"Well," he added with a sigh, "I suppose I'd better grab these things and take them over to Research. Have to find out all we can about them. I've still got to report on them." Again, he looked at Graham. "You'd better come along, too. Research people might have a lot of questions, and I could never answer them."
Graham nodded and went to the hall closet. He took his coat from the hanger, put it on, and reached for his hat, then hesitated.
"You know," he said, "we might try one experiment, right here."
"Oh?" Bond raised his eyebrows.
"There's a man out in the parking lot. I believe he's detailed to keep watch on me. You might try him with one of the headbands. Then, see what he'll do with one on."
"Any special reason?"
Graham twisted his face uneasily. "I can't describe it," he said almost inaudibly. "You'd have to see for yourself."
Bond looked at him speculatively for a moment, then held out his cap and one of the headbands.
"Here, hold these."
He put the other headband on, accepted the first, and walked out of the apartment, followed by Graham, who still carried the cap.
As they came out and started across the parking lot, a man approached them.
Bond looked at him, frowned, then cast a sidelong look at Graham.
"That what you meant?" His thought carried an undercurrent of incredulity.
Graham nodded wordlessly, and Bond looked toward the approaching man again. Once more, his face wrinkled distastefully, then he spoke aloud.
"Oh, Ross. Want you to try some thing." He held out the headband he was carrying in his left hand.
Ross came up, accepted the device, and looked at it curiously. "You mean this is the thing he's been working on?" He jerked a thumb at Graham. "Saw his wife come out a while ago. Guess she had one of 'em on. She went right back in again."
Bond nodded. "This is it," he said. "Let's see how it works for you."
Ross shrugged. "Try anything once, I guess." He adjusted the band to his head, then stood, looking at the two men.
"Notice anything?" Bond looked at him sharply.
Again, Ross shrugged. "Nothing special," he said with a slight grunt. "Seems as though this guy's pretty nervous."
"You don't have to say anything, just think it. And see if you can communicate with Graham."
"Huh?" Ross had been looking directly at Bond. He frowned.
"You mean, this thing—" He paused, looking for a moment at Graham, then took the headband off. "Thing doesn't feel good," he complained. He held the device out to Bond, who accepted it.
"But it works? You could communicate both ways with it?"
"Oh, sure." Ross nodded grudgingly. "I got you, all right. But I couldn't get a thing out of this guy." He wagged his head toward Graham. "Except he was jittery about something."
"I see. Thanks." Bond accepted the headband. "We're going to take these to Research," he added. "Let the technicians there find out how good they are." He turned away and led Graham to his helicopter.
As Graham settled in the seat, he turned to the sector leader. "He just couldn't use it properly," he remarked. "Maybe only certain peoplecanuse them."
Bond nodded as he started the motor. "Or maybe only certain people can't." He busied himself in getting the machine up through the landing slot, then turned as they climbed into the night sky.
"Maybe you've got to be able to understand and like people before you can establish full contact with them. Maybe ... Maybe a lot of things." He was silent for a moment. "You know, this thing might become far more valuable than you thought, Graham."
Howard Morely looked up from a memo as the clerk tapped on the door.
"Come in."
The man opened the door and stepped inside.
"Sector Leader Bond is here, sir. He has some gentlemen with him."
"And what does he want?"
"He said it was about that new communicator, sir."
"Oh." Morely turned his attention back to the memo. "Have them wait." He waved a hand in dismissal and went on with his reading.
The beautification program was progressing well. Twenty miles of the old main highway through the valley had been completely cleared and planted. Crews were working on another stretch. The foreman of the wrecking crew down at the point, in Sector Nine, reported that the last bit of scrap had been removed from the old bridge support. Underwater crews had salvaged the cables and almost all of the metal from the fallen bridge itself, and the scrap was on the beach, ready for delivery to the reclamation mills in District One.
Morely smiled sourly. Harwood would have a storage problem on his hands in a day or so. The delay in delivery could be explained and justified. Morely had seen to that. Now, all the material was ready and could be delivered in one lot.
Harwood would have to raise his production quota in his community mills to use up the excess material, and that would slow down the clean-up in District One. The Old Man couldn't help but notice, and he'd see who was efficient in his region. The district leader pushed the memo sheets aside and placed his hands behind his head.
Slowly, he pivoted his chair, to look at the entertainment screen. He started to energize it, then drew his hand back.
So that crackpot, Graham, had finally come up with something definite. Morely smiled again. It had almost seemed as though the man had been stalling for a while. But the pressure and the veiled threats had been productive—again.
To be sure, the agents covering that project had reported that the device seemed to be merely another fairly good means of communication—nothing of any tremendous importance. But results had been obtained, and a communicator which was reasonably free from interception and which required relatively low power might be of some value to the community. He might be able to get a commendation out of it, at least.
And even if it were unsuitable for defense, there'd be a new product for one of the luxury products plants in the district, and the district would get royalties from the manufacturer. Too, it would keep people busy and make 'em spend more of their credits.
He grimaced at his vague reflection in the screen before him, and spoke aloud.
"That's the way to get things done. Make 'em know who's in charge. And let 'em know that no nonsense will be tolerated. Breathe down their necks a little. They'll produce." He cleared his throat and spun around, to punch the button on his desk.
The door opened and the clerk stood, respectfully awaiting orders.
"Send in Bond and the people with him."
The clerk stepped back, turning his head.
"You may go in now, sir." He disappeared around the door.
Harold Bond stepped through the doorway, followed by two men. Morely looked at them closely. Engineers, he thought.
"What have you got?" he demanded.
One of the men opened a briefcase and removed a large, dully gleaming band. Apparently, it was made of plastic, or some light alloy, for he handled it as though it weighed very little.
As the man laid it on the desk, Morely examined the object closely. It was large enough to go on a man's head, he saw. It had adjustable straps, which could be used to hold it in place, and there were a few spring-loaded contacts, which apparently were meant to rest against a wearer's forehead and temples.
A few tiny knobs protruded from one side of the band, and a short wire, terminated by a miniature plug, depended from the other.
The engineer dipped into his brief case again, to produce a small, flat case with a long wire leading from it. He put this by the headband, and connected the plugs.
"The band, sir," he explained, "is to be worn on the head." He pointed to the flat case. "To save weight in the band, we built a separate power unit. It can be carried in a pocket. We've tested the unit, sir, and it does provide a means of private communication with anyone within sight, or with a group of people. Two people, wearing the headbands, can communicate for considerable distances, regardless of obstacles."
"I see." Morely picked up the headband. "Do you have more than one of these?"
"Yes, sir. We made four of the prototypes and tested them thoroughly." Bond stepped forward. "I sent a report in on them yesterday."
"Yes, yes. I know." Morely waved impatiently. He examined the headband again. "And you say it provides communication?"
"Yes, sir."
"No chance of interception?"
Bond shook his head. "Well," he admitted, "if two people are in contact, and a third equipped person wishes to contact either one, he can join the conversation."
"So, it's easier to tap than a cable circuit, or even a security type radio circuit." Morely frowned. "Far from a secure means of communication."
"Well, sir, if anyone cuts in on a communication, both parties know it immediately."
Morely grunted and shook his head. "Still not secure," he growled. He looked at the papers on his desk. "Oh, put one on. We'll see how they work." He leaned back in his chair.
Bond turned to the man with the brief case, who held out another headband. The sector leader fitted it to his head, plugged in the power supply and looked around the room. Finally, he glanced at his superior. A shadow of uncertainty crossed his face, followed by a quickly suppressed expression of distaste.
Morely watched him. "Well?" he demanded impatiently, "I don't feel or see anything unusual."
"Of course not, sir," explained Bond smoothly. "You haven't put on the other headband yet."
"Oh? I thought you could establish communication with only one headset, so long as you were in the same room."
Bond smiled ingratiatingly. "Only sometimes, sir. Some people are more susceptible than others."
"I see." Morely looked again at the headband, then set it on his head. One of the engineers hurried forward to help him with the power pack, and he looked around the room, becoming conscious of slight sensations of outside thought. As he glanced at the engineers, he received faint impressions of anxious interest.
"Can you receive me, sir?"
Morely looked at Bond. The younger man was staring at him with an intense expression on his face. The district leader started to speak, then remembered and simply thought the words.
"Of course I can. Didn't you expect results?"
"Oh, certainly, sir. Do you want me to go outside for a further test?"
The headband was bothering Morely a little. Unwanted impressions seemed to be hovering about, uncomfortably outside the range of recognition. He took the device off and looked at it again.
"No," he said aloud. "It won't be necessary. It's obvious to me that this thing will never be any good for practical application in any community communications problem. It's too vague. But it'll make an interesting toy, I suppose. Some people might like it as a novelty, and it'll give them some incentive to do extra work in order to own one. That's what luxury items are for. And the district can use any royalty funds it may generate."
He laid the headband on his desk. "Go ahead and produce a few samples. Offer the designs to Graham's employer. He can offer them on the luxury market, if he wishes, and we'll see what they do. If people want them, it might be profitable, both for the district and for Consolidated." He shrugged.
"No telling what'll make people spend their credits." He started to nod a dismissal, then hesitated.
"Oh, yes. I think I'll keep this one," he added. "And you might leave a couple more. The regional director might be amused by them."
He accepted the two headbands and their power packs, put them in a desk drawer, and sat back to watch the three men leave the office.
After the door closed, he still sat, idly staring at the headband on his desk. He put it on his head again, then sat, looking about the room. There was no unusual effect, and he took the band off again, looked at it sourly, and laid it down.
Somehow, when Bond and those other two had been in the room, he had sensed a vague feeling of expectancy. Those three had seemed to be enthusiastic and hopeful about something, he was sure. But he failed to see what. This headband certainly showed him nothing.
He stared at the band for a while longer, then put it back on and punched the call button on his desk. As his clerk came into sight, he watched the man closely. Therewasa slight effect. He could sense a vague fear. And a little, gnawing hatred. But nothing was definite, and no details of thought came through. He shrugged.
Of course the man was fearful. He probably was reviewing his recent mistakes, wondering which one he might be called upon to explain. Too bad his mind wasn't clear enough to read. But what could you expect? Possibly, he could drive Research into improving the device later.
"Anyway," he told himself, "everyone has something they're afraid of. It's natural. And everyone has their pet hates, too." For an instant, he thought of Harwood.
He focused his mind on a single thought. "Get me the quarters file for Sector Nine."
There was a definite effect this time. There was a sharp radiation of pained surprise. Then, there was acquiescence. The clerk started to say something, then backed toward the door. The impression of fear intensified. Morely smiled sardonically. The thing was an amusing toy, at that. He might find uses for it.
He sat back, thinking. He could use it as a detector. Coupled with shrewd reasoning, well-directed questions, and his own accurate knowledge of human failings, it could tell him a great deal about his people and their activities.
For instance, a question about some suspicious circumstance would cause a twinge of fear from the erring person. And that could be detected and localized. Further questions would produce alternate feelings of relief and intensified fear. He nodded complacently. Very little had ever gotten by him, he thought. But from now on, no error would remain undiscovered or unpunished.
The clerk returned to place the file drawers convenient to his superior's desk. He hesitated a moment, his eyes on the headband, then picked up the completed papers from the desk and went out.
Morely riffled through the cards, idly checked a few against his notes, and leaned back again. The file section seemed to be operating smoothly. He looked at his desk. Everything that had to be done immediately was done. And the morning was hardly more than half over.
He rose to his feet. Surely, somewhere in the headquarters, there must be some sort of trouble spot. Somewhere, someone was not producing to the fullest possible. There must be some loose end. And he'd find it. He went out, jerking a thumb back at his office as he passed his clerk's desk.
"You can pick up those files again, Roberts. And see to it that my office gets cleaned up a little. I won't be back for a while."
He went out, to walk down the corridor to the snack bar.
There were a few girls there. He walked by their table, glancing at their badges. Communications people. He nodded to himself, ordered coffee, and chose a table.
As he glanced at the girls' table, he could detect a current of uneasiness. They'd probably been fooling away more time than they should. Too bad he couldn't get more definite information from their thoughts. Like to know just how long they had been there. He tilted his wrist, taking a long look at his watch. The current of uneasiness increased. No doubt to it, they'd been more than ten minutes already.
The girls hurriedly finished their coffee and left. Morely sipped at his own cup.
At last, he got up and went out. Might be a good idea to visit the Fixed Communications Section. Looked as though there might be a little laxity there.
As he walked down the corridor, he mentally reviewed the operation of communications. There was Fixed Communications, responsible for communicator service to all the offices and quarters in the district, as well as to the various commercial organizations. There were also Mobile Comm, Warning, Long Lines, and Administrative Radio.
Of these, the largest was Fixed Communications, with its dial equipment, its banks of video amplifiers, the network of cables, and the substation equipment. It would take days to thoroughly check all their activities. But the office was the key to the entire operation. He could check their records, and get a clue to their efficiency. And he could question the section chief.
He took the elevator to the communications level and walked slowly along the hallway, glancing at the heavy steel door leading to Warning as he passed it. That could be checked later, though there would be little point to it.
It had always annoyed him to think of the operators in that section. They simply sat around, doing nothing but watch their screens and keep their few, piddling records. They did nothing productive, but they had to be retained. Actually, he had to admit, they were a necessity under present conditions. War was always a possibility and the enemy was building up his potential. He might strike at any time, and he'd certainly not send advance notification. If he did strike, the warning teams would perform their brief mission, alerting the active, working members of the defense groups. Then, they would be available for defense. And the defense coördinators required warning teams and equipment in prescribed districts. His was one of these.
He grumbled to himself. Even the number of operators and their organization were prescribed. This was a section, right within his own district, where he had little authority. And it was irritating. Drones, that's what they were.
He continued to the Fixed Communications office. Here, at least, he had authority.
He walked through the door, casting a quick glance at the office as he entered. The section chief got up from his chair, and came forward. Morely felt a little glow of satisfaction as he detected the now familiar aura of uneasiness. Again, he wished this device he wore were more effective. He would like to know the details of this man's thoughts.
"Good morning, sir." The Fixed Communication chief saluted.
Morely returned the salute perfunctorily, then examined the man critically.
"Morning," he acknowledged. "Kirk, I want you to get some new uniforms. You look like a rag bag."
A little anger was added to the uneasiness. Kirk looked down at his clothing. It wasn't new, but there was actually little wrong, other than the slight smudge on a trouser leg, and a few, small spots of dullness on his highly polished boots.
"I've been inspecting some cable vaults, sir," he explained. "We had a little trouble, due to ground seepage."
"It makes no difference," the district leader snorted, "what you've been doing. A man in your position should be properly attired at all times." He paused, looking Kirk over minutely. "If your cable vaults are in such bad condition, get them cleaned up. When I look your installations over, I shall expect them to be clean. Clean, and in order."
He looked beyond Kirk. "And get that desk cleared. A competent man works on one thing at a time and keeps his work in order. A place for everything, and everything in its place, you know. You don't need all that clutter. Is the rest of your office as disorderly as this?"
He looked disparagingly about the small room, then turned toward the door to the main communications office. Kirk moved to open the door.
At one side of the large office was a battery of file cabinets. Four desks were arranged conveniently to them. Morely looked at this arrangement.
"What's this?"
"Billing and Directory, sir. These are the master files of all fixed communication subscribers. From them, we make up the semiannual directory, its corrective supplements, and the monthly bills."
Morely frowned at the desks and files, then looked at the clerks, who were bent over their desks. As one of the girls straightened momentarily, he recognized her. He'd seen her earlier, in the snack bar. He looked more closely at her desk. She had reason, he thought for that radiation of uncertain fear he could sense.
"What's in those files?" he demanded.
"It's a complete index to all subscribers, sir." Kirk looked a little surprised. Morely recognized that the man thought the question a little foolish. He cleared his throat growlingly.
"Let's see one of those cards."
Kirk walked to the file, pulled a small envelope at random, and held it out. The district leader examined it.
"Hah!" he snorted. "I thought so. Duplication of effort. This has nothing on it that isn't in my quarters and locator files."
"There's billing information on the back, sir," Kirk, pointed out. "And current charge slips are kept in the envelope. We use these to prepare the subscriber bills, as well as to maintain the directory service. It's a convenience file, to speed up our work."
Morely turned the envelope over in his hands. "Oh, yes." He opened the envelope, to look at the slips inside. "How do you get the information for these?"
"The charge slips come from Long Lines, sir." Kirk paused. "We get billing information for basic billing from the counters in the dial machine. The other information comes from installation reports and from the quarters file section and the locator files."
Morely handed the envelope back.
"I can see, Kirk," he said, "that you've built up a whole subsection of unnecessary people here." He stepped over to the file cabinets, examined their indices, then pulled a drawer open. He pulled his notebook out, consulted its entries, and searched out an envelope. For a moment, he compared it with the notebook. Then, he turned, holding out the envelope.
"And you don't even keep your information current," he accused. "This man was transferred yesterday afternoon, to another sector. You still show him at his old quarters, with his old communicator code."
"We haven't that information from Files yet, sir," protested Kirk. "They send us a consolidated list of changes daily, but it generally doesn't come in till thirteen hundred."
Morely dropped the envelope on one of the desks.
"Quarters Files can handle this entire operation," he declared, "with a little help from Fiscal. And they can handle it far better than your people here." He stopped for a moment, thinking, then continued. "Certainly," he decided, "Fiscal can take care of your billing. They handle the funds anyway, in the final analysis. And you can coördinate your directory work with the chief clerk at Files. You've got excess people here, Kirk. We don't need any of them."
He looked at the desks and felt a wave of consternation. Kirk spread his hands.
"But we have the information we need close at hand, sir. Our directory has been coming out on time, and in accurate condition. And our billing is well organized. The directory and billing are my respons—"
Morely waved a hand, then tapped himself on the chest with a long forefinger. "The entire operation of this headquarters is my responsibility, Kirk," he said positively, "and mine alone. And I mean to take care of it. You're responsible to me that Fixed Communications are kept in order, and I don't mean to relieve you of a bit of that responsibility. But I won't have you making jobs and wasting funds on excess personnel." He snorted. "Convenience files are all right. But they're meant to save work, not make it."
Kirk shook his head. "A decentralization will make it difficult," he began.
Again, Morely cut him off. "Don't start telling me why you can't do something," he snapped. "Work out a way youcando it. Make up plans for transferring this filing function to Quarters Files, and work up a plan for transferring your billing to Fiscal. That's their business, and they know how to handle it. Submit your study to me this afternoon." He looked around the office again.
"The people in Files and Fiscal can handle this workload without adding a single person. And they will. You're using four clerks to swing it. Kirk, I want this organization to run efficiently, and excess personnel don't lead to economic operation." He stared at the section chief.
"Give these four people their notices today, and I'll expect some suggestions from you as to further streamlining of your section within the next two days. And be sure they're sound suggestions, which result in personnel savings. Otherwise, I'll be looking for a new section chief up here."
For a few seconds, he stood, enjoying the waves of consternation and futile anger which beat about him. Almost, he could pick up some of the despairing thoughts in detail. The clerks, of course, were second-class citizens. And without employment, they'd soon lose their luxury privileges. Unless they were fortunate enough to find other employment very soon, they'd have to move to subsistence quarters, and learn to do without all but the most meagre of food, clothing, and shelter. When they did get employment again, they'd appreciate it. He looked majestically around the office once more, then turned and strode away.
He went through the corridor to the elevator, and stepped in, smiling contentedly. The morning hadn't been entirely wasted.
As he got out of the elevator on executive level, he glanced at his watch. It wasn't quite time for lunch, but there would be little point in spending the few remaining minutes in his office. He walked slowly toward the executive cafeteria.
After lunch, he returned to his office. A few matters awaited his examination and decision, and he busied himself for a short time, disposing of them. He paused over the last.
It was a request from Kirk for more cable construction. The justification showed figures which indicated an increase in executive type communications during the past few months. This, coupled with new quarters construction, necessitated additions to the cable trunks from the main exchange. There was added a short survey of necessary repair to existing cable facilities.
Morely leaned back. If he approved the request, he would be helping Kirk increase his section. On the other hand, if he disapproved it, and the communicator lines became congested, he might find himself open to criticism later. Some of his satisfaction evaporated. He looked sourly at the paper.
Suddenly, he thought of Bond's new project. The man had claimed this device could serve as a communication means between its wearers, and had demonstrated that his claim had some truth. After noting the slight fatigue the device seemed to cause in this application, and the vagueness of the device's operation, Morely had disregarded the claim. But junior executives could put up with a little fatigue and inconvenience. And he could see that they did. It might even cut down the time they were always wasting, talking with one another. He rubbed his chin with one hand.
"Well," he told himself, "let's see how it works."
From the way Bond had acted in his office, the sector leader might be still wearing his headband. In fact, he probably was. Morely concentrated on the man, then concentrated on a single, peremptory thought.
"Bond! Can you receive me?"
The answer was prompt. "Yes, sir. You wanted me?"
"Of course, Idiot. Why do you think I called? Do you really believe these things would be suitable for routine communication? Could they supplement our normal system?"
"Certainly, sir. They should be very effective."
"Have you offered them to Consolidated yet?"
"Yes, sir. They've accepted them. They're beginning to tool up for production."
Morely winced. He had given the order, to be sure—and before creditable witnesses. Bond had been right in taking immediate action, and his speed would have been commendable in most cases. But this time, Morely regretted his subordinate's efficiency. It was possible the devices might have a practical use after all. Possibly he had been hasty in releasing them to the open market. He shrugged away his thoughts. After all, an administrator had to make quick decisions. He returned to his unusual conversation.
"Set up a line in research and make up sufficient of those communicators to outfit the executive personnel of this district."
"Yes, sir."
"And give me delivery as soon as you possibly can. How soon will that be?"
"We can do it in five days, sir."
"Make it three. That's all."
Morely took off his headband. It wasn't as good as a communicator sphere, but it would be good enough. He looked at the request from Communications. Possibly, he would be able to cut Kirk down still more. He scrawled a "disapproved" on the sheet and initialed it. He started to toss the sheet to the corner of his desk, then hesitated.
Drawing the request back to him, he added: "Two subjects on same request. Resubmit as separate requests." He tossed the sheet to the desk corner, for the clerk to pick up. Let Kirk make up new requests, then worry about why his new construction request was still disapproved. He could always be advised to resubmit later, if the headbands didn't work out.
Miles away, Bond turned to an engineer.
"Tool up and start producing these communicators as fast as you can make 'em, Morris. I'll tell you when to stop. The Old Man just ordered a batch of 'em, and this is one order I want to comply with, and fast!"
He walked toward the small production office. Let's see, he had to produce enough for all the exec personnel in the district. Have to start finding out just how many of those guys there were.
"Make delivery as soon as possible, huh? Cut my estimate by two days? I'll have 'em out over night, if I have to start driving people to do it."
Morely looked up as the communicator beeped. He reached to the control panel and touched the switch. The face of his deputy appeared in the sphere.
"The section chiefs and field leaders are in the conference room, sir."
"Very good." Morely pushed back his chair. "I'll be right in."
He stepped through the door and crossed the outer office to the conference room. As he entered, there was a rustle of motion. The section chiefs and field leaders stood at attention around the table, waiting. At each place at the table was a blank notepad. The district leader went immediately to the head of the table and sat down.
"Gentlemen," he began, "I'll make this short. I've called you in to try out a new device which I intend to use to help solve the ever-present problem of communication." He looked toward Ward Kirk, who had glanced up in surprise.
"From time to time," he continued, "requests for more and more communicator lines have been coming in to my office. Since no one else seemed to be able to do anything about it, I decided it was time for me to step in. After all, we can't expand our cables indefinitely. We haven't unlimited funds at our disposal and there are other projects demanding attention. Important projects.
"A new electronic development has come to my attention, and it promises to relieve the load on our communicators. Each of you will be issued one of these devices, which I believe are called 'mental communicators,' or something of the sort. And you will draw sufficient of them to outfit those of your people who have occasion to use communication to any large degree. You will use them for all routine communications." He nodded to his deputy, who stepped to the door and beckoned.
Two men came in, carrying cartons, which they distributed around the room. Morely waited until one of the cartons was in the hands of each of the men before him, then he reached up to touch the headband he was wearing.
"This is the device I'm speaking of," he said. "Each of you will wear one of these at all times while you are on duty. You will find, after a little practice, that you will be able to call any associate who is similarly equipped. And you will use them in place of the conventional communications whenever possible." He cleared his throat raspingly.
"Sufficient of these devices have been produced to outfit all the key people of this district. I shall leave it to you to distribute them to your subordinates, and to instruct those subordinates in their use. And I shall expect the load on our communicator cables to be appreciably diminished." He looked to one side of the room.
"Bond."
"Yes, sir."
"You will instruct those present in the use of this new communicator." Morely rose and left the room.
As the district leader disappeared through the door, Harold Bond walked to the front of the room. In his hands, he held one of the headbands and a power pack.
"Gentlemen," he said, "this is a form of communicator. I don't pretend to understand precisely how it operates, though I watched its development and set up a production line for it. All I know is that it works. And I know how to use it—to some extent.
"The district leader remarked that one could learn to use it with a little practice, and he's right. Basically, anyone can use it as soon as he puts it on for the first time. But it's like so many other tools. The more you use it, the more proficient you get with it. And I suspect it has capabilities I haven't found yet." He shrugged.
"Operation is simple in the extreme. Since the first model, refinements have been added, and it's unnecessary now for an operator to make any adjustments, other than intensity."
He picked up the power pack.
"This is the power pack, which is plugged into the headband, thus." He paused as he connected the two plugs.
"If you gentlemen will perform the operations as I do, this will take only a short time."
There was a crackling in the room as cartons were opened. Power packs and headbands rattled against the table for a moment, then Bond continued.
"Having plugged in the power pack, you turn this small knob very slightly in a clockwise direction, then place the headband on your head. The knob is the switch and intensity control, and it's quite sensitive. Most people need very little intensity. If you have difficulty with communication, raise the intensity a little at a time, till thoughts come through clearly." He paused, as the men before him adjusted the headbands to their heads.
"The power pack," he continued, "may be placed in a pocket." He reached down. "Personally, I carry mine in my shirt, since I find that convenient."
He looked around the room. Men were turning to stare at their neighbors. Bond could detect a current of uncertainty, then a sensation of pleased surprise. Snatches of thought drifted to him. He ignored them for the moment. Time enough to become acquainted with people later. He placed a hand over his mouth, so everyone could see he was not speaking.
"Can everyone receive me?"
There was a wave of affirmation, and Bond nodded.
"Simple, isn't it? Are there any questions?"
A jumble of thoughts made him waver. Most of them could have been phrased, "How does this thing work? What does it do? Am I dreaming?" Bond smiled in real amusement. He held up a hand.
"I felt the same way," he thought reassuringly. "Sometimes. I still do. All I can tell you is what you've already found out for yourselves. It works. I'm told it's a sort of telepathic amplifier and radiator. But as I told you, I don't understand its principles. As to practice? I'm still meeting interesting people. So will you." He took off the headband.
"If anyone has any further questions on operation, I'll try to answer them," he thought quickly. He glanced around the room. Three men were looking at him blankly. He took careful note of them, and mentally shook hands with himself. They were the ones he'd thought would blank out. He spoke aloud.
"I'm sorry, gentlemen," he apologized. "I forgot I might be out of communication. I'm not completely used to this mentacom, myself." He looked toward the deputy leader.
"Do you have anything to add, sir?"
The deputy shook his head. "No," he said thoughtfully. "I think the demonstration was adequate. He cast a quizzical look at Bond, then looked around the room.
"You gentlemen will find a supply of these devices in the outer office. You may draw one for each person you wish outfitted. If any of you have further questions, I would suggest you get in touch with Community Research. They understand this thing." He waved toward the door. "This meeting is adjourned."
He watched as the men filed from the room, then turned on Bond.
"What was that business after you took off your headband?" he demanded. "I received you perfectly, and so did practically everyone here. Why the apology?"
Bond grimaced. "We found out something peculiar while we were making preliminary tests on this device, sir," he explained. "Some people don't seem to be able to pick up clear thoughts with it, unless another person uses the mentacom to drive in to them. Most of us can pick up thoughts from anyone we look at, whether they have a band on or not. Definite, surface thoughts, that is."
"And?" The deputy's expression was still questioning. He reached up to point at the band he was still wearing. "I'm getting some mighty peculiar secondary thoughts right now," he added.
"And the people who can't use the device fully have other peculiarities, sir. I'd rather not go into detail. You can find out the whole story for yourself with a very short bit of experimentation, and you have a subject right at hand. If I simply told you, you probably wouldn't believe me anyway."
The deputy nodded slowly. "For the moment," he said, "I'll take your words—and your thoughts—as true. Now, one more question: Can a person, using one of these things, successfully lie to another person who wears one?"
"No, sir." Bond was positive. "It's impossible."
"I got that impression. Thanks." The deputy turned and walked out of the door. Bond looked after him, a slight smile growing on his lips.
"Old Man wanted 'em," he told himself. "He's got 'em."
The Fiscal chief glanced through the letter in his hands, then canted his head a little and read again. He lowered it to his desk, then sat for a moment, to stare into space. Finally, he looked down once more.
Central Coördination AgencyOffice of the ComptrollerCCA 7.33821 July, 2012To:District LeaderDistrict TwelveRegion NineAttn.:Fiscal ChiefSubject:Mental Communicator1. It has been brought to the attention of this office that a product known as the "Consolidated Mental Communicator" is being manufactured in District Twelve, Region Nine, and offered for sale as a luxury item.2. The characteristics of this device have been investigated by the Technical Division, Central Coördination Agency, and it has been found that the device does in fact permit communication between persons by telepathic or some similar means.3. This device is presently being offered for sale in retail luxury stores throughout the nation. The volume of sales and of potential sales warrants distribution of the manufacturing load to manufacturers other than the Consolidated Electronics Company, who, it is understood, presently hold an exclusive manufacturing agreement with the office of the District Leader, District Twelve, Region Nine. This arrangement is inconsistent with the sales and use potential of the device in question.4. The agreement between District Twelve, Region Nine, and the Consolidated Electronics Company will be forwarded immediately to this headquarters for consideration. It is contemplated that this agreement will be terminated and replaced by a manufacturing license from the Products Division, Central Coördinating Agency, who will further license other manufacturers to produce this device.By Command of Chief Coördinator GormanKELLERComptrollerMRK/pem
Central Coördination AgencyOffice of the Comptroller
CCA 7.33821 July, 2012
To:District LeaderDistrict TwelveRegion NineAttn.:Fiscal ChiefSubject:Mental Communicator
1. It has been brought to the attention of this office that a product known as the "Consolidated Mental Communicator" is being manufactured in District Twelve, Region Nine, and offered for sale as a luxury item.
2. The characteristics of this device have been investigated by the Technical Division, Central Coördination Agency, and it has been found that the device does in fact permit communication between persons by telepathic or some similar means.
3. This device is presently being offered for sale in retail luxury stores throughout the nation. The volume of sales and of potential sales warrants distribution of the manufacturing load to manufacturers other than the Consolidated Electronics Company, who, it is understood, presently hold an exclusive manufacturing agreement with the office of the District Leader, District Twelve, Region Nine. This arrangement is inconsistent with the sales and use potential of the device in question.
4. The agreement between District Twelve, Region Nine, and the Consolidated Electronics Company will be forwarded immediately to this headquarters for consideration. It is contemplated that this agreement will be terminated and replaced by a manufacturing license from the Products Division, Central Coördinating Agency, who will further license other manufacturers to produce this device.
By Command of Chief Coördinator Gorman
KELLERComptroller
MRK/pem
The Fiscal chief shook his head. This one spelled trouble—in capitals. The royalty payments from Consolidated had become one of the major sources of income for the district. And Morely had ordered project after project, using those funds to pay for them. Some of the projects were still outstanding. The Old Man would blow his top.
He looked again at the small scrap of paper which was clipped to the letter. On it was scrawled: "DeVore—See me—HRM."
For a moment, DeVore considered using his own mentacom, then he discarded the idea. To be sure, the leader had insisted that his subordinates use the devices for their own communications, and he'd cut Fixed Communications to the bone. But he still insisted on either communicator calls or personal contact when he wished to talk to any of his people. And he discouraged any but essential use of the communicator system, generally demanding that people come in to see him.
DeVore wrinkled his face disgustedly. Itwashard to communicate with the district leader by means of a headband. There was a repellent characteristic about the man's mental emanations, and he seemed to fail to comprehend nuances of meaning. Similes, he ignored completely. Thoughts had to be completely and clearly detailed, then phrased into normal, basic wordage before he would acknowledge them. None of the short-cuts used by other members of the administrative staff seemed to work out in his case. He apparently didn't notice visualizations, and he never made one. His transmission was as stiff and labored as the type of communication he required from others—more so, if anything. DeVore scratched his neck.
"How," he asked himself, "does one define a telepathic monotone?"
There were a few others with whom DeVore had experienced similar difficulties, but most people, he had found, picked up meanings and concepts without difficulty—even seemed to anticipate at times. And since the new induction mentacoms had come on the market, with the annoying contacts and headstraps removed, virtually everyone seemed to be either in possession of one of the devices, or about to get one. And, they were worn everywhere.
He smiled as he thought of the young father-to-be, who had bored through the evening traffic rush yesterday. The youngster had been so intent on getting his wife to the hospital that he'd probably failed to see half the ships that clawed out of his way. And his visualization had been almost painfully clear. He'd probably be apologizing for weeks to everyone he contacted.
DeVore straightened in his chair. What would happen, he wondered, if the leader ever ran into one of those situations?
"Yipe!" he muttered. "What a row that would be."
He shrugged, got out of his chair, and walked out into the corridor.
"Better get it over with," he told himself.
As he approached the leader's door, it opened, and Ward Kirk came out. He closed the door with a careful gentleness, then faced it for an instant. DeVore was conscious of a wave of hopeless fury, and a fleeting glimpse of Morely's face, framed by brilliant flame. Then, Kirk faced around and saw him.
"Careful," DeVore thought. "You're broadcasting. He'll pick you up."
Kirk grimaced and DeVore saw a faint image of a tyrannosaur, which reared up, jaws agape. Blood dripped from the human figure gripped in the creature's talons.
"The old ... wouldn't understand if he did."
DeVore grinned. "See what you mean. Well, guess I'm the next victim."
He stepped to the door and tapped.
"Come in."
Morely looked up as his Fiscal Chief entered, then swept some papers aside. "Well, what doyouwant?"
DeVore held out the letter. "You wanted to see me, sir, about this." He placed the paper within the reach of his superior, who snatched at it, held it up for a moment, then dropped it to his desk.
"Yes, I did. What can we do about it?"
"Why," DeVore spread his hands slightly, "we'll have to comply."
"That isn't what I meant, Idiot! How can we continue to receive the payments from Consolidated?"
"I don't think we can, sir. If Central Coördinating wants to put the device on a national basis, we can't do anything about it."
Morely looked down at the letter, then glared searchingly at DeVore. "The way I read this," he declared, "they want to distribute manufacturing rights on the communicator to plants in other regions than this. Right?"
"Yes, sir."
"But they don't say anything about our continuing the Consolidated payments on an overwrite basis, for the sale of devices they may make. Now, do they?"
"No, sir. But that's implied. In cases like this, Central always takes over all rights." DeVore hesitated. "I believe regulations—"
"I don't care what's implied, DeVore. And I don't care what you believe. All I see is what's in this letter. They want to distribute the manufacturing load, and I'm quite willing that they should. I want to continue receiving the payments from Consolidated. Now, you arrange it so that they're satisfied and I'm satisfied."