THE FASTEST DRAW

                          By LARRY EISENBERG

                       Illustrated by SCHELLING

      Steinberg was an electronic genius. Here, the Old West was
       dead and gone for many decades, but now once again a man
    could stroll down Main Street for a showdown with the Marshal.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                     Amazing Stories January 1964.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Like most men, Amos Handworthy was a creature of many parts. To his
business associates he was a sober, calculating entrepreneur, given
occasionally to rash ventures which through outrageous turns of luck
usually ended well. To his employees he was a distant, ominous figure,
wandering through his electronics plant occasionally, staring with pale
blue eyes at a myriad of trivial details, sifting through the reject
box of discarded transistors and occasionally stopping to ask a loaded
but seemingly innocuous question of one of the production engineers.
To his housekeeper he was a brusque, harsh man, not given overly to
entertaining or keeping late hours but sober, sedate and completely
absorbed in his pervasive habit of collecting automata.

Very few men had ever seen the eyes of Amos Handworthy come aglow
and Manny Steinberg was one of them. Manny was a superb engineer who
combined the ability to carry out a sophisticated circuit design with
the old fashioned desire to tinker. It was almost physically painful
for him to pass by a mechanical device that was not in working order.
And so, in his first visit to the Pecos Saloon, a town landmark that
had been restored to its pristine décor through the generosity of Amos
Handworthy, Manny caught sight of the magnificent music making machine
as soon as he cut through the swinging doors. He proceeded first to
the bar and availed himself of the tequila and lemon juice which was
the specialty of the house. Much of the town showed the influence of
its close location to the Mexican border, the large Spanish speaking
population, the frijoles that were vended off street carts, and the
tastes in liquor.

Still sucking on the lemon, Manny walked over and surveyed the glass
enclosed music maker, four vertical violins arrayed in a circle
with a hoop of horse hair spanning about the four violin bridges,
electromagnet stops hovering above the strings. A dried out square of
paper had been crudely taped across the glass with the clear inked
inscription, "Out of Order." He had removed the back door of the
machine and was examining the innards when he felt a proprietary hand
on his shoulder and swivelled about to meet the questioning gaze of his
boss, Amos Handworthy.

"I think I can make it go," said Manny, not certain that he could but
unable to leave this marvelous array of gears, levers, and multi-pinned
rotating disks.

"I've tried to have it repaired and failed," said Amos Handworthy.
"But if you can do it, it's worth a thousand dollars to me."

       *       *       *       *       *

Manny nodded as though this offer had tipped the balance but in truth
it made very little difference to him. Even the following week, when he
demonstrated to a full saloon how beautifully the four violins played
the Mephisto Waltz, he accepted the check which Amos Handworthy placed
in his hand with some puzzlement, not quite connecting it with the
maintenance miracle he had just wrought. Handworthy insisted on having
the machine play again and again, but after the fourth successful
round, Manny had lost interest in the device and was more concerned in
downing tequilas than in listening to the music.

Later that night, as he lay abed on a rumpled sweat-wet sheet,
wondering how in hell he had taken a job in this God-forsaken town in
Texas, he remembered dimly that his boss, Mr. Handworthy, had invited
him over to the stately Handworthy Mansion. He was not sure when the
invitation was for, or whether the occasion was of a business or social
character, but he knew that it was mandatory that he come.

Fortunately, a handwritten note on gray, unembossed letter paper
arrived the following day, confirming the invitation and specifying a
dinner date the following Friday evening at eight P.M. Manny's income
was a good one and he had eaten in some of the finest restaurants in
the country but he had never been to the home of a truly wealthy man
before. It was with no little trepidation that he appeared at the
door of the Handworthy Mansion and was ushered into the house by the
liveried butler who was, to Manny's intense surprise, white.

He was somewhat taken aback to find that he was the only dinner guest
and that the burden of making conversation would be totally his job.
But he found that contrary to his expectation, Amos Handworthy did
almost all of the talking.

The food was plentiful but not lavish or exotic in character. Mr.
Handworthy himself carved out liberal slices off the huge side of
beef that was brought in on a great silver salver. And although Mr.
Handworthy did not drink it, the wine was carefully chilled and of good
(but not the best) quality.

Since Manny had been raised in a low income Jewish inhabited section of
New York City and had, despite his extensive rootless shifting about
the country, no real insight into how anybody else lived, he found
himself quite taken with the rambling tales that Amos Handworthy told
of his town's history.

       *       *       *       *       *

"My father," said Amos Handworthy toward the close of the dinner, "was
one of the last frontier marshals and maybe _the greatest_. His draw
was reputed to be so fast that the eye could barely follow it and he
never missed his target."

"But he drank like a fish," he thought, "and spent most of his time at
the sporting house on East Maple."

"As a boy," he said aloud, "I could think of nothing more ideal than to
follow in his footsteps when I grew up. Course, when I _had_ grown up,
there was no more frontier, no more show downs in the center of town.
It was a terrible disappointment and one that I haven't gotten over,
even yet."

"My father," said Manny pensively, "claimed that I had clumsy wooden
hands. He was wrong and I think he knew it. But he'd never admit it to
me."

"Do you know what disturbs me?" said Amos Handworthy. "There have been
challenges for me, some financial, some physical, others social, and
I've met and beaten every one of them. But I've never been in the same
mother naked kind of situation my Father had to meet where it was one
man's raw courage and skill against another's."

"The thing that disturbs me," said Manny, "is that whenever I knock
off a particularly tough job, instead of being elated, I'm totally
depressed until the next challenging one comes along."

Amos Handworthy raised the wine bottle to the light and studied the
play of color through the thickened glass.

"Come inside," he said abruptly. "I've got something special I want to
show you."

Manny followed after his host and found himself in a huge, high
ceilinged room flanked on all four walls by reward posters, some as
much as one hundred years old. There were no furnishings in the room,
just a series of unusual pieces of furniture that proved on closer
scrutiny to be automata of diverse types. In the center of the room was
a great amorphous mass covered by an enormous sheet.

"I have no kin," said Handworthy, staring possessively about him. "I've
never married so I have no children. But I'm a happy man nevertheless.
These are my children," he said, gesticulating about him. "This one, is
a particular delight," he added, his voice swelling with pride as he
brought Manny over for a closer view.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a gray enamelled case surmounted by a glistening blue hemisphere
adorned with tiny stars of silver and gold. Within the hemisphere
was an exquisite miniature ball room, the walls lined with mirrors,
and when Handworthy wound up the movement and released the catch, two
groups of tiny dancers began to waltz toward each other. Their images
were caught up and multiplied an hundred-fold in the mirrors creating a
truly breathtaking sight as the unseen strings of a harp were plucked
below in the gray enamelled case.

Before Manny could comment, he was whisked over to a superbly crafted
wooden figure of a charming child, a painted smile wreathing the gently
carved mouth. The child was seated on a mahogany stool and when the
latching hook had been lowered, it leaned forward and after dipping a
feathered pen into an ink-well, began to write in smooth cursive flow.
When she leaned back, her motions apparently brought to a close, Manny
bent forward and found to his intense amazement a beautifully crafted
letter of some fifty words written to the mother of the child.

There were other amazing sights, an android that fingered and breathed
wind into a flute that played sweetly, a reclining Cleopatra that
rose, bowed gravely at the waist and then lay down once more upon her
feathered couch. Since each of the treasured machines was in perfect
functioning order, Manny rapidly lost interest and merely followed
Handworthy about, nodding politely, his mind distant upon a persistent
circuit problem that was still unsolved. But he was jarred back to
reality when, with the reverence that one would use to lay bare a
sleeping nymph, Handworthy removed the sheet from the huge centerpiece
of the room. It was a small segment of a Western street, complete with
hitching post, before which stood an uncannily lifelike figure of a
town marshal, complete with vest and badge, chaps and holstered gun.
The painted face was scowling and from closer scrutiny it was apparent
that the figure was capable of complex motion.

"The others," said Amos Handworthy, "are marvelous antiques that
I've collected, but this fellow was made to my own specifications in
Switzerland. His clothing is quite authentic and he really works. Watch
this!"

He stepped forward and took a loosely draped gun belt off the hitching
post to the right of the Marshal and buckled it about his waist.

"The device is electrically operated," he continued. "The instant I
draw, the Marshal draws too, and the trick is to hit him somewhere on
his target photocells with a beam of light that flashes out of my gun,
before he can get off his shot. I can adjust the speed of his draw
within fairly wide limits and I've been moving him up to faster and
faster speeds. But I've gotten pretty damn fast."

       *       *       *       *       *

With a drawing motion that was almost a blur, he whipped out his gun
and pulled the trigger. The Marshal was fast, but apparently not _as_
fast for suddenly a recorded voice bellowed in pain and gasped, "you
got me, you dirty varmint."

"A little touch of my own," said Amos Handworthy. "That's what happens
when I hit him."

He looked down at his gun, almost proudly, and Manny had the eerie
feeling that it was only with restraint that he did not blow the
imaginary smoke away from the gun barrel.

"That's a highly imaginative device," said Manny.

"He is," said Amos Handworthy. "But he's still not quite what I want
him to be. I have an idea that you can make him the kind of opponent I
need."

"What do you want?" said Manny. All of his ennui was beginning to
evaporate and the familiar exultant response to challenge had begun to
grow in him.

"I want him to be able to hit me, too, figuratively speaking," said
Amos Handworthy. "As things stand now, this shoot out is entirely one
sided. I'd like to know, for instance, if he's been able to hit me."

"I can do it," said Manny. "You'll have to get me off my regular
project, but I can do it."

"I'll call your division chief in the morning," said Amos Handworthy.
"You'll stay here with me and you can have all the time you need."

Manny did not sleep well in his spacious overly comfortable bed. He
was up early the following morning pouring over the construction plans
for the Marshal and examining the instruction folder which the Swiss
company, with typical thoroughness, had included in the neatly packed
maintenance kit. He caught the guiding concept of the design at once,
and made his plans to modify the Marshal along lines that incorporated
control techniques that were basically electronic.

He phoned the plant and requisitioned transistors, metal film
resistors, capacitors, and various other components necessary for his
task. Handworthy did not approach him as he worked and his meals were
served to him either in his own room or the great room where all the
automata were located. He made all the changes himself, snipping leads,
soldering, forming tight mechanical joints with deft fingers that
almost seemed alive and apart from his body.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ten days later, he called in Amos Handworthy and demonstrated what he
had done.

"I've modified both guns so that you and the Marshal will now shoot at
each other with ultra violet light. You'll both wear vests that are
sensitive to this light. I monitor the hits electrically by measuring
the resistance of those areas where a bullet would severely injure a
man. Nothing will occur unless you or the Marshal are hit in such an
area. Furthermore, you can both continue to shoot for an indefinite
length of time. However, I've altered the Marshal's aiming mechanism
so that if he's hit in a vital spot, he won't shoot as accurately.
Similarly, if you are hit, a defocussing mechanism operates on your
light bulb so that your gun is no longer as accurate. And instead of
the recorded voice, if either of you is hit in the heart, your gun goes
dead."

Amos Handworthy's eyes began to glow with a fire such as Manny
Steinberg had never seen and it excited him that his work had brought
on so wonderful a response. He slipped the new vest on Handworthy,
handed him the wired holster and gun, and stepped back. After
fastening his belt and readying himself, Handworthy drew as before and
fired swiftly at the Marshal, who was firing back almost as rapidly.
Suddenly Handworthy stopped and looked at his gun in dismay.

"My trigger's locked," he cried.

"He's killed you," said Manny drily. "You beat him to the draw, but
he's hit you in the heart."

"I see," said Handworthy slowly. "Then it looks like I've got a hell of
a lot more practicing to do."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a full month before Manny Steinberg was invited back to the
Mansion, and with great pride his host demonstrated how he killed the
Marshal, _every time_.

"I've got him set for his fastest draw, too," said Handworthy. "At this
point, he's just no match for me."

"I guess that wraps it up," said Manny, knowing full well that it
couldn't end this way. "You're just too damned good."

Amos Handworthy shook his head slowly.

"You don't believe that and neither do I. Its an unfair battle, unfair
because we've excluded the most vital element of all."

"What element is that?" said Manny although the answer popped into his
head even as he spoke and he began to envision the approach that had
to be taken.

"There's no _fear_ in this situation," said Handworthy. "When two men
were in an actual shootout they were both afraid of being killed. But
the Marshal is oblivious to fear and so for the most part am I. Suppose
for instance in some way you could make him shoot better if I were
nervous and shoot less accurately if I were deadly calm."

"There is a way to do that," said Manny. "I can electrically monitor
your vasomotor reflexes by means of your pulse and sweat reactions.
Then I would program the Marshal's reflexes in just the way you
suggest. But the thing I can't understand is how such a step would
have any real meaning. Why in God's name would you ever be frightened?
There's nothing in this situation to make it happen."

"I have a very vivid imagination," said Handworthy. "As a child I had
no playmates and still I populated an entire world in my mind, every
one a distinct person. Don't you see, I can project myself into feeling
that I'm in the _real_ life and death situation just as long as the
Marshal becomes a creature sensitive to fear."

       *       *       *       *       *

It took Manny almost three weeks this time to make the requisite
changes and he carried out in addition an extensive series of pulse
and skin resistance measurements on Handworthy. When he was satisfied
that the Marshal had reached the ultimate state, he called in
Handworthy and demonstrated what he had done.

"I've installed," said Manny, "a feedback circuit that's inoperative
when your typical emotional reaction exists. But the circuit comes
into play when you become more nervous than usual and the Marshal will
therefore shoot faster and more accurately. On the other hand, if you
should become less concerned, calmer perhaps, the Marshal's aim would
tend to go askew and his firing rate would slow down. In other words,
you and the Marshal are indissolubly linked through your nervous system
whenever you strap on your shooting vest."

"Fine," said Amos Handworthy and the brilliance of his usually
lackluster eyes gave an added emphasis to the word. "You've surpassed
my greatest expectations with these new changes. And while I know it
wasn't part of our bargain, I intend to add a pretty big sum to your
monthly check."

"Thanks," said Manny automatically. Already he was becoming aware of
the depression that followed his engineering triumphs. As he left the
house, he had almost completely lost interest in his accomplishment.

Meanwhile, Amos Handworthy was examining the guns with great care,
particularly the tiny switch that activated the firing cycle. It
was evident to him that as soon as his gun lifted off the switch,
electrical activity commenced. After first unplugging the Marshal's
electrical cable, he carefully removed the ultra violet loaded guns
from the fixture in his holster and the Marshal's holster, and replaced
them with beautifully machined Colt .45's that were loaded with real
bullets.

"There's absolutely no doubt that the mechanical action will be the
same," thought Handworthy, "and now the element of real fear, both
_mine_ and _his_ will be in the picture. We're going to have a real
shootout, the kind you don't see any more."

He replaced the plug in the wall socket and turned about to face the
Marshal quite squarely, shifting his belt around so that his gun would
clear free of the holster. The Marshal stared at him out of sightless
painted blue eyes, his mechanical hand resting stolidly on his gun.

"Even now, it isn't an even match," thought Handworthy ruefully. "I
couldn't be any calmer than I am now. I guess it never can come out
just exactly as I want it to."

As his fingers flashed lightning fast to his gun, it suddenly occurred
to him that Manny was right, that he and the Marshal were indissolubly
linked through his own nervous system. He had no kin, no wife, no
children. The Marshal was the only one on earth really tied to him. And
in that instant, a terrible surge of fear came over him at the thought
of killing his own.


                                THE END