose. Very early attempts at dentures were tried, though with little success. And of course, peg legs and hooks for persons who had lost their hands might be called Replasive Surgery, though they were very crude. Later on came more refined dentures, artificial limbs, corrective lenses, skull plates, hearing aids, plastic or cosmetic surgery, blood transfusions, all types of skin grafts, etc. The 1950s saw the beginning of bone and corneal transplants, use of plastics and arteries, those huge heart-long and kidney machines, implantation of electrodes in the heart to steady its beat. Many things which were mostly emergency or stop-gap measures. All through the late 1900s, refinements continued to be made, but it wasn't until 1988 that the fathers of Replasive Surgery, Drs. Meals, Levingson and McCarthy made the breakthrough that revolutionized the whole concept. In very simplified language, they unlocked the key to producing specialized living tissue through a bombardment of an extremely complex carbon compound with amino acids and electricity, then making it selective in function by a fantastically intricate application of radiation. That pulmonary replacement he received in 1991 was undoubtedly one of the first successes. You were quite lucky, you know. Up until 2017, only about 5% of their synthesized hearts lasted more than 30 days. At any rate, the principle was established and it was proven that it could work. Most of our work from then till a few years ago has been in improving and refining the work those three good doctors did over 300 years ago. That's Miller Cigar had gone out and he discarded it in favor of a cigarette. That would be the end of my history lecture if it were not for the nature of your trouble. Lee looked at him closely. Why is that? Well, Mr. Lee, the big thing missing in that summation is the seemingly impossible task of synthesizing nerve tissue, especially that of the cerebral cortex. It's been approximated at any rate closely enough to give us good enough results to allow an artificial tissue to respond to brain signals about 98% as well as the original would. But actual duplication? No, at least not until about three years ago. To tell you the truth, it's barely out of the experimental stage. Experimental? Yes, this will be the first complete replacement of a human brain. Oh, of course, it has been done with animals and it has been successful with partial replacements on humans. But you will have the honor of being the first human with a complete substitution. Lee could not contain himself. Doc, that's just it. There won't be a single atom of me except what you fellows have conjured up. Let's Miller broke in mildly. I think conjured is hardly the proper word, Mr. Lee. Well, of course, I didn't mean that, but don't you see what I am driving at? You could just as well start from scratch and duplicate me without bothering about going about it piecemeal. And what does that make me? The doctor had been looking at Lee intently, studying him through these outbursts. I think I see what you mean and I can't answer you. The question you raise may be philosophical or metaphysical, but it certainly isn't medical. And from a doctor's point of view, complete substitution is the only course open, risky as it may seem. Lee Muld is over. Of course, a neurosurgery, but he became mentality. Actually, the only alternative to his becoming a virtual idiot. And shortly after that, dead. And he did not want to die. He had lived a long time, but thanks to the methods of Let's Miller, Gors and all their predecessors, he was as full of juice as he had been at 35. But the question that kept plaguing him, Let's Miller seemed determined to avoid. He didn't understand very much about replaceive surgery, really didn't care to. If Let's Miller said it could work, then he wasn't worried about that. Well, he guessed he really didn't have much choice. With this realization, he had only one more question for Let's Miller. Doc, if I'm not me when this is over, do you think I will know it? Let's Miller looked at Lee's troubled face. Do you think that you would want to? Lee answered slowly. No, no, I guess not. Let's Miller rose from his chair. I'll talk to you again after the operation. Do you think you are ready to go to your room now? Lee nodded and obediently followed the doctor. Lee was asleep when the nurse came, but with the efficiency of all good nurses since time immemorial, she woke him to give him the sedative to prepare him for surgery. She chatted brightly as he prepared the hypothermic. You know, you have all the nurses speculating, Mr. Lee. I mean, we are wondering just what Dr. Lakin, he's the anesthesiologist, is going to use for you when you won't have any brain for the anesthesia to work on. She stopped. The needle poised above her lease arm, realizing the inappness of her remark. Oh, I shouldn't have said that. No, that's alright, sadly. I've already reconciled myself to being the headless horseman for a while. He had too, although it was wonderfully strange to think of himself lying on the operating table with a cavity where he right now thought, felt new that he was a person. Lee didn't actually lie on the table in the literal sense. The table was inclined to about 45 degrees with his head exposed and supported by a clamp on the cheek and jaw bones. This arrangement was necessary to allow the waiting machinery access to the area where it would perform. Physicians, surgeons, biologists and the like were gathered in the amphitheater to see a bit of medical history. Actually, there wasn't much to see. A team of technicians, radiologists and surgeons were working around Lee. Some were attaching electrodes to parts of Lee's body to maintain the electrical impulses necessary to keep his vital processes in motion while the main switchboard was out of commission. Others were sensitizing the exposed brain from which the skull had already been removed to guide the delicate fingers of the huge automatic operating, recording and calculating complex through its precisely programmed steps. Letts Miller was among those in the amphitheater as a spectator drawn both by professional curiosity and a desire to know the answer to Lee's question Doc, what will there be left of me? Of course, he couldn't find out even part of the answer for some weeks. Even the operating, recording and calculating complex now being fitted to Lee's unconscious brain adjusted and activated would not finish with its job for something like 32 hours. The synthesizer would reconvert the data translated into countless chemicals and electrical formulae and apply to the raw material of carbons, amino acids, proteins and other components. When the basic organ had been reconstructed a process requiring another week and a half in the synthesizer it would be grafted back. The nerve lead-ins would then be reconnected one by one spaced at intervals to avoid shock. Lee would be unconscious the whole time, of course and other Lee would be unconscious part of the time. Most of the time he wouldn't have the capacity for either consciousness or lack of it. Dr. Letts Miller observed the huge operating, recording and calculating complex for a time but there wasn't anything to see. It simply sat over Lee doing its job. Unwanted, the thought came to Letts Miller that the machine looked like a frog with a long worm dangling from its mouth. Lee was the worm. Now doctor, or then read the surgeon in charge addressed Letts Miller outside Lee's room where he had just finished his examination. Personally I think things went exactly as they should. All physical and mental responses check out. I guess here is where I'm finished and you go to work. Lee was sitting up in a bed as Letts Miller entered. He looked just like he had in Letts Miller's office before the operation except for the small white bandages around his head to protect his healing skull. The doctor said, how do you feel? Your head, heard? Letts Miller checked at Olden Reid's office and was admitted to give his reporters the head being planned. Well, asked Olden Reid. Letts Miller lit the end of his cigar before answering. I wholly agree with you. Everything seems to have worked out exactly according to plan. I found him essentially the same as he appeared to me during his pre-operative interview. Of course he's a little foggy yet but I suppose that's just the post-operative shock. Yes, that will clear up in a few days. He seems alert, responsive, full memory. I don't think there will be any difficulty with my part of his post-operative treatment except... Doctor, have you ever listened to a group of violins and sensed? Just sensed, not actually heard, that one of them seemed about a quarter of a note flat. Olden Reid looked at him strangely as Letts Miller left the office and closed the door. End of Am I Still There? by James R. Hall