Part 1

Stroke of Genius

by RANDALL GARRETT

Illustrated by PHILLIPS

_Crayley plotted a murder that was scientific in both motive and method--and as perfect as the mask of his face!_

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Infinity Science Fiction, August 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Crayley stood thoughtfully before the huge screen and watched the fingers move.

Metal fingers, five on each hand; each hand attached to an arm, and each pair of arms connected to a silvery sphere that sat atop a four-foot pillar. Within the pillar, micro-relays ticked and chuckled, sending delicately measured surges of power here and there through silver nerves to metal muscles. Responding, the hands built an energy generator. And when they finished, they built another. And another. On and on, monotonously.

Crayley rubbed absently at his mustache and plotted murder.

"--be a great deal cheaper, Mr. Crayley?"

Crayley realized he hadn't been listening to what the man beside him was saying. He turned his head to look at the Space Force officer and said quietly, "I'm sorry, major; I didn't quite get you."

"I said that it seems to me that ordinary production machinery would be a great deal cheaper. Why do they use those waldoes?"

Crayley smiled faintly. "Why do you use waldoes to repair a generator on a ship?"

The major looked at Crayley to see if he was kidding, then said, "A man can't live five seconds near an unshielded generator, and you have to take the shielding off to get at the innards. But I don't see how that applies. Each repair job is different. I'll admit that I'm not a drive engineer--I wouldn't know the first thing about repairing one--but I do know that the engineer has to use remote control hands because the work is so delicate.

"But this--" He waved a hand at the screen. "--is recorded. It's routine. Why spend all the money on those tape-controlled robots when much simpler machines can be made to do the job?"

_I wonder_, Crayley thought to himself, _if this blockhead knows which end of his ship to point up when he's taking off?_ "Two reasons, Major. In the first place, building a sub-nucleonic converter is also a delicate job--as delicate as repairing it. In the second place, we have something here that will save money in the long run. Do you know what re-tooling would cost in this business if we used ordinary bit-by-bit production line methods?"

The major spread his hands. "I have no idea."

"Millions. Every day, some physicist comes up with a new idea on sub-nucleonics. Within a week or so, enough of these ideas have snowballed to produce a slight modification that will improve a spacedrive--increase its speed, improve its efficiency, and so on. Within six or eight months, enough improvements have built up to make it worthwhile to incorporate them into the drive we're building. If North American used production line robots, we'd have to rip out the whole bunch and rebuild 'em to make the new generator. Why? Because the ordinary robotic device is a specialist; it can, at most, do two or three things--usually only one. And if you eliminate the thing that a particular robot does, or change it a little, you have to rebuild the tools and re-arrange them before reprogramming the whole line.

"The waldo, a working replica of the human arm and hand, isn't specialized like that; it's adaptable; it can do anything. If we have to modify the design, all we have to do is reprogram the tapes, which is a comparatively easy job.

"And besides, if anything goes wrong down there, we can put the hands on manual and go trouble-shooting, something we couldn't do with production line stuff."

"I see," the major said, nodding. "Ingenious." He glanced at his wrist. "Do you suppose Mr. Klythe is through yet?"

The smile that touched Crayley's mind did not reach his face. "I think he's just about through." His voice was completely innocent of any subtle innuendoes.

* * * * *

He glanced again at the screen that pictured the hundreds of hands moving automatically through their intricate motions in the production tunnel deep underground, then touched a switch. As the screen faded to blankness, he turned and led the way down the corridor to Klythe's office.

Crayley paced his steps neatly so that he would stay just a foot in the lead. A foot, no more. Too much would be obvious. A foot was quite enough to show who was leading.

His lean face was, as always, set in a placid mask. A thousand years before, Lewis Crayley might have worn a helmet of steel to hide his thoughts. Two hundred years before, he might have worn eyeglasses. Now, since there was no excuse to wear either, Crayley could only hide behind his own face.

It was a face well constructed for the purpose. The nose was large and prominent--plenty of room to hide behind a nose like that. The brows were craggy and shaggy, overshadowing the half-closed eyes beneath them. The heavy mustache, which he wore in spite of the fact that it was looked upon as an anachronism, effectively concealed any expression the thin, firm mouth might show.

His hands, too, were useful. Their quick, nervous movements distracted attention from the face when they were away from it, and effectively concealed it when they were nervously rubbing his nose or stroking his mustache.

Using only God-given materials, Lewis Crayley had built a magnificently efficient wall between himself and the world. He could see out, but no one could see in.

Not that Crayley thought of it that way. Crayley was just calm, that was all. He had control over his emotions; he didn't let them run away with him. Poise and impartial objectivity were his. He allowed nothing to bother him, and no one to thwart him.

Berin Klythe was attempting to do just that. There was, Crayley admitted, nothing malicious about it. Klythe was not trying to suppress Crayley; there was just nothing else he could do. There is nothing malicious about an asteroid, either, but when one lies directly athwart the orbit of a spaceship, either the ship must veer aside or the asteroid blasted out of the way. And Crayley was not the type to change his orbit.

There was no malice or hatred on Crayley's part, either. One does not hate an asteroid.

He pushed open the door to Klythe's outer office and allowed the Space Force major to follow him in. The girl behind the desk was sliding her fingers expertly over the sparkling panel of a photowriter, and her pace didn't change as she looked up.

"Yes, Mr. Crayley?"

"Is Mr. Klythe through yet?"

Her hand touched another panel. "Mr. Crayley is here with the gentleman from the Space Force." She listened for a moment to a sonobeam the men couldn't hear, then she nodded. "Go right in."

Berin Klythe was coming out from behind his desk when they stepped into the inner office. His smile was broad and his hand outstretched. Crayley snapped his voice into action.

"Berin, this is Major Stratford. Major--Mr. Klythe, our Director."

Klythe was pumping the major's hand. "Sorry to have kept you waiting, Major. Just one of those things that has to be cleared up to keep things moving."

"Perfectly all right. I was a little bit early, and Mr. Crayley was good enough to show me around."

Crayley rubbed his mustache and waited for the greetings to get themselves over with. The major was trying to act nonchalant, but it was easy to see that he was somewhat in awe of Klythe. Klythe had taken the Big Gamble and won, and not very many people had done that. In the first place, the government only picked a few of the very best men to go through Rejuvenation. Men who were necessary, brilliant, useful. Men like Berin Klythe, who was important and a genius.

That was a point that Crayley admitted. Klythe was a genius. And, very likely, a more capable one than Crayley. But Crayley, too, was a genius in his own way, and he didn't feel that mere brilliancy should allow Klythe to block his path.

Three years ago, Berin Klythe had been a graying, stocky, aging man of sixty. Now he was lithe, dark of hair, clear of eye, and full of the energy of a twenty-five year old body.

He'd be good for another century. And Lewis Crayley wouldn't.

* * * * *

"Sit down, Major," Berin was saying. "Commander Edder told me you'd be around, but he only hinted at the trouble."

"Is this room sealed, Mr. Klythe?" the major asked calmly.

Klythe reached across his desk and touched a panel. "It is now."

The major nodded. "We don't want any of this to leak out; it might cause panic." He paused for a moment. "You're a Sirian by birth, aren't you, Mr. Klythe?"

Klythe nodded. "My grandparents were among the first colonists on New Brooklyn."

"Then you probably know first hand how tough it is to tame an extra-solar planet, no matter how closely it approaches Earth-type."

Klythe nodded, narrowing his eyes.

"So when a colony disappears, we don't think anything of it--" Stratford stopped, frowning. "No, I don't mean that. What I mean is, we usually attribute it to another loss in our fight against the natural forces of the planet. The colony's gone; you blame disease, the flora, the fauna, the storms, everything else. Then you try to re-establish the colony.

"But lately things have been happening in a certain sector. I'm not at liberty to say where, nor what happened. Whole colonies were gone when the five-year check came. The pattern was only in one area, but we're pretty sure of what's happening. Something out there, something intelligent in its own way, is erasing those colonies. Our analysts suspect that whoever or whatever is doing it doesn't know we're intelligent. What it boils down to is this: we have an interstellar war on our hands."

Klythe nodded slowly after a moment. "I get it. That's why you asked for this funny modification of the drive generator--the new J-233. It isn't supposed to be a drive generator at all."

"That's right," said Major Stratford, "it's a weapon."

"Why tell us now?" Crayley asked softly. "I mean, you've ordered the thing; we've practically got it ready. Why not leave us in the dark?"

"We don't want you to build it now. We've got a better one--much better. But it calls for a gadget that you'd immediately know was not a driver. We decided to tell you rather than have you asking embarrassing questions.

"And we have neither the facilities nor the capacity to build it ourselves."

Crayley said slowly, "You mean the J-233 is obsolete? We scrap it without ever putting it in production?"

"That's right," said the major. He grinned. "You were just telling me how adaptable your production machinery is to--ah--re-tooling, I think you called it. I was glad to hear it."

_Damn!_ Crayley thought. _Damdamdamdamdamn!_

His mind whirled for a moment, hopping frantically from one point to another. Then he forced it to be calm. Everything wasn't lost--just delayed.

"--in the strictest confidence," the major was saying. "Nothing must leak out. We don't want to throw a scare into the world population just now."

Klythe looked as though he had a good case of goosebumps himself.

Crayley felt nothing. He said, "How soon can you get the original down here?"

The major spread his hands. "I'm not prepared to say. You'll have to take that up with our technicians. Out of my field, you understand.

"I am also to ask you how soon you can get this into production. We'll need five thousand units."

Klythe looked thoughtful. "It'll depend on the breakdown, of course; these things take time. Five thousand units. Hmmmm. Assuming increasing complexity--figure twice the time for a regular model and extra time for analysis--mmmm." He appeared to be figuring deeply.

_Five days_, thought Crayley contemptuously.

"It'll take all of a week to set up for it," Klythe said. "If we get three tunnels running, you can have your five thousand units in--say twelve weeks."

"Fine," said Stratford. "I am also informed that our own technicians will be on hand for the recording. I have no idea what that may mean, but--"

"I see. Very well, tell them we'll expect them to be here with the original!" Klythe said sharply.

* * * * *

The major raised his eyebrows at Klythe's voice. "Is there something wrong, Mr. Klythe?"

"There is," Klythe said blandly. "But I'm not blaming you, of course. A question of the specialty."

"I see," said the major. One did not question another's work too closely. Get nosy with other people, and they get nosy with you.

"It's rather as though I hired you to take a cargo to Sirius for me and then insisted that you use my crew instead of your own," Klythe explained. "Perhaps the parallel isn't too good--I know nothing of interstellar commerce--but that may get the idea across."

"I sympathize," said Stratford. "If there's anything I can do--?"

"Nothing," said Klythe, smiling. "It isn't fatal. Now--" He rubbed his hands briskly. "Unless there's further business, perhaps you'd like a little something? I know I do; I have a cold kink in my guts."

The major grinned. "Liaison officers are permitted to drink on duty. Pour away."

Klythe poured. As he studiously watched the stream of liquor flow into one of the cups, he said: "Major, may I ask--ah--just how much danger there is to Earth?"

The major appeared to consider this for a moment before answering. "At the moment, none. We know that they can not trace us back here, and they're quite a long distance away. Without violation of confidence, I can say that the distance is several thousand light years."

"Thank you." Klythe passed the cups around.

Crayley eyed the major suspiciously. He had answered the question too readily. Was he lying? No. What, then? The major ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, and Crayley understood. He was going to trade information for information.

Stratford swirled his drink around in his cup and looked at the whirlpool it made. "Mr. Klythe, may I ask you a--a question?" It was properly worded, hesitation and all.

"I shall not be offended by your question," Klythe replied with the standard friendly acceptance of the gambit, "If you will not be offended by my reply."

The major whirled his cup once more, then downed its contents quickly. "I--uh--understand you took the Big Gamble." He paused to see how his opening would be accepted.

Klythe nodded. "I was honored to be chosen; how could I refuse?"

Crayley was enjoying the scene immensely. Both of the men were distinctly uncomfortable.

"I'm afraid I would have been--uh, well--afraid."

"Perhaps I was," Klythe said softly. "But I don't know. That whole year of my life is gone. That's why they call it the Big Gamble, you know; you bet one year of your life against the chance that you'll get an additional century or two. I don't know whether I was frightened or not."

"I'm very happy for you," said the major, closing the subject.

Crayley held out his cup for another drink.

The Big Gamble had paid off for Berin Klythe. The year-long physical reconstruction had not resulted in his death, as it had for so many. But Klythe's gamble hadn't paid off for Lewis Crayley.

Klythe held the Directorship. Crayley was in line for the position. Klythe would never leave of his own accord. It came out as a simple equation in symbolic logic.

Before Klythe had been offered the chance for the Big Gamble, Crayley had been content to wait. At sixty, Klythe had been thirty years older than Crayley. Normally, he would have retired at seventy-five. He would have another forty years of life to go, but they would not be productive years. But if you survived the Big Gamble, you were in better health, both physically and mentally, than you had been at twenty-five. By the time Klythe was ready to retire, Crayley would be dead.

Therefore, Klythe had to go.

* * * * *

The three men finished their drinks; the major shook hands all around, and left quietly.

Klythe's eyes narrowed as he looked at the door through which the Space Force officer had departed. "Running in their own recording technicians on us, eh, Lew? Well, by God, we'll see about that! They'll be working under me; I'll make 'em jump!"

"Jump it is, Berin." Crayley's voice was quiet, but his blood was singing.

The Space Force Research Command team delivered the original two days later. It was obvious that the thing was not a drive generator. The sub-nucleonic converter had been elongated along the acceleration axis and reduced a bit in diameter. Evidently the Space Force wanted a high-velocity beam without much actual volume of energy.

The thing looked like an over-decorated length of sewer pipe instead of having the normal converter's barrel shape.

Crayley himself had accepted delivery of the original. He wanted to have a good look at it before Klythe did. He prowled around it, a handful of schematic prints in his hand, checking the symbols on the schematic against the reality of the converter before him.

For the first time in his life, he wished he knew the theory behind a converter. That wasn't his job, of course, but he had a hunch it would be useful knowledge.

He knew _what_ a standard converter did, but he didn't know _how_. Therefore, he only knew approximately what this new modification would do.

The Space Force technicians stood off to one side, waiting respectfully for Crayley to finish his examination. Crayley could feel their eyes on him, and he knew full well that the respectful attitude was only superficial; a Space Force man has respect only for the officers above him.

When he was thoroughly satisfied that he could learn nothing more from a superficial examination of the machine, he turned to the technicians. "All right, let's go upstairs. Mr. Klythe wants to talk to you."

It was the incident in the hall of the executive offices that decided Lewis Crayley once and for all that he now had not only a motive but a method for murdering Berin Klythe.

As the recording technicians were filing into the briefing room, Berin stepped out of the lift tube and headed toward the door. Several other engineering executives of North American Sub-nucleonics followed him.

Klythe started to walk in through the door of the conference room, and one of the Space Force techs stepped on his toe. It wasn't painful, and it wasn't done on purpose; the tech was quite polite when he said, "Excuse me, sonny."

Klythe said nothing, but his eyes blazed with sudden anger, and his face grew crimson as he tried successfully to suppress it.

Behind his face, Crayley grinned gleefully. He rubbed his nose with a concealing hand.

Inside the room, as they all seated themselves in the chairs, Crayley watched the face of the man who had done the toe-mashing. He was solidly-built, young, good-looking in an ugly sort of way, sensitive and intelligent, as a waldo recorder had to be. When Klythe walked up behind the desk and said: "Good morning, gentlemen: I'm Berin Klythe," the tech's eyes opened a little wider for a fraction of a second, but there was no further reaction. Crayley was satisfied; he turned to watch Klythe.

Klythe was furious, but there was nothing he could do about it. The crimson in his face had died, to be replaced by the faint pallor of anger.

"You may ask me questions later," he said bluntly. "Right now, I'd like to ask you one. Which one of you is co-ordinator here?" One of the men stood. "Your name? Russ? Mr. Russ, may I ask why the Space Force felt that our recording men were not capable of doing this job?"

Russ fumbled uncomfortably. Finally: "Well, sir, this gadget is of--uh--rather radically new design. Since we, as a team, had built the various designs that led up to this one, our superiors felt that we would have a better working knowledge of the piece. They felt it would save time if we made the recording. I'm sure there was no slight intended to your own recording staff."

"I see," Klythe said coldly. "Very well." He turned his head a fraction and looked directly at Crayley. "Lew, what do you think the Space Force will do next time? Send over their own Director?"

The Space Force men looked embarrassed, and Crayley smiled one-sidedly. Nobody but Klythe could have gotten away with that crack. Berin Klythe had been trained by, and had worked under, no less a person than the great Fenwick Greene, acknowledged Grand Old Man of the profession. Crayley recalled that Fenwick Greene, too, had been offered and had survived the Big Gamble.

Klythe began asking questions about the new unit. His tone was sarcastic, and his manner biting. He spent better than an hour singling each man out for some remark about his ability or lack of it.

When he was finally through, he leaned forward on his desk, his knuckles white. "All right, let's get busy and build this thing! But we'll build it my way, understand?"

None of the technicians said a word.

* * * * *

Klythe turned and headed for the door, followed by Crayley and the other engineers. Silently, the technicians followed after.

The original model of the generator lay on a work table in one of the recording rooms. Around it were the recording stations, the seats and controls each of the techs would occupy.

Klythe waved at the seats. "All right, men--to begin with, each of you occupy your regular team position. Let's get this thing disassembled. I want to see how it goes."

The model was just that--a model. It had been built with ordinary metal and plastic; it could never be energized. The wiring was copper, the casing of steel. But it had been built as carefully and with as great precision as if it had actually been constructed of the fiercely radioactive materials that would go into the production models.

The recorders seated themselves around the hulking object, checking and rechecking the intricate controls of the waldoes they were to operate. Finally, they fitted their hands into the glove pickups and waited, watching Klythe.

"Set?" Klythe asked.

"Set!" they said in one voice.

Klythe tapped his finger on the control board at which he had seated himself. The technicians began to disassemble the model, stripping it down to its last essential part, as Klythe watched with a critical eye.

Klythe had tapped the board, but he hadn't actually energized the gloves. This was to be a dry run; there was no need to record a disassembly; it was the assembly that would go down on tape.

It took an hour to complete the job, and all that time Klythe said nothing. He watched the men work, eying each move, each nut removed, each wire unwound.

When it was over, the men folded their hands in their laps, and Klythe tapped the control board once more.

"Let's see if we can't assemble it a little faster than that," he said coldly. He pressed the recording button, and the technicians began rebuilding the model.

Crayley stepped over to the monitor screen set in one wall of the recording room and switched it on. Then he cut in the experimental secondaries, connecting them to the recording primaries. They went through the same motions, their arms waving and gesticulating oddly in the air, since there was nothing for them to work on.

Klythe wasn't silent during the rebuilding. The disassembly had taught him everything he needed to know about the new unit; that was his job and his genius.

"Seven! Move that plate in straight next time! And you, Four, keep your guides straighter!" His voice rang clearly and concisely in the huge room. "Eighty-four! Don't wait so long before you hit that welder! As soon as Nine moves his left away from the shell, hit it!"

Little things, small savings of time, but they added up to greater efficiency in the long run. Klythe watched for every wasted motion, every fumble, every tiny error in timing or spacing, and corrected it with a whiplash voice.