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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/31979-h.zip b/31979-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a47526d --- /dev/null +++ b/31979-h.zip diff --git a/31979-h/31979-h.htm b/31979-h/31979-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..06bddb0 --- /dev/null +++ b/31979-h/31979-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2110 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Tunnel Under the World, by Frederik Pohl + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; background-color: #FFFFFF; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +.tr {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; margin-top: 5%; margin-bottom: 5%; padding: 2em; background-color: #f6f2f2; color: black; border: dotted black 1px;} + +.img1 {border:solid 1px; } + +.p1 { margin-left: 80%; } + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +.figleft { + float: left; + clear: left; + margin-left: 0; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-right: 0.25em; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + + +/* Poetry */ +.poem { + margin-left:10%; + margin-right:10%; + text-align: left; +} + +.poem br {display: none;} + +.poem .stanza {margin: 0em 0em 0em 0em;} + +.poem span.i0 { + display: block; + margin-left: 0em; + padding-left: 0em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + + +/* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Tunnel Under The World, by Frederik Pohl + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Tunnel Under The World + +Author: Frederik Pohl + +Illustrator: Emsh + +Release Date: April 14, 2010 [EBook #31979] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TUNNEL UNDER THE WORLD *** + + + + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="tr"><p class="center">Transcriber's Note:</p> +<p class="center">This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.</p></div> +<p> </p> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img class="img1" src="images/cover.jpg" width="400" height="534" alt="" title="" /> +</div> +<p> </p> +<h1> +The Tunnel<br /> +Under<br /> +The World +</h1> +<p> </p> +<h2>By FREDERIK POHL</h2> +<p> </p> +<h3>Illustrated by EMSH</h3> +<p> </p> +<div class="blockquot"><p>Pinching yourself is no way to see if you are dreaming. +Surgical instruments? Well, yes—but a mechanic's kit is +best of all!</p></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_o1.jpg" alt="O" width="46" height="50" /></div> +<p>n the morning of June 15th, Guy Burckhardt woke up screaming out of a +dream.</p> + +<p>It was more real than any dream he had ever had in his life. He could +still hear and feel the sharp, ripping-metal explosion, the violent +heave that had tossed him furiously out of bed, the searing wave of +heat.</p> + +<p>He sat up convulsively and stared, not believing what he saw, at the +quiet room and the bright sunlight coming in the window.</p> + +<p>He croaked, "Mary?"</p> + +<p>His wife was not in the bed next to him. The covers were tumbled and +awry, as though she had just left it, and the memory of the dream was +so strong that instinctively he found himself searching the floor to +see if the dream explosion had thrown her down.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/image_001.jpg" width="400" height="585" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>But she wasn't there. Of course she wasn't, he told himself, looking +at the familiar vanity and slipper chair, the uncracked window, the +unbuckled wall. It had only been a dream.</p> + +<p>"Guy?" His wife was calling him querulously from the foot of the +stairs. "Guy, dear, are you all right?"</p> + +<p>He called weakly, "Sure."</p> + +<p>There was a pause. Then Mary said doubtfully, "Breakfast is ready. Are +you sure you're all right? I thought I heard you yelling—"</p> + +<p>Burckhardt said more confidently, "I had a bad dream, honey. Be right +down."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_i.jpg" alt="I" width="19" height="40" /></div> +<p>n the shower, punching the lukewarm-and-cologne he favored, he told +himself that it had been a beaut of a dream. Still, bad dreams weren't +unusual, especially bad dreams about explosions. In the past thirty +years of H-bomb jitters, who had not dreamed of explosions?</p> + +<p>Even Mary had dreamed of them, it turned out, for he started to tell +her about the dream, but she cut him off. "You <i>did</i>?" Her voice was +astonished. "Why, dear, I dreamed the same thing! Well, almost the +same thing. I didn't actually <i>hear</i> anything. I dreamed that +something woke me up, and then there was a sort of quick bang, and +then something hit me on the head. And that was all. Was yours like +that?"</p> + +<p>Burckhardt coughed. "Well, no," he said. Mary was not one of these +strong-as-a-man, brave-as-a-tiger women. It was not necessary, he +thought, to tell her all the little details of the dream that made it +seem so real. No need to mention the splintered ribs, and the salt +bubble in his throat, and the agonized knowledge that this was death. +He said, "Maybe there really was some kind of explosion downtown. +Maybe we heard it and it started us dreaming."</p> + +<p>Mary reached over and patted his hand absently. "Maybe," she agreed. +"It's almost half-past eight, dear. Shouldn't you hurry? You don't +want to be late to the office."</p> + +<p>He gulped his food, kissed her and rushed out—not so much to be on +time as to see if his guess had been right.</p> + +<p>But downtown Tylerton looked as it always had. Coming in on the bus, +Burckhardt watched critically out the window, seeking evidence of an +explosion. There wasn't any. If anything, Tylerton looked better than +it ever had before: It was a beautiful crisp day, the sky was +cloudless, the buildings were clean and inviting. They had, he +observed, steam-blasted the Power & Light Building, the town's only +skyscraper—that was the penalty of having Contro Chemical's main +plant on the outskirts of town; the fumes from the cascade stills left +their mark on stone buildings.</p> + +<p>None of the usual crowd were on the bus, so there wasn't anyone +Burckhardt could ask about the explosion. And by the time he got out +at the corner of Fifth and Lehigh and the bus rolled away with a muted +diesel moan, he had pretty well convinced himself that it was all +imagination.</p> + +<p>He stopped at the cigar stand in the lobby of his office building, but +Ralph wasn't behind the counter. The man who sold him his pack of +cigarettes was a stranger.</p> + +<p>"Where's Mr. Stebbins?" Burckhardt asked.</p> + +<p>The man said politely, "Sick, sir. He'll be in tomorrow. A pack of +Marlins today?"</p> + +<p>"Chesterfields," Burckhardt corrected.</p> + +<p>"Certainly, sir," the man said. But what he took from the rack and +slid across the counter was an unfamiliar green-and-yellow pack.</p> + +<p>"Do try these, sir," he suggested. "They contain an anti-cough factor. +Ever notice how ordinary cigarettes make you choke every once in a +while?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_b.jpg" alt="B" width="35" height="40" /></div> +<p>urckhardt said suspiciously, "I never heard of this brand."</p> + +<p>"Of course not. They're something new." Burckhardt hesitated, and the +man said persuasively, "Look, try them out at my risk. If you don't +like them, bring back the empty pack and I'll refund your money. Fair +enough?"</p> + +<p>Burckhardt shrugged. "How can I lose? But give me a pack of +Chesterfields, too, will you?"</p> + +<p>He opened the pack and lit one while he waited for the elevator. They +weren't bad, he decided, though he was suspicious of cigarettes that +had the tobacco chemically treated in any way. But he didn't think +much of Ralph's stand-in; it would raise hell with the trade at the +cigar stand if the man tried to give every customer the same +high-pressure sales talk.</p> + +<p>The elevator door opened with a low-pitched sound of music. Burckhardt +and two or three others got in and he nodded to them as the door +closed. The thread of music switched off and the speaker in the +ceiling of the cab began its usual commercials.</p> + +<p>No, not the <i>usual</i> commercials, Burckhardt realized. He had been +exposed to the captive-audience commercials so long that they hardly +registered on the outer ear any more, but what was coming from the +recorded program in the basement of the building caught his +attention. It wasn't merely that the brands were mostly unfamiliar; it +was a difference in pattern.</p> + +<p>There were jingles with an insistent, bouncy rhythm, about soft drinks +he had never tasted. There was a rapid patter dialogue between what +sounded like two ten-year-old boys about a candy bar, followed by an +authoritative bass rumble: "Go right out and get a DELICIOUS +Choco-Bite and eat your TANGY Choco-Bite <i>all up</i>. That's +<i>Choco-Bite</i>!" There was a sobbing female whine: "I <i>wish</i> I had a +Feckle Freezer! I'd do <i>anything</i> for a Feckle Freezer!" Burckhardt +reached his floor and left the elevator in the middle of the last one. +It left him a little uneasy. The commercials were not for familiar +brands; there was no feeling of use and custom to them.</p> + +<p>But the office was happily normal—except that Mr. Barth wasn't in. +Miss Mitkin, yawning at the reception desk, didn't know exactly why. +"His home phoned, that's all. He'll be in tomorrow."</p> + +<p>"Maybe he went to the plant. It's right near his house."</p> + +<p>She looked indifferent. "Yeah."</p> + +<p>A thought struck Burckhardt. "But today is June 15th! It's quarterly +tax return day—he has to sign the return!"</p> + +<p>Miss Mitkin shrugged to indicate that that was Burckhardt's problem, +not hers. She returned to her nails.</p> + +<p>Thoroughly exasperated, Burckhardt went to his desk. It wasn't that he +couldn't sign the tax returns as well as Barth, he thought +resentfully. It simply wasn't his job, that was all; it was a +responsibility that Barth, as office manager for Contro Chemicals' +downtown office, should have taken.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_h.jpg" alt="H" width="41" height="40" /></div> +<p>e thought briefly of calling Barth at his home or trying to reach him +at the factory, but he gave up the idea quickly enough. He didn't +really care much for the people at the factory and the less contact he +had with them, the better. He had been to the factory once, with +Barth; it had been a confusing and, in a way, a frightening +experience. Barring a handful of executives and engineers, there +wasn't a soul in the factory—that is, Burckhardt corrected himself, +remembering what Barth had told him, not a <i>living</i> soul—just the +machines.</p> + +<p>According to Barth, each machine was controlled by a sort of computer +which reproduced, in its electronic snarl, the actual memory and mind +of a human being. It was an unpleasant thought. Barth, laughing, had +assured him that there was no Frankenstein business of robbing +graveyards and implanting brains in machines. It was only a matter, he +said, of transferring a man's habit patterns from brain cells to +vacuum-tube cells. It didn't hurt the man and it didn't make the +machine into a monster.</p> + +<p>But they made Burckhardt uncomfortable all the same.</p> + +<p>He put Barth and the factory and all his other little irritations out +of his mind and tackled the tax returns. It took him until noon to +verify the figures—which Barth could have done out of his memory and +his private ledger in ten minutes, Burckhardt resentfully reminded +himself.</p> + +<p>He sealed them in an envelope and walked out to Miss Mitkin. "Since +Mr. Barth isn't here, we'd better go to lunch in shifts," he said. +"You can go first."</p> + +<p>"Thanks." Miss Mitkin languidly took her bag out of the desk drawer +and began to apply makeup.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt offered her the envelope. "Drop this in the mail for me, +will you? Uh—wait a minute. I wonder if I ought to phone Mr. Barth to +make sure. Did his wife say whether he was able to take phone calls?"</p> + +<p>"Didn't say." Miss Mitkin blotted her lips carefully with a Kleenex. +"Wasn't his wife, anyway. It was his daughter who called and left the +message."</p> + +<p>"The kid?" Burckhardt frowned. "I thought she was away at school."</p> + +<p>"She called, that's all I know."</p> + +<p>Burckhardt went back to his own office and stared distastefully at the +unopened mail on his desk. He didn't like nightmares; they spoiled his +whole day. He should have stayed in bed, like Barth.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_a.jpg" alt="A" width="37" height="40" /></div> +<p> funny thing happened on his way home. There was a disturbance at the +corner where he usually caught his bus—someone was screaming +something about a new kind of deep-freeze—so he walked an extra +block. He saw the bus coming and started to trot. But behind him, +someone was calling his name. He looked over his shoulder; a small +harried-looking man was hurrying toward him.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt hesitated, and then recognized him. It was a casual +acquaintance named Swanson. Burckhardt sourly observed that he had +already missed the bus.</p> + +<p>He said, "Hello."</p> + +<p>Swanson's face was desperately eager. "Burckhardt?" he asked +inquiringly, with an odd intensity. And then he just stood there +silently, watching Burckhardt's face, with a burning eagerness that +dwindled to a faint hope and died to a regret. He was searching for +something, waiting for something, Burckhardt thought. But whatever it +was he wanted, Burckhardt didn't know how to supply it.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt coughed and said again, "Hello, Swanson."</p> + +<p>Swanson didn't even acknowledge the greeting. He merely sighed a very +deep sigh.</p> + +<p>"Nothing doing," he mumbled, apparently to himself. He nodded +abstractedly to Burckhardt and turned away.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt watched the slumped shoulders disappear in the crowd. It +was an <i>odd</i> sort of day, he thought, and one he didn't much like. +Things weren't going right.</p> + +<p>Riding home on the next bus, he brooded about it. It wasn't anything +terrible or disastrous; it was something out of his experience +entirely. You live your life, like any man, and you form a network of +impressions and reactions. You <i>expect</i> things. When you open your +medicine chest, your razor is expected to be on the second shelf; when +you lock your front door, you expect to have to give it a slight extra +tug to make it latch.</p> + +<p>It isn't the things that are right and perfect in your life that make +it familiar. It is the things that are just a little bit wrong—the +sticking latch, the light switch at the head of the stairs that needs +an extra push because the spring is old and weak, the rug that +unfailingly skids underfoot.</p> + +<p>It wasn't just that things were wrong with the pattern of Burckhardt's +life; it was that the <i>wrong</i> things were wrong. For instance, Barth +hadn't come into the office, yet Barth <i>always</i> came in.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt brooded about it through dinner. He brooded about it, +despite his wife's attempt to interest him in a game of bridge with +the neighbors, all through the evening. The neighbors were people he +liked—Anne and Farley Dennerman. He had known them all their lives. +But they were odd and brooding, too, this night and he barely listened +to Dennerman's complaints about not being able to get good phone +service or his wife's comments on the disgusting variety of television +commercials they had these days.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt was well on the way to setting an all-time record for +continuous abstraction when, around midnight, with a suddenness that +surprised him—he was strangely <i>aware</i> of it happening—he turned +over in his bed and, quickly and completely, fell asleep.</p> + + +<h2>II</h2> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_o.jpg" alt="O" width="38" height="40" /></div> +<p>n the morning of June 15th, Burckhardt woke up screaming.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/image_002.jpg" width="400" height="571" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>It was more real than any dream he had ever had in his life. He could +still hear the explosion, feel the blast that crushed him against a +wall. It did not seem right that he should be sitting bolt upright in +bed in an undisturbed room.</p> + +<p>His wife came pattering up the stairs. "Darling!" she cried. "What's +the matter?"</p> + +<p>He mumbled, "Nothing. Bad dream."</p> + +<p>She relaxed, hand on heart. In an angry tone, she started to say: "You +gave me such a shock—"</p> + +<p>But a noise from outside interrupted her. There was a wail of sirens +and a clang of bells; it was loud and shocking.</p> + +<p>The Burckhardts stared at each other for a heartbeat, then hurried +fearfully to the window.</p> + +<p>There were no rumbling fire engines in the street, only a small panel +truck, cruising slowly along. Flaring loudspeaker horns crowned its +top. From them issued the screaming sound of sirens, growing in +intensity, mixed with the rumble of heavy-duty engines and the sound +of bells. It was a perfect record of fire engines arriving at a +four-alarm blaze.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt said in amazement, "Mary, that's against the law! Do you +know what they're doing? They're playing records of a fire. What are +they up to?"</p> + +<p>"Maybe it's a practical joke," his wife offered.</p> + +<p>"Joke? Waking up the whole neighborhood at six o'clock in the +morning?" He shook his head. "The police will be here in ten minutes," +he predicted. "Wait and see."</p> + +<p>But the police weren't—not in ten minutes, or at all. Whoever the +pranksters in the car were, they apparently had a police permit for +their games.</p> + +<p>The car took a position in the middle of the block and stood silent +for a few minutes. Then there was a crackle from the speaker, and a +giant voice chanted:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><b>"Feckle Freezers!</b><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><b>Feckle Freezers!</b><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><b>Gotta have a</b><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><b>Feckle Freezer!</b><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><b>Feckle, Feckle, Feckle,</b><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><b>Feckle, Feckle, Feckle—"</b><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It went on and on. Every house on the block had faces staring out of +windows by then. The voice was not merely loud; it was nearly +deafening.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt shouted to his wife, over the uproar, "What the hell is a +Feckle Freezer?"</p> + +<p>"Some kind of a freezer, I guess, dear," she shrieked back +unhelpfully.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_a.jpg" alt="A" width="37" height="40" /></div> +<p>bruptly the noise stopped and the truck stood silent. It was still +misty morning; the Sun's rays came horizontally across the rooftops. +It was impossible to believe that, a moment ago, the silent block had +been bellowing the name of a freezer.</p> + +<p>"A crazy advertising trick," Burckhardt said bitterly. He yawned and +turned away from the window. "Might as well get dressed. I guess +that's the end of—"</p> + +<p>The bellow caught him from behind; it was almost like a hard slap on +the ears. A harsh, sneering voice, louder than the arch-angel's +trumpet, howled:</p> + +<p>"Have you got a freezer? <i>It stinks!</i> If it isn't a Feckle Freezer, +<i>it stinks</i>! If it's a last year's Feckle Freezer, <i>it stinks</i>! Only +this year's Feckle Freezer is any good at all! You know who owns an +Ajax Freezer? Fairies own Ajax Freezers! You know who owns a +Triplecold Freezer? Commies own Triplecold Freezers! Every freezer but +a brand-new Feckle Freezer <i>stinks</i>!"</p> + +<p>The voice screamed inarticulately with rage. "I'm warning you! Get out +and buy a Feckle Freezer right away! Hurry up! Hurry for Feckle! Hurry +for Feckle! Hurry, hurry, hurry, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, +Feckle, Feckle...."</p> + +<p>It stopped eventually. Burckhardt licked his lips. He started to say +to his wife, "Maybe we ought to call the police about—" when the +speakers erupted again. It caught him off guard; it was intended to +catch him off guard. It screamed:</p> + +<p>"Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle. Cheap +freezers ruin your food. You'll get sick and throw up. You'll get sick +and die. Buy a Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle! Ever take a piece of +meat out of the freezer you've got and see how rotten and moldy it is? +Buy a Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle. Do you want to eat +rotten, stinking food? Or do you want to wise up and buy a Feckle, +Feckle, Feckle—"</p> + +<p>That did it. With fingers that kept stabbing the wrong holes, +Burckhardt finally managed to dial the local police station. He got a +busy signal—it was apparent that he was not the only one with the +same idea—and while he was shakingly dialing again, the noise outside +stopped.</p> + +<p>He looked out the window. The truck was gone.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_b.jpg" alt="B" width="35" height="40" /></div> +<p>urckhardt loosened his tie and ordered another Frosty-Flip from the +waiter. If only they wouldn't keep the Crystal Cafe so <i>hot</i>! The new +paint job—searing reds and blinding yellows—was bad enough, but +someone seemed to have the delusion that this was January instead of +June; the place was a good ten degrees warmer than outside.</p> + +<p>He swallowed the Frosty-Flip in two gulps. It had a kind of peculiar +flavor, he thought, but not bad. It certainly cooled you off, just as +the waiter had promised. He reminded himself to pick up a carton of +them on the way home; Mary might like them. She was always interested +in something new.</p> + +<p>He stood up awkwardly as the girl came across the restaurant toward +him. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in Tylerton. +Chin-height, honey-blonde hair and a figure that—well, it was all +hers. There was no doubt in the world that the dress that clung to her +was the only thing she wore. He felt as if he were blushing as she +greeted him.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Burckhardt." The voice was like distant tomtoms. "It's wonderful +of you to let me see you, after this morning."</p> + +<p>He cleared his throat. "Not at all. Won't you sit down, Miss—"</p> + +<p>"April Horn," she murmured, sitting down—beside him, not where he had +pointed on the other side of the table. "Call me April, won't you?"</p> + +<p>She was wearing some kind of perfume, Burckhardt noted with what +little of his mind was functioning at all. It didn't seem fair that +she should be using perfume as well as everything else. He came to +with a start and realized that the waiter was leaving with an order +for <i>filets mignon</i> for two.</p> + +<p>"Hey!" he objected.</p> + +<p>"Please, Mr. Burckhardt." Her shoulder was against his, her face was +turned to him, her breath was warm, her expression was tender and +solicitous. "This is all on the Feckle Corporation. Please let +them—it's the <i>least</i> they can do."</p> + +<p>He felt her hand burrowing into his pocket.</p> + +<p>"I put the price of the meal into your pocket," she whispered +conspiratorially. "Please do that for me, won't you? I mean I'd +appreciate it if you'd pay the waiter—I'm old-fashioned about things +like that."</p> + +<p>She smiled meltingly, then became mock-businesslike. "But you must +take the money," she insisted. "Why, you're letting Feckle off lightly +if you do! You could sue them for every nickel they've got, disturbing +your sleep like that."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_w.jpg" alt="W" width="51" height="40" /></div> +<p>ith a dizzy feeling, as though he had just seen someone make a rabbit +disappear into a top hat, he said, "Why, it really wasn't so bad, uh, +April. A little noisy, maybe, but—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Mr. Burckhardt!" The blue eyes were wide and admiring. "I knew +you'd understand. It's just that—well, it's such a <i>wonderful</i> +freezer that some of the outside men get carried away, so to speak. As +soon as the main office found out about what happened, they sent +representatives around to every house on the block to apologize. Your +wife told us where we could phone you—and I'm so very pleased that +you were willing to let me have lunch with you, so that I could +apologize, too. Because truly, Mr. Burckhardt, it is a <i>fine</i> freezer.</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't tell you this, but—" the blue eyes were shyly +lowered—"I'd do almost anything for Feckle Freezers. It's more than a +job to me." She looked up. She was enchanting. "I bet you think I'm +silly, don't you?"</p> + +<p>Burckhardt coughed. "Well, I—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, you don't want to be unkind!" She shook her head. "No, don't +pretend. You think it's silly. But really, Mr. Burckhardt, you +wouldn't think so if you knew more about the Feckle. Let me show you +this little booklet—"</p> + +<p>Burckhardt got back from lunch a full hour late. It wasn't only the +girl who delayed him. There had been a curious interview with a little +man named Swanson, whom he barely knew, who had stopped him with +desperate urgency on the street—and then left him cold.</p> + +<p>But it didn't matter much. Mr. Barth, for the first time since +Burckhardt had worked there, was out for the day—leaving Burckhardt +stuck with the quarterly tax returns.</p> + +<p>What did matter, though, was that somehow he had signed a purchase +order for a twelve-cubic-foot Feckle Freezer, upright model, +self-defrosting, list price $625, with a ten per cent "courtesy" +discount—"Because of that <i>horrid</i> affair this morning, Mr. +Burckhardt," she had said.</p> + +<p>And he wasn't sure how he could explain it to his wife.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_h.jpg" alt="H" width="41" height="40" /></div> +<p>e needn't have worried. As he walked in the front door, his wife said +almost immediately, "I wonder if we can't afford a new freezer, dear. +There was a man here to apologize about that noise and—well, we got +to talking and—"</p> + +<p>She had signed a purchase order, too.</p> + +<p>It had been the damnedest day, Burckhardt thought later, on his way up +to bed. But the day wasn't done with him yet. At the head of the +stairs, the weakened spring in the electric light switch refused to +click at all. He snapped it back and forth angrily and, of course, +succeeded in jarring the tumbler out of its pins. The wires shorted +and every light in the house went out.</p> + +<p>"Damn!" said Guy Burckhardt.</p> + +<p>"Fuse?" His wife shrugged sleepily. "Let it go till the morning, +dear."</p> + +<p>Burckhardt shook his head. "You go back to bed. I'll be right along."</p> + +<p>It wasn't so much that he cared about fixing the fuse, but he was too +restless for sleep. He disconnected the bad switch with a screwdriver, +stumbled down into the black kitchen, found the flashlight and climbed +gingerly down the cellar stairs. He located a spare fuse, pushed an +empty trunk over to the fuse box to stand on and twisted out the old +fuse.</p> + +<p>When the new one was in, he heard the starting click and steady drone +of the refrigerator in the kitchen overhead.</p> + +<p>He headed back to the steps, and stopped.</p> + +<p>Where the old trunk had been, the cellar floor gleamed oddly bright. +He inspected it in the flashlight beam. It was metal!</p> + +<p>"Son of a gun," said Guy Burckhardt. He shook his head unbelievingly. +He peered closer, rubbed the edges of the metallic patch with his +thumb and acquired an annoying cut—the edges were <i>sharp</i>.</p> + +<p>The stained cement floor of the cellar was a thin shell. He found a +hammer and cracked it off in a dozen spots—everywhere was metal.</p> + +<p>The whole cellar was a copper box. Even the cement-brick walls were +false fronts over a metal sheath!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_b.jpg" alt="B" width="35" height="40" /></div> +<p>affled, he attacked one of the foundation beams. That, at least, was +real wood. The glass in the cellar windows was real glass.</p> + +<p>He sucked his bleeding thumb and tried the base of the cellar stairs. +Real wood. He chipped at the bricks under the oil burner. Real bricks. +The retaining walls, the floor—they were faked.</p> + +<p>It was as though someone had shored up the house with a frame of metal +and then laboriously concealed the evidence.</p> + +<p>The biggest surprise was the upside-down boat hull that blocked the +rear half of the cellar, relic of a brief home workshop period that +Burckhardt had gone through a couple of years before. From above, it +looked perfectly normal. Inside, though, where there should have been +thwarts and seats and lockers, there was a mere tangle of braces, +rough and unfinished.</p> + +<p>"But I <i>built</i> that!" Burckhardt exclaimed, forgetting his thumb. He +leaned against the hull dizzily, trying to think this thing through. +For reasons beyond his comprehension, someone had taken his boat and +his cellar away, maybe his whole house, and replaced them with a +clever mock-up of the real thing.</p> + +<p>"That's crazy," he said to the empty cellar. He stared around in the +light of the flash. He whispered, "What in the name of Heaven would +anybody do that for?"</p> + +<p>Reason refused an answer; there wasn't any reasonable answer. For long +minutes, Burckhardt contemplated the uncertain picture of his own +sanity.</p> + +<p>He peered under the boat again, hoping to reassure himself that it was +a mistake, just his imagination. But the sloppy, unfinished bracing +was unchanged. He crawled under for a better look, feeling the rough +wood incredulously. Utterly impossible!</p> + +<p>He switched off the flashlight and started to wriggle out. But he +didn't make it. In the moment between the command to his legs to move +and the crawling out, he felt a sudden draining weariness flooding +through him.</p> + +<p>Consciousness went—not easily, but as though it were being taken +away, and Guy Burckhardt was asleep.</p> + + +<h2>III</h2> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_o.jpg" alt="O" width="38" height="40" /></div> +<p>n the morning of June 16th, Guy Burckhardt woke up in a cramped +position huddled under the hull of the boat in his basement—and raced +upstairs to find it was June 15th.</p> + +<p>The first thing he had done was to make a frantic, hasty inspection of +the boat hull, the faked cellar floor, the imitation stone. They were +all as he had remembered them—all completely unbelievable.</p> + +<p>The kitchen was its placid, unexciting self. The electric clock was +purring soberly around the dial. Almost six o'clock, it said. His wife +would be waking at any moment.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt flung open the front door and stared out into the quiet +street. The morning paper was tossed carelessly against the steps—and +as he retrieved it, he noticed that this was the 15th day of June.</p> + +<p>But that was impossible. <i>Yesterday</i> was the 15th of June. It was not +a date one would forget—it was quarterly tax-return day.</p> + +<p>He went back into the hall and picked up the telephone; he dialed for +Weather Information, and got a well-modulated chant: "—and cooler, +some showers. Barometric pressure thirty point zero four, rising ... +United States Weather Bureau forecast for June 15th. Warm and sunny, +with high around—"</p> + +<p>He hung the phone up. June 15th.</p> + +<p>"Holy heaven!" Burckhardt said prayerfully. Things were very odd +indeed. He heard the ring of his wife's alarm and bounded up the +stairs.</p> + +<p>Mary Burckhardt was sitting upright in bed with the terrified, +uncomprehending stare of someone just waking out of a nightmare.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" she gasped, as her husband came in the room. "Darling, I just +had the most <i>terrible</i> dream! It was like an explosion and—"</p> + +<p>"Again?" Burckhardt asked, not very sympathetically. "Mary, +something's funny! I <i>knew</i> there was something wrong all day +yesterday and—"</p> + +<p>He went on to tell her about the copper box that was the cellar, and +the odd mock-up someone had made of his boat. Mary looked astonished, +then alarmed, then placatory and uneasy.</p> + +<p>She said, "Dear, are you <i>sure</i>? Because I was cleaning that old trunk +out just last week and I didn't notice anything."</p> + +<p>"Positive!" said Guy Burckhardt. "I dragged it over to the wall to +step on it to put a new fuse in after we blew the lights out and—"</p> + +<p>"After we what?" Mary was looking more than merely alarmed.</p> + +<p>"After we blew the lights out. You know, when the switch at the head +of the stairs stuck. I went down to the cellar and—"</p> + +<p>Mary sat up in bed. "Guy, the switch didn't stick. I turned out the +lights myself last night."</p> + +<p>Burckhardt glared at his wife. "Now I <i>know</i> you didn't! Come here and +take a look!"</p> + +<p>He stalked out to the landing and dramatically pointed to the bad +switch, the one that he had unscrewed and left hanging the night +before....</p> + +<p>Only it wasn't. It was as it had always been. Unbelieving, Burckhardt +pressed it and the lights sprang up in both halls.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_m.jpg" alt="M" width="43" height="40" /></div> +<p>ary, looking pale and worried, left him to go down to the kitchen and +start breakfast. Burckhardt stood staring at the switch for a long +time. His mental processes were gone beyond the point of disbelief and +shock; they simply were not functioning.</p> + +<p>He shaved and dressed and ate his breakfast in a state of numb +introspection. Mary didn't disturb him; she was apprehensive and +soothing. She kissed him good-by as he hurried out to the bus without +another word.</p> + +<p>Miss Mitkin, at the reception desk, greeted him with a yawn. +"Morning," she said drowsily. "Mr. Barth won't be in today."</p> + +<p>Burckhardt started to say something, but checked himself. She would +not know that Barth hadn't been in yesterday, either, because she was +tearing a June 14th pad off her calendar to make way for the "new" +June 15th sheet.</p> + +<p>He staggered to his own desk and stared unseeingly at the morning's +mail. It had not even been opened yet, but he knew that the Factory +Distributors envelope contained an order for twenty thousand feet of +the new acoustic tile, and the one from Finebeck & Sons was a +complaint.</p> + +<p>After a long while, he forced himself to open them. They were.</p> + +<p>By lunchtime, driven by a desperate sense of urgency, Burckhardt made Miss +Mitkin take her lunch hour first—the June-fifteenth-that-was-yesterday, +<i>he</i> had gone first. She went, looking vaguely worried about his strained +insistence, but it made no difference to Burckhardt's mood.</p> + +<p>The phone rang and Burckhardt picked it up abstractedly. "Contro +Chemicals Downtown, Burckhardt speaking."</p> + +<p>The voice said, "This is Swanson," and stopped.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt waited expectantly, but that was all. He said, "Hello?"</p> + +<p>Again the pause. Then Swanson asked in sad resignation, "Still +nothing, eh?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing what? Swanson, is there something you want? You came up to me +yesterday and went through this routine. You—"</p> + +<p>The voice crackled: "Burckhardt! Oh, my good heavens, <i>you remember</i>! +Stay right there—I'll be down in half an hour!"</p> + +<p>"What's this all about?"</p> + +<p>"Never mind," the little man said exultantly. "Tell you about it when +I see you. Don't say any more over the phone—somebody may be +listening. Just wait there. Say, hold on a minute. Will you be alone +in the office?"</p> + +<p>"Well, no. Miss Mitkin will probably—"</p> + +<p>"Hell. Look, Burckhardt, where do you eat lunch? Is it good and +noisy?"</p> + +<p>"Why, I suppose so. The Crystal Cafe. It's just about a block—"</p> + +<p>"I know where it is. Meet you in half an hour!" And the receiver +clicked.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="36" height="40" /></div> +<p>he Crystal Cafe was no longer painted red, but the temperature was +still up. And they had added piped-in music interspersed with +commercials. The advertisements were for Frosty-Flip, Marlin +Cigarettes—"They're sanitized," the announcer purred—and something +called Choco-Bite candy bars that Burckhardt couldn't remember ever +having heard of before. But he heard more about them quickly enough.</p> + +<p>While he was waiting for Swanson to show up, a girl in the cellophane +skirt of a nightclub cigarette vendor came through the restaurant with +a tray of tiny scarlet-wrapped candies.</p> + +<p>"Choco-Bites are <i>tangy</i>," she was murmuring as she came close to his +table. "Choco-Bites are <i>tangier</i> than tangy!"</p> + +<p>Burckhardt, intent on watching for the strange little man who had +phoned him, paid little attention. But as she scattered a handful of +the confections over the table next to his, smiling at the occupants, +he caught a glimpse of her and turned to stare.</p> + +<p>"Why, Miss Horn!" he said.</p> + +<p>The girl dropped her tray of candies.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt rose, concerned over the girl. "Is something wrong?"</p> + +<p>But she fled.</p> + +<p>The manager of the restaurant was staring suspiciously at Burckhardt, +who sank back in his seat and tried to look inconspicuous. He hadn't +insulted the girl! Maybe she was just a very strictly reared young +lady, he thought—in spite of the long bare legs under the cellophane +skirt—and when he addressed her, she thought he was a masher.</p> + +<p>Ridiculous idea. Burckhardt scowled uneasily and picked up his menu.</p> + +<p>"Burckhardt!" It was a shrill whisper.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt looked up over the top of his menu, startled. In the seat +across from him, the little man named Swanson was sitting, tensely +poised.</p> + +<p>"Burckhardt!" the little man whispered again. "Let's get out of here! +They're on to you now. If you want to stay alive, come on!"</p> + +<p>There was no arguing with the man. Burckhardt gave the hovering +manager a sick, apologetic smile and followed Swanson out. The little +man seemed to know where he was going. In the street, he clutched +Burckhardt by the elbow and hurried him off down the block.</p> + +<p>"Did you see her?" he demanded. "That Horn woman, in the phone booth? +She'll have them here in five minutes, believe me, so hurry it up!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_a.jpg" alt="A" width="37" height="40" /></div> +<p>lthough the street was full of people and cars, nobody was paying any +attention to Burckhardt and Swanson. The air had a nip in it—more +like October than June, Burckhardt thought, in spite of the weather +bureau. And he felt like a fool, following this mad little man down +the street, running away from some "them" toward—toward what? The +little man might be crazy, but he was afraid. And the fear was +infectious.</p> + +<p>"In here!" panted the little man.</p> + +<p>It was another restaurant—more of a bar, really, and a sort of +second-rate place that Burckhardt had never patronized.</p> + +<p>"Right straight through," Swanson whispered; and Burckhardt, like a +biddable boy, side-stepped through the mass of tables to the far end +of the restaurant.</p> + +<p>It was "L"-shaped, with a front on two streets at right angles to each +other. They came out on the side street, Swanson staring coldly back +at the question-looking cashier, and crossed to the opposite sidewalk.</p> + +<p>They were under the marquee of a movie theater. Swanson's expression +began to relax.</p> + +<p>"Lost them!" he crowed softly. "We're almost there."</p> + +<p>He stepped up to the window and bought two tickets. Burckhardt trailed +him in to the theater. It was a weekday matinee and the place was +almost empty. From the screen came sounds of gunfire and horse's +hoofs. A solitary usher, leaning against a bright brass rail, looked +briefly at them and went back to staring boredly at the picture as +Swanson led Burckhardt down a flight of carpeted marble steps.</p> + +<p>They were in the lounge and it was empty. There was a door for men and +one for ladies; and there was a third door, marked "MANAGER" in gold +letters. Swanson listened at the door, and gently opened it and peered +inside.</p> + +<p>"Okay," he said, gesturing.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt followed him through an empty office, to another door—a +closet, probably, because it was unmarked.</p> + +<p>But it was no closet. Swanson opened it warily, looked inside, then +motioned Burckhardt to follow.</p> + +<p>It was a tunnel, metal-walled, brightly lit. Empty, it stretched +vacantly away in both directions from them.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt looked wondering around. One thing he knew and knew full +well:</p> + +<p>No such tunnel belonged under Tylerton.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="36" height="40" /></div> +<p>here was a room off the tunnel with chairs and a desk and what looked +like television screens. Swanson slumped in a chair, panting.</p> + +<p>"We're all right for a while here," he wheezed. "They don't come here +much any more. If they do, we'll hear them and we can hide."</p> + +<p>"Who?" demanded Burckhardt.</p> + +<p>The little man said, "Martians!" His voice cracked on the word and the +life seemed to go out of him. In morose tones, he went on: "Well, I +think they're Martians. Although you could be right, you know; I've +had plenty of time to think it over these last few weeks, after they +got you, and it's possible they're Russians after all. Still—"</p> + +<p>"Start from the beginning. Who got me when?"</p> + +<p>Swanson sighed. "So we have to go through the whole thing again. All +right. It was about two months ago that you banged on my door, late at +night. You were all beat up—scared silly. You begged me to help +you—"</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> did?"</p> + +<p>"Naturally you don't remember any of this. Listen and you'll +understand. You were talking a blue streak about being captured and +threatened, and your wife being dead and coming back to life, and all +kinds of mixed-up nonsense. I thought you were crazy. But—well, I've +always had a lot of respect for you. And you begged me to hide you and +I have this darkroom, you know. It locks from the inside only. I put +the lock on myself. So we went in there—just to humor you—and along +about midnight, which was only fifteen or twenty minutes after, we +passed out."</p> + +<p>"Passed out?"</p> + +<p>Swanson nodded. "Both of us. It was like being hit with a sandbag. +Look, didn't that happen to you again last night?"</p> + +<p>"I guess it did," Burckhardt shook his head uncertainly.</p> + +<p>"Sure. And then all of a sudden we were awake again, and you said you +were going to show me something funny, and we went out and bought a +paper. And the date on it was June 15th."</p> + +<p>"June 15th? But that's today! I mean—"</p> + +<p>"You got it, friend. It's <i>always</i> today!"</p> + +<p>It took time to penetrate.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt said wonderingly, "You've hidden out in that darkroom for +how many weeks?"</p> + +<p>"How can I tell? Four or five, maybe. I lost count. And every day the +same—always the 15th of June, always my landlady, Mrs. Keefer, is +sweeping the front steps, always the same headline in the papers at +the corner. It gets monotonous, friend."</p> + + +<h2>IV</h2> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_i.jpg" alt="I" width="19" height="40" /></div> +<p>t was Burckhardt's idea and Swanson despised it, but he went along. +He was the type who always went along.</p> + +<p>"It's dangerous," he grumbled worriedly. "Suppose somebody comes by? +They'll spot us and—"</p> + +<p>"What have we got to lose?"</p> + +<p>Swanson shrugged. "It's dangerous," he said again. But he went along.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt's idea was very simple. He was sure of only one thing—the +tunnel went somewhere. Martians or Russians, fantastic plot or crazy +hallucination, whatever was wrong with Tylerton had an explanation, +and the place to look for it was at the end of the tunnel.</p> + +<p>They jogged along. It was more than a mile before they began to see an +end. They were in luck—at least no one came through the tunnel to +spot them. But Swanson had said that it was only at certain hours that +the tunnel seemed to be in use.</p> + +<p>Always the fifteenth of June. Why? Burckhardt asked himself. Never +mind the how. <i>Why?</i></p> + +<p>And falling asleep, completely involuntarily—everyone at the same +time, it seemed. And not remembering, never remembering +anything—Swanson had said how eagerly he saw Burckhardt again, the +morning after Burckhardt had incautiously waited five minutes too many +before retreating into the darkroom. When Swanson had come to, +Burckhardt was gone. Swanson had seen him in the street that +afternoon, but Burckhardt had remembered nothing.</p> + +<p>And Swanson had lived his mouse's existence for weeks, hiding in the +woodwork at night, stealing out by day to search for Burckhardt in +pitiful hope, scurrying around the fringe of life, trying to keep from +the deadly eyes of <i>them</i>.</p> + +<p>Them. One of "them" was the girl named April Horn. It was by seeing +her walk carelessly into a telephone booth and never come out that +Swanson had found the tunnel. Another was the man at the cigar stand +in Burckhardt's office building. There were more, at least a dozen +that Swanson knew of or suspected.</p> + +<p>They were easy enough to spot, once you knew where to look—for they, +alone in Tylerton, changed their roles from day to day. Burckhardt was +on that 8:51 bus, every morning of every day-that-was-June-15th, never +different by a hair or a moment. But April Horn was sometimes gaudy in +the cellophane skirt, giving away candy or cigarettes; sometimes +plainly dressed; sometimes not seen by Swanson at all.</p> + +<p>Russians? Martians? Whatever they were, what could they be hoping to +gain from this mad masquerade?</p> + +<p>Burckhardt didn't know the answer—but perhaps it lay beyond the door +at the end of the tunnel. They listened carefully and heard distant +sounds that could not quite be made out, but nothing that seemed +dangerous. They slipped through.</p> + +<p>And, through a wide chamber and up a flight of steps, they found they +were in what Burckhardt recognized as the Contro Chemicals plant.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_n.jpg" alt="N" width="37" height="40" /></div> +<p>obody was in sight. By itself, that was not so very odd—the +automatized factory had never had very many persons in it. But +Burckhardt remembered, from his single visit, the endless, ceaseless +busyness of the plant, the valves that opened and closed, the vats +that emptied themselves and filled themselves and stirred and cooked +and chemically tasted the bubbling liquids they held inside +themselves. The plant was never populated, but it was never still.</p> + +<p>Only—now it <i>was</i> still. Except for the distant sounds, there was no +breath of life in it. The captive electronic minds were sending out no +commands; the coils and relays were at rest.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt said, "Come on." Swanson reluctantly followed him through +the tangled aisles of stainless steel columns and tanks.</p> + +<p>They walked as though they were in the presence of the dead. In a way, +they were, for what were the automatons that once had run the factory, +if not corpses? The machines were controlled by computers that were +really not computers at all, but the electronic analogues of living +brains. And if they were turned off, were they not dead? For each had +once been a human mind.</p> + +<p>Take a master petroleum chemist, infinitely skilled in the separation +of crude oil into its fractions. Strap him down, probe into his brain +with searching electronic needles. The machine scans the patterns of +the mind, translates what it sees into charts and sine waves. Impress +these same waves on a robot computer and you have your chemist. Or a +thousand copies of your chemist, if you wish, with all of his +knowledge and skill, and no human limitations at all.</p> + +<p>Put a dozen copies of him into a plant and they will run it all, +twenty-four hours a day, seven days of every week, never tiring, never +overlooking anything, never forgetting....</p> + +<p>Swanson stepped up closer to Burckhardt. "I'm scared," he said.</p> + +<p>They were across the room now and the sounds were louder. They were +not machine sounds, but voices; Burckhardt moved cautiously up to a +door and dared to peer around it.</p> + +<p>It was a smaller room, lined with television screens, each one—a +dozen or more, at least—with a man or woman sitting before it, +staring into the screen and dictating notes into a recorder. The +viewers dialed from scene to scene; no two screens ever showed the +same picture.</p> + +<p>The pictures seemed to have little in common. One was a store, where a +girl dressed like April Horn was demonstrating home freezers. One was +a series of shots of kitchens. Burckhardt caught a glimpse of what +looked like the cigar stand in his office building.</p> + +<p>It was baffling and Burckhardt would have loved to stand there and +puzzle it out, but it was too busy a place. There was the chance that +someone would look their way or walk out and find them.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="36" height="40" /></div> +<p>hey found another room. This one was empty. It was an office, large +and sumptuous. It had a desk, littered with papers. Burckhardt stared +at them, briefly at first—then, as the words on one of them caught +his attention, with incredulous fascination.</p> + +<p>He snatched up the topmost sheet, scanned it, and another, while +Swanson was frenziedly searching through the drawers.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt swore unbelievingly and dropped the papers to the desk.</p> + +<p>Swanson, hardly noticing, yelped with delight: "Look!" He dragged a +gun from the desk. "And it's loaded, too!"</p> + +<p>Burckhardt stared at him blankly, trying to assimilate what he had +read. Then, as he realized what Swanson had said, Burckhardt's eyes +sparked. "Good man!" he cried. "We'll take it. We're getting out of +here with that gun, Swanson. And we're going to the police! Not the +cops in Tylerton, but the F.B.I., maybe. Take a look at this!"</p> + +<p>The sheaf he handed Swanson was headed: "Test Area Progress Report. +Subject: Marlin Cigarettes Campaign." It was mostly tabulated figures +that made little sense to Burckhardt and Swanson, but at the end was a +summary that said:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Although Test 47-K3 pulled nearly double the number of new +users of any of the other tests conducted, it probably +cannot be used in the field because of local sound-truck +control ordinances.</p> + +<p>The tests in the 47-K12 group were second best and our +recommendation is that retests be conducted in this appeal, +testing each of the three best campaigns with and without +the addition of sampling techniques.</p> + +<p>An alternative suggestion might be to proceed directly with +the top appeal in the K12 series, if the client is unwilling +to go to the expense of additional tests.</p> + +<p>All of these forecast expectations have an 80% probability +of being within one-half of one per cent of results +forecast, and more than 99% probability of coming within 5%.</p></div> + +<p>Swanson looked up from the paper into Burckhardt's eyes. "I don't get +it," he complained.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt said, "I don't blame you. It's crazy, but it fits the +facts, Swanson, <i>it fits the facts</i>. They aren't Russians and they +aren't Martians. These people are advertising men! Somehow—heaven +knows how they did it—they've taken Tylerton over. They've got us, +all of us, you and me and twenty or thirty thousand other people, +right under their thumbs.</p> + +<p>"Maybe they hypnotize us and maybe it's something else; but however +they do it, what happens is that they let us live a day at a time. +They pour advertising into us the whole damned day long. And at the +end of the day, they see what happened—and then they wash the day out +of our minds and start again the next day with different advertising."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_s.jpg" alt="S" width="26" height="40" /></div> +<p>wanson's jaw was hanging. He managed to close it and swallow. "Nuts!" +he said flatly.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt shook his head. "Sure, it sounds crazy—but this whole +thing is crazy. How else would you explain it? You can't deny that +most of Tylerton lives the same day over and over again. You've <i>seen</i> +it! And that's the crazy part and we have to admit that that's +true—unless we are the crazy ones. And once you admit that somebody, +somehow, knows how to accomplish that, the rest of it makes all kinds +of sense.</p> + +<p>"Think of it, Swanson! They test every last detail before they spend a +nickel on advertising! Do you have any idea what that means? Lord +knows how much money is involved, but I know for a fact that some +companies spend twenty or thirty million dollars a year on +advertising. Multiply it, say, by a hundred companies. Say that every +one of them learns how to cut its advertising cost by only ten per +cent. And that's peanuts, believe me!</p> + +<p>"If they know in advance what's going to work, they can cut their +costs in half—maybe to less than half, I don't know. But that's +saving two or three hundred million dollars a year—and if they pay +only ten or twenty per cent of that for the use of Tylerton, it's +still dirt cheap for them and a fortune for whoever took over +Tylerton."</p> + +<p>Swanson licked his lips. "You mean," he offered hesitantly, "that +we're a—well, a kind of captive audience?"</p> + +<p>Burckhardt frowned. "Not exactly." He thought for a minute. "You know +how a doctor tests something like penicillin? He sets up a series of +little colonies of germs on gelatine disks and he tries the stuff on +one after another, changing it a little each time. Well, that's +us—we're the germs, Swanson. Only it's even more efficient than that. +They don't have to test more than one colony, because they can use it +over and over again."</p> + +<p>It was too hard for Swanson to take in. He only said: "What do we do +about it?"</p> + +<p>"We go to the police. They can't use human beings for guinea pigs!"</p> + +<p>"How do we get to the police?"</p> + +<p>Burckhardt hesitated. "I think—" he began slowly. "Sure. This place +is the office of somebody important. We've got a gun. We'll stay right +here until he comes along. And he'll get us out of here."</p> + +<p>Simple and direct. Swanson subsided and found a place to sit, against +the wall, out of sight of the door. Burckhardt took up a position +behind the door itself—</p> + +<p>And waited.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="36" height="40" /></div> +<p>he wait was not as long as it might have been. Half an hour, perhaps. +Then Burckhardt heard approaching voices and had time for a swift +whisper to Swanson before he flattened himself against the wall.</p> + +<p>It was a man's voice, and a girl's. The man was saying, "—reason why +you couldn't report on the phone? You're ruining your whole day's +test! What the devil's the matter with you, Janet?"</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry, Mr. Dorchin," she said in a sweet, clear tone. "I thought +it was important."</p> + +<p>The man grumbled, "Important! One lousy unit out of twenty-one +thousand."</p> + +<p>"But it's the Burckhardt one, Mr. Dorchin. Again. And the way he got +out of sight, he must have had some help."</p> + +<p>"All right, all right. It doesn't matter, Janet; the Choco-Bite +program is ahead of schedule anyhow. As long as you're this far, come +on in the office and make out your worksheet. And don't worry about +the Burckhardt business. He's probably just wandering around. We'll +pick him up tonight and—"</p> + +<p>They were inside the door. Burckhardt kicked it shut and pointed the +gun.</p> + +<p>"That's what you think," he said triumphantly.</p> + +<p>It was worth the terrified hours, the bewildered sense of insanity, +the confusion and fear. It was the most satisfying sensation +Burckhardt had ever had in his life. The expression on the man's face +was one he had read about but never actually seen: Dorchin's mouth +fell open and his eyes went wide, and though he managed to make a +sound that might have been a question, it was not in words.</p> + +<p>The girl was almost as surprised. And Burckhardt, looking at her, knew +why her voice had been so familiar. The girl was the one who had +introduced herself to him as April Horn.</p> + +<p>Dorchin recovered himself quickly. "Is this the one?" he asked +sharply.</p> + +<p>The girl said, "Yes."</p> + +<p>Dorchin nodded. "I take it back. You were right. Uh, you—Burckhardt. +What do you want?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_s.jpg" alt="S" width="26" height="40" /></div> +<p>wanson piped up, "Watch him! He might have another gun."</p> + +<p>"Search him then," Burckhardt said. "I'll tell you what we want, +Dorchin. We want you to come along with us to the FBI and explain to +them how you can get away with kidnapping twenty thousand people."</p> + +<p>"Kidnapping?" Dorchin snorted. "That's ridiculous, man! Put that gun +away—you can't get away with this!"</p> + +<p>Burckhardt hefted the gun grimly. "I think I can."</p> + +<p>Dorchin looked furious and sick—but, oddly, not afraid. "Damn it—" +he started to bellow, then closed his mouth and swallowed. "Listen," +he said persuasively, "you're making a big mistake. I haven't +kidnapped anybody, believe me!"</p> + +<p>"I don't believe you," said Burckhardt bluntly. "Why should I?"</p> + +<p>"But it's true! Take my word for it!"</p> + +<p>Burckhardt shook his head. "The FBI can take your word if they like. +We'll find out. Now how do we get out of here?"</p> + +<p>Dorchin opened his mouth to argue.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt blazed: "Don't get in my way! I'm willing to kill you if I +have to. Don't you understand that? I've gone through two days of hell +and every second of it I blame on you. Kill you? It would be a +pleasure and I don't have a thing in the world to lose! Get us out of +here!"</p> + +<p>Dorchin's face went suddenly opaque. He seemed about to move; but the +blonde girl he had called Janet slipped between him and the gun.</p> + +<p>"Please!" she begged Burckhardt. "You don't understand. You mustn't +shoot!"</p> + +<p>"<i>Get out of my way!</i>"</p> + +<p>"But, Mr. Burckhardt—"</p> + +<p>She never finished. Dorchin, his face unreadable, headed for the door. +Burckhardt had been pushed one degree too far. He swung the gun, +bellowing. The girl called out sharply. He pulled the trigger. Closing +on him with pity and pleading in her eyes, she came again between the +gun and the man.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt aimed low instinctively, to cripple, not to kill. But his +aim was not good.</p> + +<p>The pistol bullet caught her in the pit of the stomach.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_d.jpg" alt="D" width="38" height="40" /></div> +<p>orchin was out and away, the door slamming behind him, his footsteps +racing into the distance.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt hurled the gun across the room and jumped to the girl.</p> + +<p>Swanson was moaning. "That finishes us, Burckhardt. Oh, why did you do +it? We could have got away. We could have gone to the police. We were +practically out of here! We—"</p> + +<p>Burckhardt wasn't listening. He was kneeling beside the girl. She lay +flat on her back, arms helter-skelter. There was no blood, hardly any +sign of the wound; but the position in which she lay was one that no +living human being could have held.</p> + +<p>Yet she wasn't dead.</p> + +<p>She wasn't dead—and Burckhardt, frozen beside her, thought: <i>She +isn't alive, either.</i></p> + +<p>There was no pulse, but there was a rhythmic ticking of the +outstretched fingers of one hand.</p> + +<p>There was no sound of breathing, but there was a hissing, sizzling +noise.</p> + +<p>The eyes were open and they were looking at Burckhardt. There was +neither fear nor pain in them, only a pity deeper than the Pit.</p> + +<p>She said, through lips that writhed erratically, "Don't—worry, Mr. +Burckhardt. I'm—all right."</p> + +<p>Burckhardt rocked back on his haunches, staring. Where there should +have been blood, there was a clean break of a substance that was not +flesh; and a curl of thin golden-copper wire.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt moistened his lips.</p> + +<p>"You're a robot," he said.</p> + +<p>The girl tried to nod. The twitching lips said, "I am. And so are +you."</p> + + +<h2>V</h2> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_s.jpg" alt="S" width="26" height="40" /></div> +<p>wanson, after a single inarticulate sound, walked over to the desk +and sat staring at the wall. Burckhardt rocked back and forth beside +the shattered puppet on the floor. He had no words.</p> + +<p>The girl managed to say, "I'm—sorry all this happened." The lovely +lips twisted into a rictus sneer, frightening on that smooth young +face, until she got them under control. "Sorry," she said again. +"The—nerve center was right about where the bullet hit. Makes it +difficult to—control this body."</p> + +<p>Burckhardt nodded automatically, accepting the apology. Robots. It was +obvious, now that he knew it. In hindsight, it was inevitable. He +thought of his mystic notions of hypnosis or Martians or something +stranger still—idiotic, for the simple fact of created robots fitted +the facts better and more economically.</p> + +<p>All the evidence had been before him. The automatized factory, with +its transplanted minds—why not transplant a mind into a humanoid +robot, give it its original owner's features and form?</p> + +<p>Could it know that it was a robot?</p> + +<p>"All of us," Burckhardt said, hardly aware that he spoke out loud. "My +wife and my secretary and you and the neighbors. All of us the same."</p> + +<p>"No." The voice was stronger. "Not exactly the same, all of us. I chose +it, you see. I—" this time the convulsed lips were not a random +contortion of the nerves—"I was an ugly woman, Mr. Burckhardt, and nearly +sixty years old. Life had passed me. And when Mr. Dorchin offered me the +chance to live again as a beautiful girl, I jumped at the opportunity. +Believe me, I <i>jumped</i>, in spite of its disadvantages. My flesh body is +still alive—it is sleeping, while I am here. I could go back to it. But I +never do."</p> + +<p>"And the rest of us?"</p> + +<p>"Different, Mr. Burckhardt. I work here. I'm carrying out Mr. +Dorchin's orders, mapping the results of the advertising tests, +watching you and the others live as he makes you live. I do it by +choice, but you have no choice. Because, you see, you are dead."</p> + +<p>"Dead?" cried Burckhardt; it was almost a scream.</p> + +<p>The blue eyes looked at him unwinkingly and he knew that it was no +lie. He swallowed, marveling at the intricate mechanisms that let him +swallow, and sweat, and eat.</p> + +<p>He said: "Oh. The explosion in my dream."</p> + +<p>"It was no dream. You are right—the explosion. That was real and this +plant was the cause of it. The storage tanks let go and what the blast +didn't get, the fumes killed a little later. But almost everyone died +in the blast, twenty-one thousand persons. You died with them and that +was Dorchin's chance."</p> + +<p>"The damned ghoul!" said Burckhardt.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="36" height="40" /></div> +<p>he twisted shoulders shrugged with an odd grace. "Why? You were gone. +And you and all the others were what Dorchin wanted—a whole town, a +perfect slice of America. It's as easy to transfer a pattern from a +dead brain as a living one. Easier—the dead can't say no. Oh, it took +work and money—the town was a wreck—but it was possible to rebuild +it entirely, especially because it wasn't necessary to have all the +details exact.</p> + +<p>"There were the homes where even the brains had been utterly +destroyed, and those are empty inside, and the cellars that needn't be +too perfect, and the streets that hardly matter. And anyway, it only +has to last for one day. The same day—June 15th—over and over +again; and if someone finds something a little wrong, somehow, the +discovery won't have time to snowball, wreck the validity of the +tests, because all errors are canceled out at midnight."</p> + +<p>The face tried to smile. "That's the dream, Mr. Burckhardt, that day +of June 15th, because you never really lived it. It's a present from +Mr. Dorchin, a dream that he gives you and then takes back at the end +of the day, when he has all his figures on how many of you responded +to what variation of which appeal, and the maintenance crews go down +the tunnel to go through the whole city, washing out the new dream +with their little electronic drains, and then the dream starts all +over again. On June 15th.</p> + +<p>"Always June 15th, because June 14th is the last day any of you can +remember alive. Sometimes the crews miss someone—as they missed you, +because you were under your boat. But it doesn't matter. The ones who +are missed give themselves away if they show it—and if they don't, it +doesn't affect the test. But they don't drain us, the ones of us who +work for Dorchin. We sleep when the power is turned off, just as you +do. When we wake up, though, we remember." The face contorted wildly. +"If I could only forget!"</p> + +<p>Burckhardt said unbelievingly, "All this to sell merchandise! It must +have cost millions!"</p> + +<p>The robot called April Horn said, "It did. But it has made millions +for Dorchin, too. And that's not the end of it. Once he finds the +master words that make people act, do you suppose he will stop with +that? Do you suppose—"</p> + +<p>The door opened, interrupting her. Burckhardt whirled. Belatedly +remembering Dorchin's flight, he raised the gun.</p> + +<p>"Don't shoot," ordered the voice calmly. It was not Dorchin; it was +another robot, this one not disguised with the clever plastics and +cosmetics, but shining plain. It said metallically: "Forget it, +Burckhardt. You're not accomplishing anything. Give me that gun before +you do any more damage. Give it to me <i>now</i>."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_b.jpg" alt="B" width="35" height="40" /></div> +<p>urckhardt bellowed angrily. The gleam on this robot torso was steel; +Burckhardt was not at all sure that his bullets would pierce it, or do +much harm if they did. He would have put it to the test—</p> + +<p>But from behind him came a whimpering, scurrying whirlwind; its name +was Swanson, hysterical with fear. He catapulted into Burckhardt and +sent him sprawling, the gun flying free.</p> + +<p>"Please!" begged Swanson incoherently, prostrate before the steel +robot. "He would have shot you—please don't hurt me! Let me work for +you, like that girl. I'll do anything, anything you tell me—"</p> + +<p>The robot voice said. "We don't need your help." It took two precise +steps and stood over the gun—and spurned it, left it lying on the +floor.</p> + +<p>The wrecked blonde robot said, without emotion, "I doubt that I can +hold out much longer, Mr. Dorchin."</p> + +<p>"Disconnect if you have to," replied the steel robot.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt blinked. "But you're not Dorchin!"</p> + +<p>The steel robot turned deep eyes on him. "I am," it said. "Not in the +flesh—but this is the body I am using at the moment. I doubt that you +can damage this one with the gun. The other robot body was more +vulnerable. Now will you stop this nonsense? I don't want to have to +damage you; you're too expensive for that. Will you just sit down and +let the maintenance crews adjust you?"</p> + +<p>Swanson groveled. "You—you won't punish us?"</p> + +<p>The steel robot had no expression, but its voice was almost surprised. +"Punish you?" it repeated on a rising note. "How?"</p> + +<p>Swanson quivered as though the word had been a whip; but Burckhardt +flared: "Adjust <i>him</i>, if he'll let you—but not me! You're going to +have to do me a lot of damage, Dorchin. I don't care what I cost or +how much trouble it's going to be to put me back together again. But +I'm going out of that door! If you want to stop me, you'll have to +kill me. You won't stop me any other way!"</p> + +<p>The steel robot took a half-step toward him, and Burckhardt +involuntarily checked his stride. He stood poised and shaking, ready +for death, ready for attack, ready for anything that might happen.</p> + +<p>Ready for anything except what did happen. For Dorchin's steel body +merely stepped aside, between Burckhardt and the gun, but leaving the +door free.</p> + +<p>"Go ahead," invited the steel robot. "Nobody's stopping you."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_o.jpg" alt="O" width="38" height="40" /></div> +<p>utside the door, Burckhardt brought up sharp. It was insane of +Dorchin to let him go! Robot or flesh, victim or beneficiary, there +was nothing to stop him from going to the FBI or whatever law he could +find away from Dorchin's synthetic empire, and telling his story. +Surely the corporations who paid Dorchin for test results had no +notion of the ghoul's technique he used; Dorchin would have to keep +it from them, for the breath of publicity would put a stop to it. +Walking out meant death, perhaps—but at that moment in his +pseudo-life, death was no terror for Burckhardt.</p> + +<p>There was no one in the corridor. He found a window and stared out of +it. There was Tylerton—an ersatz city, but looking so real and +familiar that Burckhardt almost imagined the whole episode a dream. It +was no dream, though. He was certain of that in his heart and equally +certain that nothing in Tylerton could help him now.</p> + +<p>It had to be the other direction.</p> + +<p>It took him a quarter of an hour to find a way, but he found +it—skulking through the corridors, dodging the suspicion of +footsteps, knowing for certain that his hiding was in vain, for +Dorchin was undoubtedly aware of every move he made. But no one +stopped him, and he found another door.</p> + +<p>It was a simple enough door from the inside. But when he opened it and +stepped out, it was like nothing he had ever seen.</p> + +<p>First there was light—brilliant, incredible, blinding light. +Burckhardt blinked upward, unbelieving and afraid.</p> + +<p>He was standing on a ledge of smooth, finished metal. Not a dozen +yards from his feet, the ledge dropped sharply away; he hardly dared +approach the brink, but even from where he stood he could see no +bottom to the chasm before him. And the gulf extended out of sight +into the glare on either side of him.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_n.jpg" alt="N" width="37" height="40" /></div> +<p>o wonder Dorchin could so easily give him his freedom! From the +factory, there was nowhere to go—but how incredible this fantastic +gulf, how impossible the hundred white and blinding suns that hung +above!</p> + +<p>A voice by his side said inquiringly, "Burckhardt?" And thunder rolled +the name, mutteringly soft, back and forth in the abyss before him.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt wet his lips. "Y-yes?" he croaked.</p> + +<p>"This is Dorchin. Not a robot this time, but Dorchin in the flesh, +talking to you on a hand mike. Now you have seen, Burckhardt. Now will +you be reasonable and let the maintenance crews take over?"</p> + +<p>Burckhardt stood paralyzed. One of the moving mountains in the +blinding glare came toward him.</p> + +<p>It towered hundreds of feet over his head; he stared up at its top, +squinting helplessly into the light.</p> + +<p>It looked like—</p> + +<p>Impossible!</p> + +<p>The voice in the loudspeaker at the door said, "Burckhardt?" But he +was unable to answer.</p> + +<p>A heavy rumbling sigh. "I see," said the voice. "You finally +understand. There's no place to go. You know it now. I could have told +you, but you might not have believed me, so it was better for you to +see it yourself. And after all, Burckhardt, why would I reconstruct a +city just the way it was before? I'm a businessman; I count costs. If +a thing has to be full-scale, I build it that way. But there wasn't +any need to in this case."</p> + +<p>From the mountain before him, Burckhardt helplessly saw a lesser cliff +descend carefully toward him. It was long and dark, and at the end of +it was whiteness, five-fingered whiteness....</p> + +<p>"Poor little Burckhardt," crooned the loudspeaker, while the echoes +rumbled through the enormous chasm that was only a workshop. "It must +have been quite a shock for you to find out you were living in a town +built on a table top."</p> + + +<h2>VI</h2> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_i.jpg" alt="I" width="19" height="40" /></div> +<p>t was the morning of June 15th, and Guy Burckhardt woke up screaming +out of a dream.</p> + +<p>It had been a monstrous and incomprehensible dream, of explosions and +shadowy figures that were not men and terror beyond words.</p> + +<p>He shuddered and opened his eyes.</p> + +<p>Outside his bedroom window, a hugely amplified voice was howling.</p> + +<p>Burckhardt stumbled over to the window and stared outside. There was +an out-of-season chill to the air, more like October than June; but +the scent was normal enough—except for the sound-truck that squatted +at curbside halfway down the block. Its speaker horns blared:</p> + +<p>"Are you a coward? Are you a fool? Are you going to let crooked +politicians steal the country from you? NO! Are you going to put up +with four more years of graft and crime? NO! Are you going to vote +straight Federal Party all up and down the ballot? YES! <i>You just bet +you are!</i>"</p> + +<p>Sometimes he screams, sometimes he wheedles, threatens, begs, cajoles ... +but his voice goes on and on through one June 15th after another.</p> + +<p class="p1"><b>—FREDERIK POHL</b></p> +<p> </p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/image_003.jpg" width="400" height="570" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Tunnel Under The World, by Frederik Pohl + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TUNNEL UNDER THE WORLD *** + +***** This file should be named 31979-h.htm or 31979-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/9/7/31979/ + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Tunnel Under The World + +Author: Frederik Pohl + +Illustrator: Emsh + +Release Date: April 14, 2010 [EBook #31979] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TUNNEL UNDER THE WORLD *** + + + + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1955. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. + copyright on this publication was renewed. + + + The Tunnel + + Under + + The World + + + By FREDERIK POHL + + + Pinching yourself is no way to see if you are dreaming. + Surgical instruments? Well, yes--but a mechanic's kit is + best of all! + + + Illustrated by EMSH + + * * * * * + + + + +On the morning of June 15th, Guy Burckhardt woke up screaming out of a +dream. + +It was more real than any dream he had ever had in his life. He could +still hear and feel the sharp, ripping-metal explosion, the violent +heave that had tossed him furiously out of bed, the searing wave of +heat. + +He sat up convulsively and stared, not believing what he saw, at the +quiet room and the bright sunlight coming in the window. + +He croaked, "Mary?" + +His wife was not in the bed next to him. The covers were tumbled and +awry, as though she had just left it, and the memory of the dream was +so strong that instinctively he found himself searching the floor to +see if the dream explosion had thrown her down. + +[Illustration] + +But she wasn't there. Of course she wasn't, he told himself, looking +at the familiar vanity and slipper chair, the uncracked window, the +unbuckled wall. It had only been a dream. + +"Guy?" His wife was calling him querulously from the foot of the +stairs. "Guy, dear, are you all right?" + +He called weakly, "Sure." + +There was a pause. Then Mary said doubtfully, "Breakfast is ready. Are +you sure you're all right? I thought I heard you yelling--" + +Burckhardt said more confidently, "I had a bad dream, honey. Be right +down." + + * * * * * + +In the shower, punching the lukewarm-and-cologne he favored, he told +himself that it had been a beaut of a dream. Still, bad dreams weren't +unusual, especially bad dreams about explosions. In the past thirty +years of H-bomb jitters, who had not dreamed of explosions? + +Even Mary had dreamed of them, it turned out, for he started to tell +her about the dream, but she cut him off. "You _did_?" Her voice was +astonished. "Why, dear, I dreamed the same thing! Well, almost the +same thing. I didn't actually _hear_ anything. I dreamed that +something woke me up, and then there was a sort of quick bang, and +then something hit me on the head. And that was all. Was yours like +that?" + +Burckhardt coughed. "Well, no," he said. Mary was not one of these +strong-as-a-man, brave-as-a-tiger women. It was not necessary, he +thought, to tell her all the little details of the dream that made it +seem so real. No need to mention the splintered ribs, and the salt +bubble in his throat, and the agonized knowledge that this was death. +He said, "Maybe there really was some kind of explosion downtown. +Maybe we heard it and it started us dreaming." + +Mary reached over and patted his hand absently. "Maybe," she agreed. +"It's almost half-past eight, dear. Shouldn't you hurry? You don't +want to be late to the office." + +He gulped his food, kissed her and rushed out--not so much to be on +time as to see if his guess had been right. + +But downtown Tylerton looked as it always had. Coming in on the bus, +Burckhardt watched critically out the window, seeking evidence of an +explosion. There wasn't any. If anything, Tylerton looked better than +it ever had before: It was a beautiful crisp day, the sky was +cloudless, the buildings were clean and inviting. They had, he +observed, steam-blasted the Power & Light Building, the town's only +skyscraper--that was the penalty of having Contro Chemical's main +plant on the outskirts of town; the fumes from the cascade stills left +their mark on stone buildings. + +None of the usual crowd were on the bus, so there wasn't anyone +Burckhardt could ask about the explosion. And by the time he got out +at the corner of Fifth and Lehigh and the bus rolled away with a muted +diesel moan, he had pretty well convinced himself that it was all +imagination. + +He stopped at the cigar stand in the lobby of his office building, but +Ralph wasn't behind the counter. The man who sold him his pack of +cigarettes was a stranger. + +"Where's Mr. Stebbins?" Burckhardt asked. + +The man said politely, "Sick, sir. He'll be in tomorrow. A pack of +Marlins today?" + +"Chesterfields," Burckhardt corrected. + +"Certainly, sir," the man said. But what he took from the rack and +slid across the counter was an unfamiliar green-and-yellow pack. + +"Do try these, sir," he suggested. "They contain an anti-cough factor. +Ever notice how ordinary cigarettes make you choke every once in a +while?" + + * * * * * + +Burckhardt said suspiciously, "I never heard of this brand." + +"Of course not. They're something new." Burckhardt hesitated, and the +man said persuasively, "Look, try them out at my risk. If you don't +like them, bring back the empty pack and I'll refund your money. Fair +enough?" + +Burckhardt shrugged. "How can I lose? But give me a pack of +Chesterfields, too, will you?" + +He opened the pack and lit one while he waited for the elevator. They +weren't bad, he decided, though he was suspicious of cigarettes that +had the tobacco chemically treated in any way. But he didn't think +much of Ralph's stand-in; it would raise hell with the trade at the +cigar stand if the man tried to give every customer the same +high-pressure sales talk. + +The elevator door opened with a low-pitched sound of music. Burckhardt +and two or three others got in and he nodded to them as the door +closed. The thread of music switched off and the speaker in the +ceiling of the cab began its usual commercials. + +No, not the _usual_ commercials, Burckhardt realized. He had been +exposed to the captive-audience commercials so long that they hardly +registered on the outer ear any more, but what was coming from the +recorded program in the basement of the building caught his +attention. It wasn't merely that the brands were mostly unfamiliar; it +was a difference in pattern. + +There were jingles with an insistent, bouncy rhythm, about soft drinks +he had never tasted. There was a rapid patter dialogue between what +sounded like two ten-year-old boys about a candy bar, followed by an +authoritative bass rumble: "Go right out and get a DELICIOUS +Choco-Bite and eat your TANGY Choco-Bite _all up_. That's +_Choco-Bite_!" There was a sobbing female whine: "I _wish_ I had a +Feckle Freezer! I'd do _anything_ for a Feckle Freezer!" Burckhardt +reached his floor and left the elevator in the middle of the last one. +It left him a little uneasy. The commercials were not for familiar +brands; there was no feeling of use and custom to them. + +But the office was happily normal--except that Mr. Barth wasn't in. +Miss Mitkin, yawning at the reception desk, didn't know exactly why. +"His home phoned, that's all. He'll be in tomorrow." + +"Maybe he went to the plant. It's right near his house." + +She looked indifferent. "Yeah." + +A thought struck Burckhardt. "But today is June 15th! It's quarterly +tax return day--he has to sign the return!" + +Miss Mitkin shrugged to indicate that that was Burckhardt's problem, +not hers. She returned to her nails. + +Thoroughly exasperated, Burckhardt went to his desk. It wasn't that he +couldn't sign the tax returns as well as Barth, he thought +resentfully. It simply wasn't his job, that was all; it was a +responsibility that Barth, as office manager for Contro Chemicals' +downtown office, should have taken. + + * * * * * + +He thought briefly of calling Barth at his home or trying to reach him +at the factory, but he gave up the idea quickly enough. He didn't +really care much for the people at the factory and the less contact he +had with them, the better. He had been to the factory once, with +Barth; it had been a confusing and, in a way, a frightening +experience. Barring a handful of executives and engineers, there +wasn't a soul in the factory--that is, Burckhardt corrected himself, +remembering what Barth had told him, not a _living_ soul--just the +machines. + +According to Barth, each machine was controlled by a sort of computer +which reproduced, in its electronic snarl, the actual memory and mind +of a human being. It was an unpleasant thought. Barth, laughing, had +assured him that there was no Frankenstein business of robbing +graveyards and implanting brains in machines. It was only a matter, he +said, of transferring a man's habit patterns from brain cells to +vacuum-tube cells. It didn't hurt the man and it didn't make the +machine into a monster. + +But they made Burckhardt uncomfortable all the same. + +He put Barth and the factory and all his other little irritations out +of his mind and tackled the tax returns. It took him until noon to +verify the figures--which Barth could have done out of his memory and +his private ledger in ten minutes, Burckhardt resentfully reminded +himself. + +He sealed them in an envelope and walked out to Miss Mitkin. "Since +Mr. Barth isn't here, we'd better go to lunch in shifts," he said. +"You can go first." + +"Thanks." Miss Mitkin languidly took her bag out of the desk drawer +and began to apply makeup. + +Burckhardt offered her the envelope. "Drop this in the mail for me, +will you? Uh--wait a minute. I wonder if I ought to phone Mr. Barth to +make sure. Did his wife say whether he was able to take phone calls?" + +"Didn't say." Miss Mitkin blotted her lips carefully with a Kleenex. +"Wasn't his wife, anyway. It was his daughter who called and left the +message." + +"The kid?" Burckhardt frowned. "I thought she was away at school." + +"She called, that's all I know." + +Burckhardt went back to his own office and stared distastefully at the +unopened mail on his desk. He didn't like nightmares; they spoiled his +whole day. He should have stayed in bed, like Barth. + + * * * * * + +A funny thing happened on his way home. There was a disturbance at the +corner where he usually caught his bus--someone was screaming +something about a new kind of deep-freeze--so he walked an extra +block. He saw the bus coming and started to trot. But behind him, +someone was calling his name. He looked over his shoulder; a small +harried-looking man was hurrying toward him. + +Burckhardt hesitated, and then recognized him. It was a casual +acquaintance named Swanson. Burckhardt sourly observed that he had +already missed the bus. + +He said, "Hello." + +Swanson's face was desperately eager. "Burckhardt?" he asked +inquiringly, with an odd intensity. And then he just stood there +silently, watching Burckhardt's face, with a burning eagerness that +dwindled to a faint hope and died to a regret. He was searching for +something, waiting for something, Burckhardt thought. But whatever it +was he wanted, Burckhardt didn't know how to supply it. + +Burckhardt coughed and said again, "Hello, Swanson." + +Swanson didn't even acknowledge the greeting. He merely sighed a very +deep sigh. + +"Nothing doing," he mumbled, apparently to himself. He nodded +abstractedly to Burckhardt and turned away. + +Burckhardt watched the slumped shoulders disappear in the crowd. It +was an _odd_ sort of day, he thought, and one he didn't much like. +Things weren't going right. + +Riding home on the next bus, he brooded about it. It wasn't anything +terrible or disastrous; it was something out of his experience +entirely. You live your life, like any man, and you form a network of +impressions and reactions. You _expect_ things. When you open your +medicine chest, your razor is expected to be on the second shelf; when +you lock your front door, you expect to have to give it a slight extra +tug to make it latch. + +It isn't the things that are right and perfect in your life that make +it familiar. It is the things that are just a little bit wrong--the +sticking latch, the light switch at the head of the stairs that needs +an extra push because the spring is old and weak, the rug that +unfailingly skids underfoot. + +It wasn't just that things were wrong with the pattern of Burckhardt's +life; it was that the _wrong_ things were wrong. For instance, Barth +hadn't come into the office, yet Barth _always_ came in. + +Burckhardt brooded about it through dinner. He brooded about it, +despite his wife's attempt to interest him in a game of bridge with +the neighbors, all through the evening. The neighbors were people he +liked--Anne and Farley Dennerman. He had known them all their lives. +But they were odd and brooding, too, this night and he barely listened +to Dennerman's complaints about not being able to get good phone +service or his wife's comments on the disgusting variety of television +commercials they had these days. + +Burckhardt was well on the way to setting an all-time record for +continuous abstraction when, around midnight, with a suddenness that +surprised him--he was strangely _aware_ of it happening--he turned +over in his bed and, quickly and completely, fell asleep. + + +II + +On the morning of June 15th, Burckhardt woke up screaming. + +[Illustration] + +It was more real than any dream he had ever had in his life. He could +still hear the explosion, feel the blast that crushed him against a +wall. It did not seem right that he should be sitting bolt upright in +bed in an undisturbed room. + +His wife came pattering up the stairs. "Darling!" she cried. "What's +the matter?" + +He mumbled, "Nothing. Bad dream." + +She relaxed, hand on heart. In an angry tone, she started to say: "You +gave me such a shock--" + +But a noise from outside interrupted her. There was a wail of sirens +and a clang of bells; it was loud and shocking. + +The Burckhardts stared at each other for a heartbeat, then hurried +fearfully to the window. + +There were no rumbling fire engines in the street, only a small panel +truck, cruising slowly along. Flaring loudspeaker horns crowned its +top. From them issued the screaming sound of sirens, growing in +intensity, mixed with the rumble of heavy-duty engines and the sound +of bells. It was a perfect record of fire engines arriving at a +four-alarm blaze. + +Burckhardt said in amazement, "Mary, that's against the law! Do you +know what they're doing? They're playing records of a fire. What are +they up to?" + +"Maybe it's a practical joke," his wife offered. + +"Joke? Waking up the whole neighborhood at six o'clock in the +morning?" He shook his head. "The police will be here in ten minutes," +he predicted. "Wait and see." + +But the police weren't--not in ten minutes, or at all. Whoever the +pranksters in the car were, they apparently had a police permit for +their games. + +The car took a position in the middle of the block and stood silent +for a few minutes. Then there was a crackle from the speaker, and a +giant voice chanted: + + "Feckle Freezers! + Feckle Freezers! + Gotta have a + Feckle Freezer! + Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, + Feckle, Feckle, Feckle--" + +It went on and on. Every house on the block had faces staring out of +windows by then. The voice was not merely loud; it was nearly +deafening. + +Burckhardt shouted to his wife, over the uproar, "What the hell is a +Feckle Freezer?" + +"Some kind of a freezer, I guess, dear," she shrieked back +unhelpfully. + + * * * * * + +Abruptly the noise stopped and the truck stood silent. It was still +misty morning; the Sun's rays came horizontally across the rooftops. +It was impossible to believe that, a moment ago, the silent block had +been bellowing the name of a freezer. + +"A crazy advertising trick," Burckhardt said bitterly. He yawned and +turned away from the window. "Might as well get dressed. I guess +that's the end of--" + +The bellow caught him from behind; it was almost like a hard slap on +the ears. A harsh, sneering voice, louder than the arch-angel's +trumpet, howled: + +"Have you got a freezer? _It stinks!_ If it isn't a Feckle Freezer, +_it stinks_! If it's a last year's Feckle Freezer, _it stinks_! Only +this year's Feckle Freezer is any good at all! You know who owns an +Ajax Freezer? Fairies own Ajax Freezers! You know who owns a +Triplecold Freezer? Commies own Triplecold Freezers! Every freezer but +a brand-new Feckle Freezer _stinks_!" + +The voice screamed inarticulately with rage. "I'm warning you! Get out +and buy a Feckle Freezer right away! Hurry up! Hurry for Feckle! Hurry +for Feckle! Hurry, hurry, hurry, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, +Feckle, Feckle...." + +It stopped eventually. Burckhardt licked his lips. He started to say +to his wife, "Maybe we ought to call the police about--" when the +speakers erupted again. It caught him off guard; it was intended to +catch him off guard. It screamed: + +"Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle. Cheap +freezers ruin your food. You'll get sick and throw up. You'll get sick +and die. Buy a Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle! Ever take a piece of +meat out of the freezer you've got and see how rotten and moldy it is? +Buy a Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle, Feckle. Do you want to eat +rotten, stinking food? Or do you want to wise up and buy a Feckle, +Feckle, Feckle--" + +That did it. With fingers that kept stabbing the wrong holes, +Burckhardt finally managed to dial the local police station. He got a +busy signal--it was apparent that he was not the only one with the +same idea--and while he was shakingly dialing again, the noise outside +stopped. + +He looked out the window. The truck was gone. + + * * * * * + +Burckhardt loosened his tie and ordered another Frosty-Flip from the +waiter. If only they wouldn't keep the Crystal Cafe so _hot_! The new +paint job--searing reds and blinding yellows--was bad enough, but +someone seemed to have the delusion that this was January instead of +June; the place was a good ten degrees warmer than outside. + +He swallowed the Frosty-Flip in two gulps. It had a kind of peculiar +flavor, he thought, but not bad. It certainly cooled you off, just as +the waiter had promised. He reminded himself to pick up a carton of +them on the way home; Mary might like them. She was always interested +in something new. + +He stood up awkwardly as the girl came across the restaurant toward +him. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in Tylerton. +Chin-height, honey-blonde hair and a figure that--well, it was all +hers. There was no doubt in the world that the dress that clung to her +was the only thing she wore. He felt as if he were blushing as she +greeted him. + +"Mr. Burckhardt." The voice was like distant tomtoms. "It's wonderful +of you to let me see you, after this morning." + +He cleared his throat. "Not at all. Won't you sit down, Miss--" + +"April Horn," she murmured, sitting down--beside him, not where he had +pointed on the other side of the table. "Call me April, won't you?" + +She was wearing some kind of perfume, Burckhardt noted with what +little of his mind was functioning at all. It didn't seem fair that +she should be using perfume as well as everything else. He came to +with a start and realized that the waiter was leaving with an order +for _filets mignon_ for two. + +"Hey!" he objected. + +"Please, Mr. Burckhardt." Her shoulder was against his, her face was +turned to him, her breath was warm, her expression was tender and +solicitous. "This is all on the Feckle Corporation. Please let +them--it's the _least_ they can do." + +He felt her hand burrowing into his pocket. + +"I put the price of the meal into your pocket," she whispered +conspiratorially. "Please do that for me, won't you? I mean I'd +appreciate it if you'd pay the waiter--I'm old-fashioned about things +like that." + +She smiled meltingly, then became mock-businesslike. "But you must +take the money," she insisted. "Why, you're letting Feckle off lightly +if you do! You could sue them for every nickel they've got, disturbing +your sleep like that." + + * * * * * + +With a dizzy feeling, as though he had just seen someone make a rabbit +disappear into a top hat, he said, "Why, it really wasn't so bad, uh, +April. A little noisy, maybe, but--" + +"Oh, Mr. Burckhardt!" The blue eyes were wide and admiring. "I knew +you'd understand. It's just that--well, it's such a _wonderful_ +freezer that some of the outside men get carried away, so to speak. As +soon as the main office found out about what happened, they sent +representatives around to every house on the block to apologize. Your +wife told us where we could phone you--and I'm so very pleased that +you were willing to let me have lunch with you, so that I could +apologize, too. Because truly, Mr. Burckhardt, it is a _fine_ freezer. + +"I shouldn't tell you this, but--" the blue eyes were shyly +lowered--"I'd do almost anything for Feckle Freezers. It's more than a +job to me." She looked up. She was enchanting. "I bet you think I'm +silly, don't you?" + +Burckhardt coughed. "Well, I--" + +"Oh, you don't want to be unkind!" She shook her head. "No, don't +pretend. You think it's silly. But really, Mr. Burckhardt, you +wouldn't think so if you knew more about the Feckle. Let me show you +this little booklet--" + +Burckhardt got back from lunch a full hour late. It wasn't only the +girl who delayed him. There had been a curious interview with a little +man named Swanson, whom he barely knew, who had stopped him with +desperate urgency on the street--and then left him cold. + +But it didn't matter much. Mr. Barth, for the first time since +Burckhardt had worked there, was out for the day--leaving Burckhardt +stuck with the quarterly tax returns. + +What did matter, though, was that somehow he had signed a purchase +order for a twelve-cubic-foot Feckle Freezer, upright model, +self-defrosting, list price $625, with a ten per cent "courtesy" +discount--"Because of that _horrid_ affair this morning, Mr. +Burckhardt," she had said. + +And he wasn't sure how he could explain it to his wife. + + * * * * * + +He needn't have worried. As he walked in the front door, his wife said +almost immediately, "I wonder if we can't afford a new freezer, dear. +There was a man here to apologize about that noise and--well, we got +to talking and--" + +She had signed a purchase order, too. + +It had been the damnedest day, Burckhardt thought later, on his way up +to bed. But the day wasn't done with him yet. At the head of the +stairs, the weakened spring in the electric light switch refused to +click at all. He snapped it back and forth angrily and, of course, +succeeded in jarring the tumbler out of its pins. The wires shorted +and every light in the house went out. + +"Damn!" said Guy Burckhardt. + +"Fuse?" His wife shrugged sleepily. "Let it go till the morning, +dear." + +Burckhardt shook his head. "You go back to bed. I'll be right along." + +It wasn't so much that he cared about fixing the fuse, but he was too +restless for sleep. He disconnected the bad switch with a screwdriver, +stumbled down into the black kitchen, found the flashlight and climbed +gingerly down the cellar stairs. He located a spare fuse, pushed an +empty trunk over to the fuse box to stand on and twisted out the old +fuse. + +When the new one was in, he heard the starting click and steady drone +of the refrigerator in the kitchen overhead. + +He headed back to the steps, and stopped. + +Where the old trunk had been, the cellar floor gleamed oddly bright. +He inspected it in the flashlight beam. It was metal! + +"Son of a gun," said Guy Burckhardt. He shook his head unbelievingly. +He peered closer, rubbed the edges of the metallic patch with his +thumb and acquired an annoying cut--the edges were _sharp_. + +The stained cement floor of the cellar was a thin shell. He found a +hammer and cracked it off in a dozen spots--everywhere was metal. + +The whole cellar was a copper box. Even the cement-brick walls were +false fronts over a metal sheath! + + * * * * * + +Baffled, he attacked one of the foundation beams. That, at least, was +real wood. The glass in the cellar windows was real glass. + +He sucked his bleeding thumb and tried the base of the cellar stairs. +Real wood. He chipped at the bricks under the oil burner. Real bricks. +The retaining walls, the floor--they were faked. + +It was as though someone had shored up the house with a frame of metal +and then laboriously concealed the evidence. + +The biggest surprise was the upside-down boat hull that blocked the +rear half of the cellar, relic of a brief home workshop period that +Burckhardt had gone through a couple of years before. From above, it +looked perfectly normal. Inside, though, where there should have been +thwarts and seats and lockers, there was a mere tangle of braces, +rough and unfinished. + +"But I _built_ that!" Burckhardt exclaimed, forgetting his thumb. He +leaned against the hull dizzily, trying to think this thing through. +For reasons beyond his comprehension, someone had taken his boat and +his cellar away, maybe his whole house, and replaced them with a +clever mock-up of the real thing. + +"That's crazy," he said to the empty cellar. He stared around in the +light of the flash. He whispered, "What in the name of Heaven would +anybody do that for?" + +Reason refused an answer; there wasn't any reasonable answer. For long +minutes, Burckhardt contemplated the uncertain picture of his own +sanity. + +He peered under the boat again, hoping to reassure himself that it was +a mistake, just his imagination. But the sloppy, unfinished bracing +was unchanged. He crawled under for a better look, feeling the rough +wood incredulously. Utterly impossible! + +He switched off the flashlight and started to wriggle out. But he +didn't make it. In the moment between the command to his legs to move +and the crawling out, he felt a sudden draining weariness flooding +through him. + +Consciousness went--not easily, but as though it were being taken +away, and Guy Burckhardt was asleep. + + +III + +On the morning of June 16th, Guy Burckhardt woke up in a cramped +position huddled under the hull of the boat in his basement--and raced +upstairs to find it was June 15th. + +The first thing he had done was to make a frantic, hasty inspection of +the boat hull, the faked cellar floor, the imitation stone. They were +all as he had remembered them--all completely unbelievable. + +The kitchen was its placid, unexciting self. The electric clock was +purring soberly around the dial. Almost six o'clock, it said. His wife +would be waking at any moment. + +Burckhardt flung open the front door and stared out into the quiet +street. The morning paper was tossed carelessly against the steps--and +as he retrieved it, he noticed that this was the 15th day of June. + +But that was impossible. _Yesterday_ was the 15th of June. It was not +a date one would forget--it was quarterly tax-return day. + +He went back into the hall and picked up the telephone; he dialed for +Weather Information, and got a well-modulated chant: "--and cooler, +some showers. Barometric pressure thirty point zero four, rising ... +United States Weather Bureau forecast for June 15th. Warm and sunny, +with high around--" + +He hung the phone up. June 15th. + +"Holy heaven!" Burckhardt said prayerfully. Things were very odd +indeed. He heard the ring of his wife's alarm and bounded up the +stairs. + +Mary Burckhardt was sitting upright in bed with the terrified, +uncomprehending stare of someone just waking out of a nightmare. + +"Oh!" she gasped, as her husband came in the room. "Darling, I just +had the most _terrible_ dream! It was like an explosion and--" + +"Again?" Burckhardt asked, not very sympathetically. "Mary, +something's funny! I _knew_ there was something wrong all day +yesterday and--" + +He went on to tell her about the copper box that was the cellar, and +the odd mock-up someone had made of his boat. Mary looked astonished, +then alarmed, then placatory and uneasy. + +She said, "Dear, are you _sure_? Because I was cleaning that old trunk +out just last week and I didn't notice anything." + +"Positive!" said Guy Burckhardt. "I dragged it over to the wall to +step on it to put a new fuse in after we blew the lights out and--" + +"After we what?" Mary was looking more than merely alarmed. + +"After we blew the lights out. You know, when the switch at the head +of the stairs stuck. I went down to the cellar and--" + +Mary sat up in bed. "Guy, the switch didn't stick. I turned out the +lights myself last night." + +Burckhardt glared at his wife. "Now I _know_ you didn't! Come here and +take a look!" + +He stalked out to the landing and dramatically pointed to the bad +switch, the one that he had unscrewed and left hanging the night +before.... + +Only it wasn't. It was as it had always been. Unbelieving, Burckhardt +pressed it and the lights sprang up in both halls. + + * * * * * + +Mary, looking pale and worried, left him to go down to the kitchen and +start breakfast. Burckhardt stood staring at the switch for a long +time. His mental processes were gone beyond the point of disbelief and +shock; they simply were not functioning. + +He shaved and dressed and ate his breakfast in a state of numb +introspection. Mary didn't disturb him; she was apprehensive and +soothing. She kissed him good-by as he hurried out to the bus without +another word. + +Miss Mitkin, at the reception desk, greeted him with a yawn. +"Morning," she said drowsily. "Mr. Barth won't be in today." + +Burckhardt started to say something, but checked himself. She would +not know that Barth hadn't been in yesterday, either, because she was +tearing a June 14th pad off her calendar to make way for the "new" +June 15th sheet. + +He staggered to his own desk and stared unseeingly at the morning's +mail. It had not even been opened yet, but he knew that the Factory +Distributors envelope contained an order for twenty thousand feet of +the new acoustic tile, and the one from Finebeck & Sons was a +complaint. + +After a long while, he forced himself to open them. They were. + +By lunchtime, driven by a desperate sense of urgency, Burckhardt made Miss +Mitkin take her lunch hour first--the June-fifteenth-that-was-yesterday, +_he_ had gone first. She went, looking vaguely worried about his strained +insistence, but it made no difference to Burckhardt's mood. + +The phone rang and Burckhardt picked it up abstractedly. "Contro +Chemicals Downtown, Burckhardt speaking." + +The voice said, "This is Swanson," and stopped. + +Burckhardt waited expectantly, but that was all. He said, "Hello?" + +Again the pause. Then Swanson asked in sad resignation, "Still +nothing, eh?" + +"Nothing what? Swanson, is there something you want? You came up to me +yesterday and went through this routine. You--" + +The voice crackled: "Burckhardt! Oh, my good heavens, _you remember_! +Stay right there--I'll be down in half an hour!" + +"What's this all about?" + +"Never mind," the little man said exultantly. "Tell you about it when +I see you. Don't say any more over the phone--somebody may be +listening. Just wait there. Say, hold on a minute. Will you be alone +in the office?" + +"Well, no. Miss Mitkin will probably--" + +"Hell. Look, Burckhardt, where do you eat lunch? Is it good and +noisy?" + +"Why, I suppose so. The Crystal Cafe. It's just about a block--" + +"I know where it is. Meet you in half an hour!" And the receiver +clicked. + + * * * * * + +The Crystal Cafe was no longer painted red, but the temperature was +still up. And they had added piped-in music interspersed with +commercials. The advertisements were for Frosty-Flip, Marlin +Cigarettes--"They're sanitized," the announcer purred--and something +called Choco-Bite candy bars that Burckhardt couldn't remember ever +having heard of before. But he heard more about them quickly enough. + +While he was waiting for Swanson to show up, a girl in the cellophane +skirt of a nightclub cigarette vendor came through the restaurant with +a tray of tiny scarlet-wrapped candies. + +"Choco-Bites are _tangy_," she was murmuring as she came close to his +table. "Choco-Bites are _tangier_ than tangy!" + +Burckhardt, intent on watching for the strange little man who had +phoned him, paid little attention. But as she scattered a handful of +the confections over the table next to his, smiling at the occupants, +he caught a glimpse of her and turned to stare. + +"Why, Miss Horn!" he said. + +The girl dropped her tray of candies. + +Burckhardt rose, concerned over the girl. "Is something wrong?" + +But she fled. + +The manager of the restaurant was staring suspiciously at Burckhardt, +who sank back in his seat and tried to look inconspicuous. He hadn't +insulted the girl! Maybe she was just a very strictly reared young +lady, he thought--in spite of the long bare legs under the cellophane +skirt--and when he addressed her, she thought he was a masher. + +Ridiculous idea. Burckhardt scowled uneasily and picked up his menu. + +"Burckhardt!" It was a shrill whisper. + +Burckhardt looked up over the top of his menu, startled. In the seat +across from him, the little man named Swanson was sitting, tensely +poised. + +"Burckhardt!" the little man whispered again. "Let's get out of here! +They're on to you now. If you want to stay alive, come on!" + +There was no arguing with the man. Burckhardt gave the hovering +manager a sick, apologetic smile and followed Swanson out. The little +man seemed to know where he was going. In the street, he clutched +Burckhardt by the elbow and hurried him off down the block. + +"Did you see her?" he demanded. "That Horn woman, in the phone booth? +She'll have them here in five minutes, believe me, so hurry it up!" + + * * * * * + +Although the street was full of people and cars, nobody was paying any +attention to Burckhardt and Swanson. The air had a nip in it--more +like October than June, Burckhardt thought, in spite of the weather +bureau. And he felt like a fool, following this mad little man down +the street, running away from some "them" toward--toward what? The +little man might be crazy, but he was afraid. And the fear was +infectious. + +"In here!" panted the little man. + +It was another restaurant--more of a bar, really, and a sort of +second-rate place that Burckhardt had never patronized. + +"Right straight through," Swanson whispered; and Burckhardt, like a +biddable boy, side-stepped through the mass of tables to the far end +of the restaurant. + +It was "L"-shaped, with a front on two streets at right angles to each +other. They came out on the side street, Swanson staring coldly back +at the question-looking cashier, and crossed to the opposite sidewalk. + +They were under the marquee of a movie theater. Swanson's expression +began to relax. + +"Lost them!" he crowed softly. "We're almost there." + +He stepped up to the window and bought two tickets. Burckhardt trailed +him in to the theater. It was a weekday matinee and the place was +almost empty. From the screen came sounds of gunfire and horse's +hoofs. A solitary usher, leaning against a bright brass rail, looked +briefly at them and went back to staring boredly at the picture as +Swanson led Burckhardt down a flight of carpeted marble steps. + +They were in the lounge and it was empty. There was a door for men and +one for ladies; and there was a third door, marked "MANAGER" in gold +letters. Swanson listened at the door, and gently opened it and peered +inside. + +"Okay," he said, gesturing. + +Burckhardt followed him through an empty office, to another door--a +closet, probably, because it was unmarked. + +But it was no closet. Swanson opened it warily, looked inside, then +motioned Burckhardt to follow. + +It was a tunnel, metal-walled, brightly lit. Empty, it stretched +vacantly away in both directions from them. + +Burckhardt looked wondering around. One thing he knew and knew full +well: + +No such tunnel belonged under Tylerton. + + * * * * * + +There was a room off the tunnel with chairs and a desk and what looked +like television screens. Swanson slumped in a chair, panting. + +"We're all right for a while here," he wheezed. "They don't come here +much any more. If they do, we'll hear them and we can hide." + +"Who?" demanded Burckhardt. + +The little man said, "Martians!" His voice cracked on the word and the +life seemed to go out of him. In morose tones, he went on: "Well, I +think they're Martians. Although you could be right, you know; I've +had plenty of time to think it over these last few weeks, after they +got you, and it's possible they're Russians after all. Still--" + +"Start from the beginning. Who got me when?" + +Swanson sighed. "So we have to go through the whole thing again. All +right. It was about two months ago that you banged on my door, late at +night. You were all beat up--scared silly. You begged me to help +you--" + +"_I_ did?" + +"Naturally you don't remember any of this. Listen and you'll +understand. You were talking a blue streak about being captured and +threatened, and your wife being dead and coming back to life, and all +kinds of mixed-up nonsense. I thought you were crazy. But--well, I've +always had a lot of respect for you. And you begged me to hide you and +I have this darkroom, you know. It locks from the inside only. I put +the lock on myself. So we went in there--just to humor you--and along +about midnight, which was only fifteen or twenty minutes after, we +passed out." + +"Passed out?" + +Swanson nodded. "Both of us. It was like being hit with a sandbag. +Look, didn't that happen to you again last night?" + +"I guess it did," Burckhardt shook his head uncertainly. + +"Sure. And then all of a sudden we were awake again, and you said you +were going to show me something funny, and we went out and bought a +paper. And the date on it was June 15th." + +"June 15th? But that's today! I mean--" + +"You got it, friend. It's _always_ today!" + +It took time to penetrate. + +Burckhardt said wonderingly, "You've hidden out in that darkroom for +how many weeks?" + +"How can I tell? Four or five, maybe. I lost count. And every day the +same--always the 15th of June, always my landlady, Mrs. Keefer, is +sweeping the front steps, always the same headline in the papers at +the corner. It gets monotonous, friend." + + +IV + +It was Burckhardt's idea and Swanson despised it, but he went along. +He was the type who always went along. + +"It's dangerous," he grumbled worriedly. "Suppose somebody comes by? +They'll spot us and--" + +"What have we got to lose?" + +Swanson shrugged. "It's dangerous," he said again. But he went along. + +Burckhardt's idea was very simple. He was sure of only one thing--the +tunnel went somewhere. Martians or Russians, fantastic plot or crazy +hallucination, whatever was wrong with Tylerton had an explanation, +and the place to look for it was at the end of the tunnel. + +They jogged along. It was more than a mile before they began to see an +end. They were in luck--at least no one came through the tunnel to +spot them. But Swanson had said that it was only at certain hours that +the tunnel seemed to be in use. + +Always the fifteenth of June. Why? Burckhardt asked himself. Never +mind the how. _Why?_ + +And falling asleep, completely involuntarily--everyone at the same +time, it seemed. And not remembering, never remembering +anything--Swanson had said how eagerly he saw Burckhardt again, the +morning after Burckhardt had incautiously waited five minutes too many +before retreating into the darkroom. When Swanson had come to, +Burckhardt was gone. Swanson had seen him in the street that +afternoon, but Burckhardt had remembered nothing. + +And Swanson had lived his mouse's existence for weeks, hiding in the +woodwork at night, stealing out by day to search for Burckhardt in +pitiful hope, scurrying around the fringe of life, trying to keep from +the deadly eyes of _them_. + +Them. One of "them" was the girl named April Horn. It was by seeing +her walk carelessly into a telephone booth and never come out that +Swanson had found the tunnel. Another was the man at the cigar stand +in Burckhardt's office building. There were more, at least a dozen +that Swanson knew of or suspected. + +They were easy enough to spot, once you knew where to look--for they, +alone in Tylerton, changed their roles from day to day. Burckhardt was +on that 8:51 bus, every morning of every day-that-was-June-15th, never +different by a hair or a moment. But April Horn was sometimes gaudy in +the cellophane skirt, giving away candy or cigarettes; sometimes +plainly dressed; sometimes not seen by Swanson at all. + +Russians? Martians? Whatever they were, what could they be hoping to +gain from this mad masquerade? + +Burckhardt didn't know the answer--but perhaps it lay beyond the door +at the end of the tunnel. They listened carefully and heard distant +sounds that could not quite be made out, but nothing that seemed +dangerous. They slipped through. + +And, through a wide chamber and up a flight of steps, they found they +were in what Burckhardt recognized as the Contro Chemicals plant. + + * * * * * + +Nobody was in sight. By itself, that was not so very odd--the +automatized factory had never had very many persons in it. But +Burckhardt remembered, from his single visit, the endless, ceaseless +busyness of the plant, the valves that opened and closed, the vats +that emptied themselves and filled themselves and stirred and cooked +and chemically tasted the bubbling liquids they held inside +themselves. The plant was never populated, but it was never still. + +Only--now it _was_ still. Except for the distant sounds, there was no +breath of life in it. The captive electronic minds were sending out no +commands; the coils and relays were at rest. + +Burckhardt said, "Come on." Swanson reluctantly followed him through +the tangled aisles of stainless steel columns and tanks. + +They walked as though they were in the presence of the dead. In a way, +they were, for what were the automatons that once had run the factory, +if not corpses? The machines were controlled by computers that were +really not computers at all, but the electronic analogues of living +brains. And if they were turned off, were they not dead? For each had +once been a human mind. + +Take a master petroleum chemist, infinitely skilled in the separation +of crude oil into its fractions. Strap him down, probe into his brain +with searching electronic needles. The machine scans the patterns of +the mind, translates what it sees into charts and sine waves. Impress +these same waves on a robot computer and you have your chemist. Or a +thousand copies of your chemist, if you wish, with all of his +knowledge and skill, and no human limitations at all. + +Put a dozen copies of him into a plant and they will run it all, +twenty-four hours a day, seven days of every week, never tiring, never +overlooking anything, never forgetting.... + +Swanson stepped up closer to Burckhardt. "I'm scared," he said. + +They were across the room now and the sounds were louder. They were +not machine sounds, but voices; Burckhardt moved cautiously up to a +door and dared to peer around it. + +It was a smaller room, lined with television screens, each one--a +dozen or more, at least--with a man or woman sitting before it, +staring into the screen and dictating notes into a recorder. The +viewers dialed from scene to scene; no two screens ever showed the +same picture. + +The pictures seemed to have little in common. One was a store, where a +girl dressed like April Horn was demonstrating home freezers. One was +a series of shots of kitchens. Burckhardt caught a glimpse of what +looked like the cigar stand in his office building. + +It was baffling and Burckhardt would have loved to stand there and +puzzle it out, but it was too busy a place. There was the chance that +someone would look their way or walk out and find them. + + * * * * * + +They found another room. This one was empty. It was an office, large +and sumptuous. It had a desk, littered with papers. Burckhardt stared +at them, briefly at first--then, as the words on one of them caught +his attention, with incredulous fascination. + +He snatched up the topmost sheet, scanned it, and another, while +Swanson was frenziedly searching through the drawers. + +Burckhardt swore unbelievingly and dropped the papers to the desk. + +Swanson, hardly noticing, yelped with delight: "Look!" He dragged a +gun from the desk. "And it's loaded, too!" + +Burckhardt stared at him blankly, trying to assimilate what he had +read. Then, as he realized what Swanson had said, Burckhardt's eyes +sparked. "Good man!" he cried. "We'll take it. We're getting out of +here with that gun, Swanson. And we're going to the police! Not the +cops in Tylerton, but the F.B.I., maybe. Take a look at this!" + +The sheaf he handed Swanson was headed: "Test Area Progress Report. +Subject: Marlin Cigarettes Campaign." It was mostly tabulated figures +that made little sense to Burckhardt and Swanson, but at the end was a +summary that said: + + Although Test 47-K3 pulled nearly double the number of new + users of any of the other tests conducted, it probably + cannot be used in the field because of local sound-truck + control ordinances. + + The tests in the 47-K12 group were second best and our + recommendation is that retests be conducted in this appeal, + testing each of the three best campaigns with and without + the addition of sampling techniques. + + An alternative suggestion might be to proceed directly with + the top appeal in the K12 series, if the client is unwilling + to go to the expense of additional tests. + + All of these forecast expectations have an 80% probability + of being within one-half of one per cent of results + forecast, and more than 99% probability of coming within 5%. + +Swanson looked up from the paper into Burckhardt's eyes. "I don't get +it," he complained. + +Burckhardt said, "I don't blame you. It's crazy, but it fits the +facts, Swanson, _it fits the facts_. They aren't Russians and they +aren't Martians. These people are advertising men! Somehow--heaven +knows how they did it--they've taken Tylerton over. They've got us, +all of us, you and me and twenty or thirty thousand other people, +right under their thumbs. + +"Maybe they hypnotize us and maybe it's something else; but however +they do it, what happens is that they let us live a day at a time. +They pour advertising into us the whole damned day long. And at the +end of the day, they see what happened--and then they wash the day out +of our minds and start again the next day with different advertising." + + * * * * * + +Swanson's jaw was hanging. He managed to close it and swallow. "Nuts!" +he said flatly. + +Burckhardt shook his head. "Sure, it sounds crazy--but this whole +thing is crazy. How else would you explain it? You can't deny that +most of Tylerton lives the same day over and over again. You've _seen_ +it! And that's the crazy part and we have to admit that that's +true--unless we are the crazy ones. And once you admit that somebody, +somehow, knows how to accomplish that, the rest of it makes all kinds +of sense. + +"Think of it, Swanson! They test every last detail before they spend a +nickel on advertising! Do you have any idea what that means? Lord +knows how much money is involved, but I know for a fact that some +companies spend twenty or thirty million dollars a year on +advertising. Multiply it, say, by a hundred companies. Say that every +one of them learns how to cut its advertising cost by only ten per +cent. And that's peanuts, believe me! + +"If they know in advance what's going to work, they can cut their +costs in half--maybe to less than half, I don't know. But that's +saving two or three hundred million dollars a year--and if they pay +only ten or twenty per cent of that for the use of Tylerton, it's +still dirt cheap for them and a fortune for whoever took over +Tylerton." + +Swanson licked his lips. "You mean," he offered hesitantly, "that +we're a--well, a kind of captive audience?" + +Burckhardt frowned. "Not exactly." He thought for a minute. "You know +how a doctor tests something like penicillin? He sets up a series of +little colonies of germs on gelatine disks and he tries the stuff on +one after another, changing it a little each time. Well, that's +us--we're the germs, Swanson. Only it's even more efficient than that. +They don't have to test more than one colony, because they can use it +over and over again." + +It was too hard for Swanson to take in. He only said: "What do we do +about it?" + +"We go to the police. They can't use human beings for guinea pigs!" + +"How do we get to the police?" + +Burckhardt hesitated. "I think--" he began slowly. "Sure. This place +is the office of somebody important. We've got a gun. We'll stay right +here until he comes along. And he'll get us out of here." + +Simple and direct. Swanson subsided and found a place to sit, against +the wall, out of sight of the door. Burckhardt took up a position +behind the door itself-- + +And waited. + + * * * * * + +The wait was not as long as it might have been. Half an hour, perhaps. +Then Burckhardt heard approaching voices and had time for a swift +whisper to Swanson before he flattened himself against the wall. + +It was a man's voice, and a girl's. The man was saying, "--reason why +you couldn't report on the phone? You're ruining your whole day's +test! What the devil's the matter with you, Janet?" + +"I'm sorry, Mr. Dorchin," she said in a sweet, clear tone. "I thought +it was important." + +The man grumbled, "Important! One lousy unit out of twenty-one +thousand." + +"But it's the Burckhardt one, Mr. Dorchin. Again. And the way he got +out of sight, he must have had some help." + +"All right, all right. It doesn't matter, Janet; the Choco-Bite +program is ahead of schedule anyhow. As long as you're this far, come +on in the office and make out your worksheet. And don't worry about +the Burckhardt business. He's probably just wandering around. We'll +pick him up tonight and--" + +They were inside the door. Burckhardt kicked it shut and pointed the +gun. + +"That's what you think," he said triumphantly. + +It was worth the terrified hours, the bewildered sense of insanity, +the confusion and fear. It was the most satisfying sensation +Burckhardt had ever had in his life. The expression on the man's face +was one he had read about but never actually seen: Dorchin's mouth +fell open and his eyes went wide, and though he managed to make a +sound that might have been a question, it was not in words. + +The girl was almost as surprised. And Burckhardt, looking at her, knew +why her voice had been so familiar. The girl was the one who had +introduced herself to him as April Horn. + +Dorchin recovered himself quickly. "Is this the one?" he asked +sharply. + +The girl said, "Yes." + +Dorchin nodded. "I take it back. You were right. Uh, you--Burckhardt. +What do you want?" + + * * * * * + +Swanson piped up, "Watch him! He might have another gun." + +"Search him then," Burckhardt said. "I'll tell you what we want, +Dorchin. We want you to come along with us to the FBI and explain to +them how you can get away with kidnapping twenty thousand people." + +"Kidnapping?" Dorchin snorted. "That's ridiculous, man! Put that gun +away--you can't get away with this!" + +Burckhardt hefted the gun grimly. "I think I can." + +Dorchin looked furious and sick--but, oddly, not afraid. "Damn it--" +he started to bellow, then closed his mouth and swallowed. "Listen," +he said persuasively, "you're making a big mistake. I haven't +kidnapped anybody, believe me!" + +"I don't believe you," said Burckhardt bluntly. "Why should I?" + +"But it's true! Take my word for it!" + +Burckhardt shook his head. "The FBI can take your word if they like. +We'll find out. Now how do we get out of here?" + +Dorchin opened his mouth to argue. + +Burckhardt blazed: "Don't get in my way! I'm willing to kill you if I +have to. Don't you understand that? I've gone through two days of hell +and every second of it I blame on you. Kill you? It would be a +pleasure and I don't have a thing in the world to lose! Get us out of +here!" + +Dorchin's face went suddenly opaque. He seemed about to move; but the +blonde girl he had called Janet slipped between him and the gun. + +"Please!" she begged Burckhardt. "You don't understand. You mustn't +shoot!" + +"_Get out of my way!_" + +"But, Mr. Burckhardt--" + +She never finished. Dorchin, his face unreadable, headed for the door. +Burckhardt had been pushed one degree too far. He swung the gun, +bellowing. The girl called out sharply. He pulled the trigger. Closing +on him with pity and pleading in her eyes, she came again between the +gun and the man. + +Burckhardt aimed low instinctively, to cripple, not to kill. But his +aim was not good. + +The pistol bullet caught her in the pit of the stomach. + + * * * * * + +Dorchin was out and away, the door slamming behind him, his footsteps +racing into the distance. + +Burckhardt hurled the gun across the room and jumped to the girl. + +Swanson was moaning. "That finishes us, Burckhardt. Oh, why did you do +it? We could have got away. We could have gone to the police. We were +practically out of here! We--" + +Burckhardt wasn't listening. He was kneeling beside the girl. She lay +flat on her back, arms helter-skelter. There was no blood, hardly any +sign of the wound; but the position in which she lay was one that no +living human being could have held. + +Yet she wasn't dead. + +She wasn't dead--and Burckhardt, frozen beside her, thought: _She +isn't alive, either._ + +There was no pulse, but there was a rhythmic ticking of the +outstretched fingers of one hand. + +There was no sound of breathing, but there was a hissing, sizzling +noise. + +The eyes were open and they were looking at Burckhardt. There was +neither fear nor pain in them, only a pity deeper than the Pit. + +She said, through lips that writhed erratically, "Don't--worry, Mr. +Burckhardt. I'm--all right." + +Burckhardt rocked back on his haunches, staring. Where there should +have been blood, there was a clean break of a substance that was not +flesh; and a curl of thin golden-copper wire. + +Burckhardt moistened his lips. + +"You're a robot," he said. + +The girl tried to nod. The twitching lips said, "I am. And so are +you." + + +V + +Swanson, after a single inarticulate sound, walked over to the desk +and sat staring at the wall. Burckhardt rocked back and forth beside +the shattered puppet on the floor. He had no words. + +The girl managed to say, "I'm--sorry all this happened." The lovely +lips twisted into a rictus sneer, frightening on that smooth young +face, until she got them under control. "Sorry," she said again. +"The--nerve center was right about where the bullet hit. Makes it +difficult to--control this body." + +Burckhardt nodded automatically, accepting the apology. Robots. It was +obvious, now that he knew it. In hindsight, it was inevitable. He +thought of his mystic notions of hypnosis or Martians or something +stranger still--idiotic, for the simple fact of created robots fitted +the facts better and more economically. + +All the evidence had been before him. The automatized factory, with +its transplanted minds--why not transplant a mind into a humanoid +robot, give it its original owner's features and form? + +Could it know that it was a robot? + +"All of us," Burckhardt said, hardly aware that he spoke out loud. "My +wife and my secretary and you and the neighbors. All of us the same." + +"No." The voice was stronger. "Not exactly the same, all of us. I chose +it, you see. I--" this time the convulsed lips were not a random +contortion of the nerves--"I was an ugly woman, Mr. Burckhardt, and nearly +sixty years old. Life had passed me. And when Mr. Dorchin offered me the +chance to live again as a beautiful girl, I jumped at the opportunity. +Believe me, I _jumped_, in spite of its disadvantages. My flesh body is +still alive--it is sleeping, while I am here. I could go back to it. But I +never do." + +"And the rest of us?" + +"Different, Mr. Burckhardt. I work here. I'm carrying out Mr. +Dorchin's orders, mapping the results of the advertising tests, +watching you and the others live as he makes you live. I do it by +choice, but you have no choice. Because, you see, you are dead." + +"Dead?" cried Burckhardt; it was almost a scream. + +The blue eyes looked at him unwinkingly and he knew that it was no +lie. He swallowed, marveling at the intricate mechanisms that let him +swallow, and sweat, and eat. + +He said: "Oh. The explosion in my dream." + +"It was no dream. You are right--the explosion. That was real and this +plant was the cause of it. The storage tanks let go and what the blast +didn't get, the fumes killed a little later. But almost everyone died +in the blast, twenty-one thousand persons. You died with them and that +was Dorchin's chance." + +"The damned ghoul!" said Burckhardt. + + * * * * * + +The twisted shoulders shrugged with an odd grace. "Why? You were gone. +And you and all the others were what Dorchin wanted--a whole town, a +perfect slice of America. It's as easy to transfer a pattern from a +dead brain as a living one. Easier--the dead can't say no. Oh, it took +work and money--the town was a wreck--but it was possible to rebuild +it entirely, especially because it wasn't necessary to have all the +details exact. + +"There were the homes where even the brains had been utterly +destroyed, and those are empty inside, and the cellars that needn't be +too perfect, and the streets that hardly matter. And anyway, it only +has to last for one day. The same day--June 15th--over and over +again; and if someone finds something a little wrong, somehow, the +discovery won't have time to snowball, wreck the validity of the +tests, because all errors are canceled out at midnight." + +The face tried to smile. "That's the dream, Mr. Burckhardt, that day +of June 15th, because you never really lived it. It's a present from +Mr. Dorchin, a dream that he gives you and then takes back at the end +of the day, when he has all his figures on how many of you responded +to what variation of which appeal, and the maintenance crews go down +the tunnel to go through the whole city, washing out the new dream +with their little electronic drains, and then the dream starts all +over again. On June 15th. + +"Always June 15th, because June 14th is the last day any of you can +remember alive. Sometimes the crews miss someone--as they missed you, +because you were under your boat. But it doesn't matter. The ones who +are missed give themselves away if they show it--and if they don't, it +doesn't affect the test. But they don't drain us, the ones of us who +work for Dorchin. We sleep when the power is turned off, just as you +do. When we wake up, though, we remember." The face contorted wildly. +"If I could only forget!" + +Burckhardt said unbelievingly, "All this to sell merchandise! It must +have cost millions!" + +The robot called April Horn said, "It did. But it has made millions +for Dorchin, too. And that's not the end of it. Once he finds the +master words that make people act, do you suppose he will stop with +that? Do you suppose--" + +The door opened, interrupting her. Burckhardt whirled. Belatedly +remembering Dorchin's flight, he raised the gun. + +"Don't shoot," ordered the voice calmly. It was not Dorchin; it was +another robot, this one not disguised with the clever plastics and +cosmetics, but shining plain. It said metallically: "Forget it, +Burckhardt. You're not accomplishing anything. Give me that gun before +you do any more damage. Give it to me _now_." + + * * * * * + +Burckhardt bellowed angrily. The gleam on this robot torso was steel; +Burckhardt was not at all sure that his bullets would pierce it, or do +much harm if they did. He would have put it to the test-- + +But from behind him came a whimpering, scurrying whirlwind; its name +was Swanson, hysterical with fear. He catapulted into Burckhardt and +sent him sprawling, the gun flying free. + +"Please!" begged Swanson incoherently, prostrate before the steel +robot. "He would have shot you--please don't hurt me! Let me work for +you, like that girl. I'll do anything, anything you tell me--" + +The robot voice said. "We don't need your help." It took two precise +steps and stood over the gun--and spurned it, left it lying on the +floor. + +The wrecked blonde robot said, without emotion, "I doubt that I can +hold out much longer, Mr. Dorchin." + +"Disconnect if you have to," replied the steel robot. + +Burckhardt blinked. "But you're not Dorchin!" + +The steel robot turned deep eyes on him. "I am," it said. "Not in the +flesh--but this is the body I am using at the moment. I doubt that you +can damage this one with the gun. The other robot body was more +vulnerable. Now will you stop this nonsense? I don't want to have to +damage you; you're too expensive for that. Will you just sit down and +let the maintenance crews adjust you?" + +Swanson groveled. "You--you won't punish us?" + +The steel robot had no expression, but its voice was almost surprised. +"Punish you?" it repeated on a rising note. "How?" + +Swanson quivered as though the word had been a whip; but Burckhardt +flared: "Adjust _him_, if he'll let you--but not me! You're going to +have to do me a lot of damage, Dorchin. I don't care what I cost or +how much trouble it's going to be to put me back together again. But +I'm going out of that door! If you want to stop me, you'll have to +kill me. You won't stop me any other way!" + +The steel robot took a half-step toward him, and Burckhardt +involuntarily checked his stride. He stood poised and shaking, ready +for death, ready for attack, ready for anything that might happen. + +Ready for anything except what did happen. For Dorchin's steel body +merely stepped aside, between Burckhardt and the gun, but leaving the +door free. + +"Go ahead," invited the steel robot. "Nobody's stopping you." + + * * * * * + +Outside the door, Burckhardt brought up sharp. It was insane of +Dorchin to let him go! Robot or flesh, victim or beneficiary, there +was nothing to stop him from going to the FBI or whatever law he could +find away from Dorchin's synthetic empire, and telling his story. +Surely the corporations who paid Dorchin for test results had no +notion of the ghoul's technique he used; Dorchin would have to keep +it from them, for the breath of publicity would put a stop to it. +Walking out meant death, perhaps--but at that moment in his +pseudo-life, death was no terror for Burckhardt. + +There was no one in the corridor. He found a window and stared out of +it. There was Tylerton--an ersatz city, but looking so real and +familiar that Burckhardt almost imagined the whole episode a dream. It +was no dream, though. He was certain of that in his heart and equally +certain that nothing in Tylerton could help him now. + +It had to be the other direction. + +It took him a quarter of an hour to find a way, but he found +it--skulking through the corridors, dodging the suspicion of +footsteps, knowing for certain that his hiding was in vain, for +Dorchin was undoubtedly aware of every move he made. But no one +stopped him, and he found another door. + +It was a simple enough door from the inside. But when he opened it and +stepped out, it was like nothing he had ever seen. + +First there was light--brilliant, incredible, blinding light. +Burckhardt blinked upward, unbelieving and afraid. + +He was standing on a ledge of smooth, finished metal. Not a dozen +yards from his feet, the ledge dropped sharply away; he hardly dared +approach the brink, but even from where he stood he could see no +bottom to the chasm before him. And the gulf extended out of sight +into the glare on either side of him. + + * * * * * + +No wonder Dorchin could so easily give him his freedom! From the +factory, there was nowhere to go--but how incredible this fantastic +gulf, how impossible the hundred white and blinding suns that hung +above! + +A voice by his side said inquiringly, "Burckhardt?" And thunder rolled +the name, mutteringly soft, back and forth in the abyss before him. + +Burckhardt wet his lips. "Y-yes?" he croaked. + +"This is Dorchin. Not a robot this time, but Dorchin in the flesh, +talking to you on a hand mike. Now you have seen, Burckhardt. Now will +you be reasonable and let the maintenance crews take over?" + +Burckhardt stood paralyzed. One of the moving mountains in the +blinding glare came toward him. + +It towered hundreds of feet over his head; he stared up at its top, +squinting helplessly into the light. + +It looked like-- + +Impossible! + +The voice in the loudspeaker at the door said, "Burckhardt?" But he +was unable to answer. + +A heavy rumbling sigh. "I see," said the voice. "You finally +understand. There's no place to go. You know it now. I could have told +you, but you might not have believed me, so it was better for you to +see it yourself. And after all, Burckhardt, why would I reconstruct a +city just the way it was before? I'm a businessman; I count costs. If +a thing has to be full-scale, I build it that way. But there wasn't +any need to in this case." + +From the mountain before him, Burckhardt helplessly saw a lesser cliff +descend carefully toward him. It was long and dark, and at the end of +it was whiteness, five-fingered whiteness.... + +"Poor little Burckhardt," crooned the loudspeaker, while the echoes +rumbled through the enormous chasm that was only a workshop. "It must +have been quite a shock for you to find out you were living in a town +built on a table top." + + +VI + +It was the morning of June 15th, and Guy Burckhardt woke up screaming +out of a dream. + +It had been a monstrous and incomprehensible dream, of explosions and +shadowy figures that were not men and terror beyond words. + +He shuddered and opened his eyes. + +Outside his bedroom window, a hugely amplified voice was howling. + +Burckhardt stumbled over to the window and stared outside. There was +an out-of-season chill to the air, more like October than June; but +the scent was normal enough--except for the sound-truck that squatted +at curbside halfway down the block. Its speaker horns blared: + +"Are you a coward? Are you a fool? Are you going to let crooked +politicians steal the country from you? NO! Are you going to put up +with four more years of graft and crime? NO! Are you going to vote +straight Federal Party all up and down the ballot? YES! _You just bet +you are!_" + +Sometimes he screams, sometimes he wheedles, threatens, begs, cajoles ... +but his voice goes on and on through one June 15th after another. + + --FREDERIK POHL + +[Illustration] + + * * * * * + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Tunnel Under The World, by Frederik Pohl + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TUNNEL UNDER THE WORLD *** + +***** This file should be named 31979.txt or 31979.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/9/7/31979/ + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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