Prescription for Chaos (23 page)

"'We are legally responsible for nothing whatever, in any way whatever, related to your running this program, or for any consequential damages resulting therefrom. You are fully and inescapably responsible, from the moment you tore the plastic wrap, for anything and everything that happens afterward, anything to the contrary notwithstanding.'

"However, please do not rely on this informal summary. Read the Agreement. It is much more detailed and restrictive.

"If you wish, you may stop here and return the program for your full purchase price, less a slight charge for repacking. To return the program, type 'R' on the keyboard. To continue, type 'C.' To think things over, or reread the Agreement, WHICH MUST BE READ FIRST, type 'P' for pause."

Randy sneered, and hit "C" on the keyboard.

Gently at first, the screen seemed to swirl. He felt a moment's dizziness, and then the words that flashed on the screen appeared to transmute into a deep thoughtful voice:

"Too often, we overlook the obvious when we try to solve a problem. We should look the problem over very carefully, note the exact details, note how the details are related, and not hesitate to use paper and pencil. Be sure you know what the problem is. Possibly there is a similar, simpler, or more familiar problem to use as a model? Can you . . ."

The voice went on, each suggestion somehow compelling a thought-out response, and the effort of each response creating a kind of mental jolt so that he felt dizzy, as if successive blows sapped his strength. He was still struggling to put his problem into words—"What's happened to the dream?" when everything seemed to fade out.

"Randy—" The feminine voice was gentle.

"Whew." He sat up dizzily. The room spun around him. "How long—"

"I just came in to tell you good-night. You were slumped over the machine."

He massaged his forehead.

"Well—If that's Armagast's latest—I hate to say it—Maybe the dream
is
dead!"

"Oh, don't say—"

"It's junk. A little advice and a feeling like some stage hypnotist just tricked you into dancing around with a broomstick."

"Maybe it will seem better in the morning."

"I'll see if I can get my money back. I'm afraid it's too late. But the store copy goes back tomorrow, as soon as I get hold of Stew."

* * *

Stewart Rafer pushed up his thick-lensed glasses and eyed the package as Randy, hand pressed to forehead, described the program.

"—and you should have seen the disclaimer in the program itself—which is supposed to be just a mild summary."

Stewart was studying a large paper covered with fine print.

"I just wonder—This whole thing gives me the impulse to see if I couldn't crack their little gimmick. What are we, the auto industry?"

Randy looked blank, then went on, "What makes me sick is Armagast. I can't believe he did this."

"Well, they get zilch for this package from me, and I'll lean on them to give back what they got from you. Not that we can count on it." Stewart glanced at his watch. "Now, I've been thinking we could give better service if we could pick up machines for repair, and bring the finished job back to the customer. One of these multiformat vans might answer our needs. But I'd like your opinion."

"What's—"

"Tell Mort you and I are going out, and we'll be back about four, at the latest."

"Is Mort in today?"

"Should be. I told him to come in."

Randy stepped down the hall into the showroom, told Mort, and then stood still a moment, considering that:

a) Stewart had not exploded at the purchase of the Armagast program.

b) Stewart was going to try to get Randy's money back.

c) Stewart had hired Mort for an extra day's work, so Randy could go along to look at the new van.

Not once in the past had Stewart treated Randy so much like an equal. And here was Stewart even saying that he would like Randy's opinion.

On top of that string of impossibilities, there was what Stewart wanted Randy's opinion on—a "multiformat van." What was a "multiformat van"?

Then there had been that about "cracking the gimmick." Apparently Stewart wanted to unlock the tricky antipiracy traps in the Armagast program. When had Stewart ever shown interest or talent for that?

In short, something was wrong. If this was reality, Randy didn't recognize it.

Of course, it could be just Stewart. Maybe Stewart was coming down with a cold, and this was how it hit him?

But then he realized there was a worse inconsistency:

Armagast.

Even when the big companies drove him to the wall, Armagast had still paid off his creditors and delivered the goods to his customers. That was one reason for the fanatical loyalty the man inspired, for the users groups that stuck with outdated Armagast hardware, for the rejoicing when the Armagast updates began to come through, against all predictions stepping up the power of the Armagast machines. Even the announcement, mailed to former customers:

"Armagast Computers is happy to offer our former customers the renewal of all services we formerly provided. Effective immediately, we also renew all Armagast warranties for a period of ninety days from the date of this letter. We offer immediately a series of upgrades to make our computers fully comparable to our competitors. We thank our customers for their loyalty, and we continue to stand by our pledge: 'Solid quality at a fair price.'"

Would the individual behind that have put out a program that didn't work?

It was at that point that Randy became conscious of a ghostly wind on the back of his neck.

No, the Stewart he knew positively would not act as Stewart now was acting.

And, no, Armagast flatly would not do as Armagast apparently had done.

Therefore—

From down the hall Stewart called, "Okay, Randy, let's go."

Randy swallowed. "Coming."

Stewart held the outside door open.

Randy stepped outside, to stare at a dirt parking lot where the high wheels of parked vehicles rested in narrow concrete troughs. The troughs curved in pairs, their tops a few inches above the muck, out into a road where they alternated with mud puddles under buzzing swarms of flies.

"Merciful God," said Randy.

Stewart growled, "Which of these heaps do we take?" He pulled open the door, and leaned back into the building. "Hey! Mike?"

The technician's voice was muffled, "Stew?"

"Randy and I are going to look at a van. What's the format for Inter-Continental Motors?"

There was a click of a door opening.

"InterCon? Wide and deep. But hey, Stew, wait." Footsteps hammered down the hall, and the technician peered out into the sunlight. "The format's about sixty-by-eight, but don't take an adjustable. I've found out InterCon's latest stunt, just by accident—and I do mean accident."

"What—?"

"They've raised the roads under their overpasses."

Stewart stared.

Mike nodded. "I saw one of those adjustable vans that's supposed to fit any format start under the overpass going in on Main Street. The top of the van hit the underpass. There was glass all over the road."

"They can't do that!"

"They can if they make it legal."

"What happened to the van?"

"A big InterCon wrecker slid under the overpass with inches to spare, and hauled the wreck out. An ambulance took the driver. That was an InterCon job, too."

Stewart shook his head. "Half the outfits using InterCon's format will start to collapse when news of this gets around. But how do we know which ones?"

Mike glanced around the lot. "Yeah. We don't want to get an orphan we can't find parts for. Well, all I can offer is, drive the InterCon job. It may be slow, but you won't spend half the day dodging underpasses."

"I was thinking of looking at one of the independents first."

"Then make two trips. But I tell you, Stew, I'd hesitate to get a van that won't go into InterCon's territory. They're big and getting bigger."

"A lot of our customers don't live there."

"Do you want to be driving a competing van when they throw the next block into the competition?"

"No. But there's an InterCon price list on my desk, stuck under the appointment pad. Take a look at that."

"That's how they play it. Well, enjoy yourself out there. Happy disposition!"

Stewart nodded moodily, and glanced at Randy. "Let's see what InterCon has to offer while we're still fresh. I'm not sure I can stand their van salesman after ten in the morning. Then we can look at some independents, and if we've got any strength left, we can try Rugged Jake."

Randy drew a shaky breath, and nodded. He glanced up. The sun and clouds looked the same. The trees looked like trees he had known before. The buildings looked unchanged. Then he looked back at the mud, the curving tracks, and the clouds of flies. Only one explanation presented itself: Things had changed since he ran that program.

Why hadn't he read the whole disclaimer? And where was he now? Had he been slung into some other continuum? Or was this just a dream?

With an effort, he straightened up. He had to eat, wherever he might be. And while this might not be the best job in the world, it was a job. He started across the lot, tripped over a curving trough, and just avoided a fall onto an angle where one concrete trough merged with another in crossing. Stewart, meanwhile, stepped with easy familiarity over the troughs to a vehicle with high wheels, lots of ground clearance, and a body that reminded Randy of the front end of a fire truck joined to the back end of a hay wagon.

As Stewart heaved himself up to the driver's seat, Randy barely missed putting his foot down a trough, and then almost slipped into a deep-looking puddle that stank of horse manure. It was a relief to climb onto the running board. He was pulling a cover off the passenger's seat when Stewart said dryly, "How about some help?"

Randy looked back blankly.

"What?"

Stewart leaned forward over the windshield, which was folded down flat, and tapped the curving red hood. He cupped his hand to his ear as if listening.

Randy stared at him stupidly.

Stewart stared back.

It occurred to Randy that he could lose his job here just as well as back home. He did a fast desperate feat of mental gymnastics, but found no answer.

Stewart shook his head. "Don't stay up so late with bad programs." He pointed to the front of the car, raised his arm to shoulder level, and whipped his forearm around in a circle.

Randy didn't get it, but decided to go look. He took a step, forgetting that he was on the running board, hit the puddle with a stiff-legged splash, and felt the water pour into his shoe. With a sucking squelch, he pulled free, then a lurch and a stagger brought him to the front of the car, and now he saw the hand-crank hanging down under the radiator. Randy took hold, and whipped the crank around fast.

Stewart snarled, "Seat it, will you! All you're doing is turning the crank, not the engine!"

Randy crouched down, shoved in on the crank, rotated it part way, and it slid forward another inch or two. He gave a heave, and got nowhere.

"Hold it!" yelled Stewart. "Sorry about that! Okay, I've got the clutch in. Try her again!"

Randy gave a desperate heave on the crank, and succeeded in turning it, but nothing happened. He tried again with the same result.

Stewart snorted. "This the first time you ever cranked an engine? Keep her going!"

Randy mopped his forehead, and as he took a fresh hold he chanced to notice two battered iron posts sunk into the ground, one near either end of the badly dented front bumper. A suspicion formed in his mind, and he looked up at Stewart.

"What gear you got it in?"

Stewart looked guilty. "Ah—" He pulled on a long lever, and there was a little grating noise. "Not that it matters. It was in low. I've got it in neutral now." Stewart's tone of voice confirmed Randy's suspicion that it did matter, though he had yet to work out exactly how. He took hold of the crank, heaved up, pushed down, heaved up, got the rhythm—

BANG! BAM! BANG!

The crank whipped out of his hands, the car shook, and Stewart yelled, "That's more like it! Okay, let's go!"

Randy detoured the puddle, his foot squelching in his shoe, climbed the running board, got over a metal lip, heaved the cover off the passenger's seat, and almost went out over the windshield as Stewart shifted into reverse. Stewart, possibly in apology, shouted, "Clutch is a bitch!"

The slimy soddenness of his shoe was getting to Randy, and he took advantage of a few seconds of calm as Stewart backed out of the lot to get the shoe off, and wring out his sock. He got that back on just as Stewart speeded up.

They backed fast on some kind of sidetrack, slid to a stop, and with a sudden lunge they jolted forward, hit repeated obstructions with a series of jarring shocks, and then Stewart grabbed his end of the windshield and yelled, "Let's put her up!"

Randy, barely able to hang on, pulled up on his end, tightened the wingbolt, then grabbed for support as they bounced around an uphill curve at possibly fifteen miles an hour; and then Stewart pulled back a lever even longer than the gearshift lever, and they slid to a stop at a traffic light. A cloud of dust rolled over them from the intersection, and then they turned onto a road each side of which looked a hundred feet wide, covered with concrete troughs of all widths and spacings, with horses trotting along at the edges. Randy watched the speedometer needle crawl up, with several shifts of gears, to twenty-five miles an hour, when Stewart set the throttle, glanced around, and grinned. "Still some life in this old baby!" Then he sat back in his seat with the steering wheel wobbling on its own as they thundered through clouds of dusts and flies, their wheels locked in the concrete tracks, with Stewart intent on a shouted conversation:

"Don't repeat what Mike told us!"

"No."

"What?"

"I said NO!"

"It gives us a little advantage to know first."

"What?"

"I said, IT HELPS TO KNOW IT FIRST!"

"OKAY!"

After several interruptions when horses began to pass them on the turns, and Stewart looked askance at the speedometer and readjusted the throttle, they reached a turnoff; and after a series of jolts through interconnecting troughs, some of them partly crumbled away, they passed a huge sign lettered BRISTOL—HOME OF INTERCONTINENTAL MOTORS—ALL MOTORIZED VEHICLES USE INTERCON OFFICIAL FORMAT ONLY—HORSEDRAWN VEHICLES TAKE ALTERNATE THOROUGHFARES—IN THIS JURISDICTION ALL NON-INTERCON FORMATS ARE ILLEGAL!