Special Deliverance (2 page)

T
HE FACULTY CLUB WAS on the top floor of the Student Union. The entire outer wall was a series of plate-glass windows looking out over a placid, well-tended little lake hemmed in by birch and pine.

Lansing and Andy sat at one of the tables next to the wall.

Spaulding lifted his glass and looked over it, speculatively, at Lansing.

“You know,” he said, “I have been thinking the last few days how fortunate it would be if there should be visited upon us another medieval plague such as wiped out a third of Europe’s population in the fourteenth century. Or another world war or even a second biblical flood—anything that would force us to start over once again, to erase some of the mistakes that we have made in the last thousand years or so, giving us the opportunity to arrive at some new social and economic principles. A chance to escape from mediocrity, the chance to organize ourselves more sanely. The work-and-wage system has become obsolete, it defeats itself, and still we cling to it…”

“Don’t you think,” Lansing suggested mildly, “that the methods you suggest might prove rather drastic?”

Not meaning to argue by saying it. No one argued with Andy; he simply overrode anyone who tried. He rumbled on and on, in a voice that was just short of a monotone, marshaling his thoughts and cataloguing them, spreading them out for one to see, as one might fan out a deck of playing cards.

Not wanting to argue, not intending to, but entering into the spirit of the game, which required that at certain intervals Andy’s victim or victims murmur some appropriate response.

“One of these days,” said Andy, “we will suddenly realize—I have no thought how such a realization will come about—but we’ll realize that our human effort so far is a futile effort because it is being pushed in the wrong direction. For centuries we have sought for knowledge, pursuing it in the name of reason, in the same reasonable manner as the ancient alchemists pursued their search for a method that would transform base metals into gold. We may find that all this knowledge is a dead end, that beyond a certain point all meaning ceases. In astrophysics we seem to be nearing that point. In a few years more, all the old and solid theories about space and time may collapse to nothing, leaving us standing in the rubble of shattered theories that we then will know are worthless and always have been worthless. There may then exist no reason to make further study of the universe. We may find that there are, in actuality, no universal laws, that the universe may operate on pure randomness, or worse. All this frantic study, all this pursuit of knowledge, not only about the universe but other things as well, has come about because we seek some advantage in it. But let us ask ourselves if we have the right to seek advantage. Basically we may have no right to expect a thing from the universe.”

Lansing played the game. “You seem, this afternoon,” he said, “to be more pessimistic than is your usual style.”

“I am not the first,” said Andy, “to indulge in this brand of pessimism, although mine is pitched from a slightly different viewpoint. There was a school of thinkers, some years ago, who advanced a similar argument. That was at a time when the cosmologists were convinced that we existed in a finite universe. At the moment the cosmological viewpoint is not that rigid. Right now we are undecided what kind of universe we’re in. It may be finite, it may be infinite; no one really knows. It all depends on how much matter there may be in the universe, and estimates of the matter present fluctuate from year to year, if not from month to month. But that’s neither here nor there. At the time, some years ago, when the conviction of a finite universe still obtained, the theory then was that scientific knowledge, based on a finite universe, must itself be finite. That somewhere there was a boundary to the universe and therefore a boundary to knowledge. There was only so much to be learned, and once we learned that much, that was the end of it. If knowledge was advancing and accumulating, doubling every fifteen years, as was estimated at the time, then it was said that it would not take long, perhaps a few centuries at the most, to reach a point at which the limiting factors of a finite universe would call a halt to any further accumulation of knowledge. The men of that day who supported this kind of thinking went so far as to conjure up exponential curves by which they professed to show at what point scientific and technological knowledge would finally reach an end.”

“But you say,” said Lansing, “that a finite universe no longer is an accepted fact—that it may be infinite.”

“You miss the point,” Andy rumbled. “I am not talking about the finiteness or infiniteness of the universe. I simply used it as an example to refute your charge of pessimism on my part. I was trying to explain that under other situations there were those who at times had voiced their own brands of pessimism.

“What I said to start with was that it would be a blessing should we be forced to undergo some catastrophic event that would cause us to change our thinking and to seek another way of life. For we are running down a dead-end street, and, what is more, we are running at full tilt. When we reach the dead end, we are going to pile up. Then we will come crawling, back down that dead-end street, asking ourselves if there had not been a better way to do it. My point is that now, before we hit that dead-end, we should stop right now and ask ourselves that question…”

Andy kept on rumbling, but now Lansing blanked the rumbling out, hearing it only as a continuous mumble without words.

And this was the man, he thought, to whom he had meant to suggest a weekend hike. If he were to suggest it, more than likely Andy would agree, for this weekend his wife was in Michigan for a visit to her parents. On the hike, most probably, Andy would not be able to keep up the barrage of words and argument such as the barrage in which he was now engaged, but he’d talk; he’d talk unendingly, he would never cease his talk. On a hike an ordinary man would enjoy at least a modicum of peace and quiet, but such would not be the case with Andy. For Andy there was no such thing as peace and quiet; there was only roiling thought.

Lansing had thought, as well, that he might ask Alice Anderson to spend the weekend with him, but that had its drawbacks, too. On the last several occasions he had been with her, it had seemed he could detect in her eyes a glint of marital expectation, and that, should it come to a head, could be as disastrous as Andy’s nonstop talking. So scratch the both of them, he thought. He still could take a drive out into the hills. Or he could hole up in his apartment with the fire, the music and the reading. Perhaps, as well, there were a number of other ways in which to find enjoyment in the weekend. He let Andy’s words come in again. “Have you ever given any thought,” Andy was asking, “to historic crisis points?”

“I don’t believe I ever have,” said Lansing. “History is replete with them,” Andy told him. “And upon them, the sum of them, rests the sort of world we have today. It has occurred to me, at times, that there may be a number of alternate worlds…”

“I’m sure of it,” said Lansing, not caring any longer. His friend’s flight into fantasy had left him far behind. Beyond the window, the lake lay half in shadow; evening was closing in. Staring out the window at the lake, Lansing sensed a wrongness. Without knowing what it was, he knew that something had changed. Then slowly it came to him what it was: Andy had stopped talking.

He turned his headland stared at his friend across the table. Andy was grinning at him. “I got an idea,” he said. “Yes?”

“With Mabel gone visiting her folks, why don’t you and I plan something for tomorrow? I know where I can get a couple of football tickets.”

“Sorry,” Lansing said. “I’m all tied up.”

L
ANSING STEPPED OUT OF the elevator on the first floor and headed for the door that opened on the mall. Andy, spotting an acquaintance at another table as they were leaving, had stopped to have a word with him. Doing his best not to seem to be doing so, Lansing had fled. But time was short, he told himself. The next elevator might bring Andy down, and by that time, he must be out of sight and reach. It would be like Andy, should he get hold of him again, to drag him off somewhere for dinner.

Halfway to the door he halted. The Rathskeller was just down those stairs to the right, and in an adjoining room, if Jackson had been right, was stored the fabulous slot machine. Lansing changed his course and scurried for the stairs.

He stormed mentally at himself as he went down the stairs. There’d be no storage room, and even if there were, there’d be no slot machine. Whatever had possessed Jackson to fabricate such a story he could not guess. It might have been, of course, nothing more than sheer impertinence, and while the student would be capable of that, it would stand to gain him nothing. Impertinence might be used to bait a faculty member, and there were faculty members who were often baited, who seemed to ask for it, most of them pompous fools who could benefit by a little taking down. But Lansing had always prided himself on his good relationship with his students. At times, he suspected, he was regarded as a soft touch. Thinking back on his relationship with Jackson, he realized he’d had no real trouble with him. At best Jackson had been a poor student, but that was neither here nor there. He had tried to treat the man with all courtesy and consideration, and at times had attempted to be helpful, although with a man like Jackson, he doubted that his attempts had been appreciated.

There were only a few people in the Rathskeller, most of them crowded around a table at the far side of the room. The man behind the bar was engaged in conversation with two students. When Lansing came in, no one noticed him.

There was a door opposite one end of the bar, exactly as Jackson had said. Lansing strode purposefully across the room to reach it. When he seized the knob of the door, it turned easily in his hand. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, then closed it quickly and stood with his back against it.

A single dim light bulb hung from a cord in the center of the ceiling. The room had an unfinished look, as if it were, indeed, what Jackson had said it was—a forgotten storage room. Cartons that had once held soft drinks were stacked against one wall, and a couple of filing cabinets and an ancient desk stood, not against a wall, but clustered in the center of the room. They had the look of having been placed there long ago with no attention paid them since.

In the far corner of the room stood a slot machine. Lansing drew his breath in sharply. So far Jackson had been right. But he could have been right, Lansing reminded himself, about the room and have lied about the rest. That the slot machine stood where he had said it was afforded no proof that the rest of his story had been true.

The light was dim, and Lansing made his way with exaggerated caution across the room toward the waiting machine, alert against any unseen obstruction catching his foot and sending him sprawling.

He reached the machine and stood in front of it. It looked like any other slot machine, like any of the hundreds that lurked in corners all around the campus, waiting for the coins that finally would find their way into the fund that would care for the indigent and other unfortunates of the nation.

Lansing thrust his hand into a pocket and fingered through the coins that were there. He found a quarter, brought it out and fed it into the machine. The machine gulped it down with patent eagerness, and as it did, its face lighted up to show the cylinders with the signs upon them. It chuckled softly at him, a companionable chuckling, as if the two of them might share a joke known only to themselves.

He seized the lever and hauled it down with unnecessary force. The cylinders spun madly and twinkling lights blinked at him. Finally the cylinders stopped and nothing happened. Exactly what happened with all other slot machines, Lansing thought. It was no different from any of the others. It took your money and stood there laughing at you.

Then the machine spoke.

“What is it, sir, that you require?” it asked.

“Why, I’m not sure,” said Lansing, startled. “Actually, I don’t believe there is anything I need. I only came to verify the fact of your existence.”

“That is unfortunate,” said the slot machine. “I have many things to give. Are you sure there is nothing that you need?”

“Perhaps if you gave me some time to think about it.”

“That’s not possible,” answered the machine. “People who come to me must have something in mind. They are not allowed to lolligag around.”

“I am sorry,” said Lansing.

“In any case, I am not so constructed as to give nothing for the coin you gave me,” said the slot machine. “I must give you something. I’ll tell you a story.”

So it told Lansing a very filthy story about seven men and one woman marooned on a desert island. It was a foul story, bestial and crude and extremely obscene, with no saving social significance whatever.

Once the story was finished, Lansing, out of disgust, said nothing.

“You did not like my story?” asked the machine. “Not overmuch,” replied Lansing.

“Well, then, I’ve failed,” said the machine. “I suspect that I misjudged you, and I cannot let it go at that. For your coin I must give you an item of some value.”

It made a coughing sound and something metallic fell out of its innards into the bucket in the middle of it. “Go ahead,” said the machine. “Pick it up.” Lansing picked it up. It resembled a motel key. Two keys, one larger than the other, were attached to an oblong piece of plastic with a number and an address printed on it.

“I don’t understand,” said Lansing. “Then attend most closely. Pay close attention to what I say. Are you listening?”

Lansing tried to speak, but stammered, then he said, “I am listening.”

“Good. Now close attention, please. You go to the address. If you go during normal business hours, the front door will be unlocked. If you go at another time, the larger of the two keys will open it. The smaller key will open the door of room one thirty-six. Do you follow me so far?”

Lansing gulped. “Yes, I do.”

“When you open the door of one thirty-six, you will find a dozen slot machines lined along a wall. Starting at the left, go to the fifth one—the fifth one: one, two, three, four, five—and insert a dollar in it. It will complete a certain transaction, and when that is done, you go to number seven and put another dollar in it…”

“I put a dollar in,” said Lansing. “Do I pull the lever?”

“Of course you pull the lever. Have you never played a slot machine?”

“Yes, of course I have. How could I avoid it?”

“Precisely,” replied the slot machine. “Have you all of it in mind?”

“Yes, I think I have.”

“Repeat it, then, to be sure you have.”

Lansing repeated what the machine had told him.

“Fine,” said the machine. “Keep it well in mind. I’d suggest you go very soon, so there’s no chance of forgetting the instructions. You’ll need two silver dollars. Do you have them by any chance?”

“I am sure I haven’t.”

“Well, then,” said the slot machine, “here you are. We have no wish to place any roadblock in doing what we’ve asked of you. We are very anxious that you carry out the procedure as precisely as you’re able.”

Something plinked in the machine’s bucket.

“Go on,” urged the machine. “Go on and pick them up.”

Lansing bent and picked up the two silver dollars. He put them in his pocket.

“You’re sure that you have it well in mind?” asked the slot machine. “You have no questions?”

“Yes, I suppose one question. What is this all about?”

“I cannot tell you specifically,” said the machine. “That would be against the rules. But I can assure you that whatever happens will be to your great advantage.”

“And what would that be? What to my advantage?”

“That is all, Professor Lansing. That is all that I can tell you.”

“How come you know my name? I didn’t tell you who I was.”

“I can assure you,” said the machine, “that there was no need for you to tell me. I already knew you.”

With that the machine clanked off, became dark and silent.

Lansing hauled off and kicked the machine. Not perhaps a kick at this machine alone, but at all the other machines that, through the years, had gulped down his quarters and then sat sneering at him.

The machine kicked back and caught him in the ankle. He did not see how it kicked him, but it did. He backed away from it. It was still sitting dark and silent.

Then Lansing turned about and went limping from the room.