Prescription for Chaos (14 page)

"Why am I just standing here
thinking
about it? Why not
do
it?"

He strode off down the corridor in one direction as the plumbers vanished around the corner in the other direction.

From around the corner came a sucking pumping sound, followed by a gurgling noise, more sucking and pumping sounds, a good deal of profanity, then a shout of triumph.

"She's unplugged! O.K., boys, let's go!"

Banner nodded.

"That's more
like
it!"

Hommel looked down the hall where Smyth had disappeared.

"Wait a minute. What's he working on—"

There was a thundering noise on the stairs, then the roar of exhaust.

Smyth came hurrying back up the hall, carrying what looked like a silver-coated round-bottomed flask in one hand, and in the other a small bottle of yellowish oily liquid. From the mouth of the silvered flask came a wisp of whitish vapor.

Hommel stared. "Great, holy, leaping—"

"You see, Mort," said Banner, a little expansively, "we've provided the few remaining practical men with the means to convert
intellectuals
into practical men. They, in turn, will be irritated by the intellectuals around
them
. There's the answer to our problem."

Hommel was watching Smyth.

Smyth vanished into his laboratory.

Banner went on, "The trouble with Cerebrocreatine was that it undermined necessities of life at the same time that it gave us fringe benefits we could get along without. That's not progress. Progress is the product of a new advantage
compounding advantages we already have
."

He paused as Smyth came out holding in one gloved hand a shiny rod bearing at its end a clamp. The clamp gripped a small unstoppered bottle of yellowish oily liquid.

Smyth insinuated the rod around the door frame, peered into the room, drew the door almost shut, turned his face away, and tilted the rod.

BAM!

The building jumped. Fire shot out around the edges of the door. Black smoke rolled out behind the flames.

Smyth threw off the smoking glove, sniffed the air, then sucked his fingers.

"Well,
that
didn't work."

He turned away, drew in a deep breath, then went back into his laboratory. There was immediately the whir of a powerful draft sucking up fumes.

"Hm-m-m," said Banner looking thoughtfully at the partly opened door.

Smyth reappeared, unrolling what looked like a small coil of bell wire. He tacked a loop to the door frame, then, still unrolling wire, went back into the laboratory. Wisps of smoke were still trailing out around the top of the door, but this didn't seem to slow him down. He came out, cut the loop, stripped the insulation off the two ends, pounded in another tack, and hammered it flat to hold the two wires. Then he bent the ends of the wires, so they wouldn't touch—yet.

Hommel cleared his throat.

"Ah . . . Dr. Smyth . . . I wonder if perhaps . . . a little more theoretical consideration of the thermodynamics of the reaction—?"

"Theoretical considerations be damned," said Smyth. "The only way we're going to find out is to try it and see what products we get."

He raised his left arm over his head, shielding one ear with his shoulder, and the other with his fingers, then he touched the bare ends of the two wires together.

BOOM!

The building jumped.

Cracks shot up the wall.

There was a heavy shattering crash from overhead.

As the roar died away, the smash and tinkle of breaking glass could be heard throughout the building.

Smyth shoved the door slightly open, and a grayish cloud poured out. He wafted some of the fumes in his direction, and sniffed cautiously.

His face lit in a triumphant smile.

"
That
saves some time!"

He pulled the door shut, and headed toward the stockroom.

Hommel turned to Banner, "How is
this
an improvement? We were better off with theorists!"

"We've overshot the mark again. This stuff is too strong."

"There's a threshold effect. If you don't use enough, you get no result you can detect."

A small crowd was gathering in the hall to see what was going on. Banner separated Peabody from the pack.

"Peabody, my boy," said Banner, "we've got this last problem pretty well licked, thanks to your antidote. But there's still one little loose end that we've got to take care of."

Peabody looked apprehensive.

"What's that, sir?"

Banner shook his head.

"
Now
we need an antidote for the antidote."

Alex Bohlen, bioprogrammer for Xpert Systems Implants, sat a few yards from the boxing ring and watched Reinhardt Magnusgarten climb through the ropes. In the seat to Bohlen's right, even as the crowd around them let out its roar of approval, Ed Norton, implant surgeon, gave a grunt of disgust.

"That SOB can't stop clowning."

Bohlen noted Magnusgarten's nose-thumbing gesture across the ring toward Bisbee, the champion.

Bohlen shook his head. "The implant doesn't affect his natural ebullience."

"Ebullience? The guy thinks he's unbeatable. When they weighed in, he laughed in Bisbee's face."

Around them, the shouts of the crowd were rising to a new pitch, and Bohlen listened wonderingly:

"Okay, Maggie! Kill the bastard!"

"Magic Garden! You're in the Garden, boy! You've made it! Hey, hey! Magic Garden!"

"Come on, Maggie! Show him! We're all champs now!"

"One round, Maggie!"

Bohlen leaned toward Norton. "Are all these people crazy?"

"I don't think they are. But I think Magnus may be."

In the ring, Magnusgarten had shrugged off his robe to reveal a large pale physique, and, as the crowd gave a roar of laughter, he patted his none too muscular midsection. He then danced somewhat tipsily around in his corner, and Norton suddenly sprang to his feet, to shout to the trainer, who shook his head and leaned over the ropes to answer:

"Just the usual! You know Maggie!"

Norton sat down, and Bohlen said, "What was that?"

"I thought Magnus might be drunk. Tab says he's just horsing around, as usual."

"That's a relief, at least."

"There's a lot riding on this. Magnus could show a little seriousness."

"That would be nice. But he's done all right so far."

"Sure. Against second-rates. Strictly thanks to the implant."

"True."

In the ring, an official, arms raised, was trying to quiet the crowd. The crowd chanted back, "Fight! Fight! Kill him, Maggie! Fight! Fight! Kill him, Maggie! Fight! Fight! Kill him, Maggie!"

Someone tugged at Bohlen's left sleeve. He turned, to smile at a pretty blonde girl in the seat beside him.

"Bo," she said, "I'm scared."

"I told you you might not like it. But don't worry. It's always like this. A lot of noise and emotion. It's just the way it always is."

She shook her head. "I don't mean that. I'm afraid for Magnus. He can't possibly stand up to that man."

Bohlen followed her gaze, to see the two fighters in the center of the ring, right hands outstretched. The contrast jarred him. There in the blaze of the lights was the champion, Bisbee, a light sheen of sweat over powerful muscles, plainly trained to the peak of condition, his face blank, his gaze alert. He had a look of power and lightning reflexes.

And there was Magnusgarten, large, but more lightly built, his muscles less developed, pale, slightly pudgy, a silly faintly nasty grin on his face as he said something to the champion.

By some freak of acoustics, Bohlen caught the words.

Norton swore. "What did the overconfident ass do now?"

Bohlen shook his head. "He said, 'Sweet dreams,' to Bisbee."

"Great. He thinks the implant's magic. He doesn't know the difference between the second-rates he fought to get here and the champion of the world. How could I be so stupid?"

"You? What did you do?"

Norton shook his head. "I bet on him."

Bohlen grinned. "On Magnus?"

Norton nodded. "And it wasn't pennies."

The crowd was shouting and laughing. The girl said in a low voice, "Oh, Magnus." Bohlen turned to reassure her. There was a bell. A huge shout went up. Bohlen looked around.

Bisbee was in the center of the ring, his muscular arms raised to shield his head as Magnus with incredible speed landed blows to the champion's arms, shoulders, and when Bisbee tried to strike back, to his briefly uncovered head. When Bisbee turned, as if to get away, Magnus was already there, blocking him, smashing at Bisbee's well covered head and body.

The crowd screamed, "Maggie! Maggie! You've got him!"

The girl was on her feet with everyone else, clutching Bohlen's arm.

Norton was shouting with the rest of them. "Put him down, Maggie! Put him down!"

Magnusgarten hit Bisbee again and again. Bisbee kept backing and turning, keeping his head well covered. Magnusgarten hit him on the biceps, the shoulders, landed a blow to the midsection. Suddenly, Bisbee lashed out, and his punch missed, pulling him a little off-balance. Magnusgarten hit him to the eyes, and again to the eyes. Bisbee covered his face with his gloves, the sweat running down his well muscled body.

Magnusgarten laughed, stepped close, said something to Bisbee, then stepped easily around the big muscular fighter, and smashed him in the side.

As Bisbee retreated across the ring, Magnusgarten followed, hit the upraised arms, then the midsection. Bisbee covered himself with gloves, forearms, and elbows. Magnusgarten hit him. Bisbee gave with the punches.

Norton said, "Damn it! Why won't he go down?"

The big crowd fell silent. For several moments there was nothing but the sound of the blows. Then, from somewhere to the rear came an elderly, somewhat cracked male voice:

"Keep it up, Champ! He's wearing out!"

The bell rang.

Magnusgarten, breathing hard, sank onto his stool. Bisbee, the champion, sat down and leaned back. His eyes were puffed, and blood trickled from a cut in his lip.

Norton said uneasily, "This is the first fight to go a full round."

Bohlen said, "Well—Bisbee is the champ."

"I don't like the looks of it. Magnus acts tired already."

Bohlen leaned close to Norton's ear. "Remember the program."

Norton nodded, but said moodily, "If there had been more strength in Magnus's blows, Bisbee would be down by now."

"He's no weakling. He's hurt Bisbee. You can see that."

"I know he's no weakling. But he doesn't do his part. Tab has to train him playing games and he has to do it between parties. Magnus throws the whole burden on other people."

"The reporters love it. So does the crowd."

"That won't help him if Bisbee connects."

There was the sound of the bell.

Magnusgarten came unsteadily to his feet. He sucked in a deep breath and blew it out, looking across the ring at Bisbee.

The champion, hands partly raised, stalked warily across the ring.

The cracked voice called from the back, "Watch him, Champ! He's not that bushed!"

The champion's guard jerked up higher.

At the same instant, Magnusgarten pivoted. Bisbee reeled back, hands in front of his face. Magnusgarten laughed, stepped aside, struck Bisbee's gloves as if to knock his guard down, hit him in the side, in the elbows, hit the raised gloves, smashed Bisbee in the ear, struck again to the head, where the upraised arms soaked up the force of the blows, smashed him on the biceps, again on the biceps, as if to lacerate the muscles, to destroy Bisbee's power of defense—

Bisbee backed, moved with the blows, covered himself, retreated around the ring as Magnus advanced.

The crowd screamed for action. Time and again, Magnusgarten lashed out, breathing hard, and the champion slipped away.

Among the shouts of "Yellow!" "Coward!" "Come on and fight!" came a cracked voice, "That's it, Champ! Wear him down!"

The bell finally rang.

A shout went up.

Norton sat back. "My God!"

From the rear of the arena, as the shouting died down, came the cracked voice, "He's slowing, Champ. Next round, push him a little."

Norton twisted in his seat. "Who is that? Damn it, I wish he'd shut up!"

The girl said, "Is it true?"

Bohlen looked at her anxious face. "Is what true?"

"Is Magnus tired?"

"He's bound to be a little tired."

"But doesn't the—the chip—the implant—It makes him an expert, doesn't it?"

As Bohlen hesitated, Norton leaned across him to snarl, "The bastard won't train, that's the trouble. The implant steps up his coordination. It gives him skill he wouldn't have. But he thinks it's magic and he doesn't train."

"But couldn't the implant make him train?"

Norton glanced at Bohlen. "How about it?"

Bohlen hesitated. "Maybe some day. So far, we can't do anything for motivation. I never even thought of the problem." He frowned at Norton. "Did you?"

"I thought if we got someone big and strong, who knew the rudiments, who'd take the risk of the surgery, and if we could get the chip implanted—I thought that would do it."

"That's what I thought."

The bell rang.

Bisbee, his guard well up, cautiously crossed the ring.

Magnusgarten, breathing hard, his hands down, stood, legs slightly trembling, in his corner.

The thin cracked voice called, "Test him a little, Champ!"

Bisbee's left hand lashed out.

Magnusgarten moved his head and body just a little, slipped the blow, and brought up both hands. The champion's right smashed solidly into Magnusgarten's midsection. Magnusgarten went back on the ropes, bounced off, and as Bisbee swung a right that missed, the cracked voice yelled, "Cover, Champ!" Magnusgarten's fists flashed out to Bisbee's briefly unprotected head. The blows were solid, coordinated, and one followed another so fast Bohlen wasn't sure whether there had been three, four, or half-a-dozen.

Bisbee went down. The sound brought the crowd to its feet and silence to the arena.