Wheels

by Michael Zuroy

Illustrated by Freas

Ker Kermit plotted better than he realized when he entered his superior’s name, along with his own, in the Fly-Wheels exhibition in honor of visiting aliens. For if Alph Agar lost, he would lose his life!

Alone in his office, Alph Agar, Director of the Ossining Unit of Budd-Jarvis Fly-Wheels, was crouching over his desk, clenched hands rotating alternately clock-wise and counterclockwise. Thus occupied, he did not hear his secretary come in. “What—what’s the matter?” gasped Jean-Jean.

Agar straightened slowly, feeling a complete fool. A man should not allow his secretary to catch him in such a ridiculous position. What was he to tell Jean-Jean? Not the truth, certainly.

“Torgian calisthenics,” explained Agar. “No need to be alarmed, Jean-Jean. Simply a new variation; very relaxing.”

Jean-Jean gave him a long look and went to her desk. He grew absorbed in the back of her neck, the coppery hair, and the clean-limbed figure in the iridescent green tunic. Why, thought Agar, must he always be remembering his dignity as a Director? Why couldn’t he just stride over to her, and....

And what? When had he ever known how to handle a woman? Preparation for the Director of a Fly-Wheel unit had not included instruction on the opposite sex. From his boyhood there had been long years of scientific, mathematical, engineering, statistical, financial, economic and legal schooling; there had been single-minded dedication to his job as he struggled up wards through man-killing competition. There had been no time for women.

So that here he was at thirty-six, holder of one of the world’s more responsible positions, director and coordinator of a complex plant covering more than five square miles and employing over eight thousand people, and without the slightest notion as to how to approach a girl like Jean-Jean.

He hadn’t minded too much, up to now. But Jean-Jean... well, it was a warming, if far-fetched, thought that someday she might call him by the intimate, Alph, instead of the formal, Alph Agar. Close friends and relatives, wives and sweethearts used the intimate; nobody, except his immediate family, had ever called him Alph....

Ker Kermit, Assistant Director of the Fly-Wheel unit, stepped into the office, crackling, “Good-morning, good-morning, good-morning.” He threw his wiry frame into a zilxitron chair and ran a hand over his crisp black hair, watching Agar with an alert expression.

Agar passed a hand over his eyes. The man made him weary. It wasn’t so much that he knew Kermit was after his job; that was to be expected, he supposed. It was that boundless, efficient energy. He, himself, was exhausted at the end of a day; where did Kermit get that eternal drive?

“What can I do for you, Ker Kermit?”

“Old fellow,” said Kermit. When Kermit said, ‘old fellow’, thought Agar, it did not sound idiomatic; it sounded as if it meant, old fellow. “I knew you’d be pleased,” said Kermit, a combination of mockery and triumph glinting in his eyes. “I took the liberty of entering your name together with my own. I know you must be a crack Fly-Wheel pilot. Of course, the Board will contact you for personal confirmation, and if you’d like to back out, I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Agar noticed Jean-Jean’s ears assume a listening look. “Wait a minute,” he said slowly. “Are you talking about the exhibitions in honor of the visiting Betelgeusians? You entered my name, as a participant?”

Kermit looked at him with a show of anxiety. “You are pleased, I hope, Alph Agar? I’m in it myself, you know. The notice from the Board expressed a desire for volunteers from the executive level, and so I thought the least we could do.... Like most executives, you are a crack pilot—I’m sure of that, even though I can’t recall ever seeing you pilot a Fly-Wheel. You seem to prefer a personal chauffeur at all times, don’t you, Alph Agar? Some narrow minds might deduce from that, that... but that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? I am positive that you are an expert pilot, Alph Agar.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Agar. “Well, thank you Ker Kermit.”

“You’re entirely welcome.” The glint of mockery showed once more in Kermit’s eyes and he left.

Jean-Jean swung around in her chair. “That Ker Kermit!” she burst out, her pretty face tight with anger. “Of all the insufferable....”

“Jean-Jean,” said Agar dully. “I may as well tell you. I can’t operate a Fly-Wheel.”

“You mean... at all?”

“At all.”

“But that’s impossible, Alph Agar! Everybody operates Fly-Wheels nowadays! Old ladies, invalids, children, everybody! Even dogs have been trained to pilot Fly-Wheels. Do you expect me to believe that you, Director of a Fly-Wheel Manufacturing Unit, can’t pilot one?”

“No, I can’t,” said Agar.

Jean-Jean stared at him, adjusting herself to the idea. Once adjusted, she became decisive. “All right then, you’ll simply tell the Board that Ker Kermit submitted your name without your knowledge or permission, and that you don’t wish to participate in the exhibition.”

“No,” said Agar, miserably. “I can’t do that either. In the first place, they wouldn’t like my backing out; but more important than that, in their thorough-going way they would investigate further, and discover that I don’t hold a Fly-Wheel operator’s license.”

Jean-Jean looked impatient. “So what? A Director is not required to operate Fly-Wheels.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Agar extracted an old, green-bound book from his desk drawer, and flipped it open. “I ran across this recently. Listen.”

He read aloud: “Article 1382 of Budd-Jarvis Regulations of 2124; ‘No person may hold an office higher than that of Sub-chief unless he is the holder of a license to drive a Fly-Wheel, and furthermore possesses such skill in operation of said vehicle as to warrant a rating of .85-L Wullen or better from a competent board of examiners’.”

Jean-Jean’s clear grey eyes met Agar’s, and hastily he tried to tune out something that went beat-beat-beat under his ribs. “They made you Director anyway, didn’t they?” said Jean-Jean. “Doesn’t that mean that this old regulation no longer applies? After all, it’s dated 2124, sixty years ago.”

“No,” said Agar. “It simply means that they’ve lost track of the regulation, and so didn’t bother to check me for a Fly-Wheel license. I suppose that after Fly-Wheel operation became so easy and universal that everybody satisfied the requirement, the Board dropped examination on this point and the regulation passed into obscurity. However, I’ve looked into it, and it’s still a legitimate company rule. An investigation would dredge it up, and you know how the Board abides by rules, and how nosey they are. That’s why I can’t back out now and risk arousing their disapproval and curiosity.”

“All right, I see that. But they’ll find you out at the exhibition anyway.”

“No, they won’t,” said Agar grimly. “The exhibition is a few weeks off, and by that time I intend to have my license. I’m taking lessons from my chauffeur; been doing so since I discovered Article 1382. Practice all the time. That’s what I was doing when you walked in before; practicing parking.”

“Oh! I wondered. I’m glad it was only that. How are you doing?”

“Well, I admit I’m having a little trouble. Can’t seem to get the feel of it exactly. Never had any time for that kind of thing before. But I’ll get it, Jean-Jean, see if I don’t.”

“Yes, but what about Ker Kermit? How much does he know?”

“Ker Kermit suspects that I am not a good pilot, and so is trying to embarrass me; but you may be sure he knows nothing about Article 1382. If he did, in the time it takes to buzz a Talkasee the Prime Executive Board would have had the information, and....”

The Talkasee buzzed. Jean-Jean answered, and switched the call to Agar. The slight frame of Pawl Pastin, Secretary of the Prime Executive Board appeared on the screen. “Good day,” said Pastin in his dry, precise tones. “I understand that you wish to volunteer for the Betelgeusian exhibition. I hope this is correct?”

“Well... yes, it’s correct.”

“Good!” said Pastin, rubbing his hands together. “The Board is pleased. Although, we’ve put this on a voluntary basis, we’re extremely desirous that our top executives participate. You understand that this is meant to secure the approval of the Betelgeusians, among whom it is a tradition that those who are highly placed should risk their lives in competition. But you’ve read about all this in the notice. Brave man, Alph Agar, brave man! Good luck!” Pastin clicked off.

Agar sat appalled. Brave man? What was this about risk of life? He hadn’t read the notice, only glanced at the first couple of lines. “Jean-Jean!” he yelled; “hand me that notice!”

He read, with Jean-Jean following over his shoulder:

“...competitive races and exhibitions of skill in the operation of Fly-Wheels to be held in honor of the Betelgeusians, since they are considering importing Fly-Wheels for use as their principal mode of transportation ... would mean largest mass-order in Budd-Jarvis history ... also top diplomatic importance to Earth Government in view of pending trade agreements ... in accordance with Betelgeusian tradition, participant who makes poorest rating will be killed. BY ORDER OF THE PRIME EXECUTIVE BOARD...”

“Killed?” Jean-Jean’s face looked worried.

“Must be a typographical error. What could they mean?” speculated Agar. “Spilled? Chilled? Billed? Filled? Get me Pawl Pastin again.”

“Killed,” said Pastin dryly, after they were connected. “Put to death. Executed. Deprived of life. I thought you understood that.”

“That’s ridiculous,” snapped Agar. “Budd-Jarvis has no legal right to put anyone to death, nor has the Government. This is the Twenty-Second century, you know. Execution is not legal.”

“Incorrect. Quote: Article 101,379, Budd-Jarvis Code: ‘Any person in the employ of Budd-Jarvis holding office higher than that of Sub-Chief having signed the standard acceptance of the Budd-Jarvis Code, is subject to deprivation of life when continuance of said life constitutes a threat of .798 Bakli rating or better to the interests of the Company. Said rating to be verified by a board of Government Raters, and said deprivation to be performed with the permission of and under the supervision of the Government. Compensation to beneficiaries of the deceased to be made in the amount of fifty-thousand munits. Precedents: Dool Dooling case, 2085. Zeno Zerkel Case, 2096.’ Unquote.”

“The continuance of the life of the loser of the forth-coming competition would cause disapproval among the Betelgeusians, and therefore constitute a threat to the interests of the Company. Is that clear?”

“The Government will never approve this!”

“The Government,” said Pastin drily, “has rated the threat at .839 Bakli, and has therefore already approved it.”

“In that case, I withdraw from the exhibition.”

“I am sorry; you have volunteered of your own free will and been accepted. We cannot change that any more. The only way you can withdraw is to resign your Directorship.”

“We’ll see about that!” yelled Agar, and clicked off. “Get me Unit C4439 of the Information Bank of the Master Law and Policy Machine,” he directed Jean-Jean.

Through its fixed smile, C4439 said in its pleasantly human voice. “Data, please.”

Agar gave the data.

“Point,” said C4439. “B-J Code, Article 101,379 does so state. Point: Employee who has signed standard acceptance agreement of Code is legally bound by 101,379. Point: Government, however, rarely grants permission to execute. Point: Exception: Where execution is sufficiently to the public interest, Government grants permission. Point: This is now the case. Point: All agreements being binding, only way to withdraw from competition is to exercise the one right remaining: resignation of Directorship. End of points. Further data, please?”

“No further data!” Agar shouted.

“Thank you,” smiled Unit C4439. “I am disconnecting. May you dwell in happiness.” The screen went blank.

“Now what fool put that expression into that robot!” raged Agar.

Jean-Jean was standing before him, worried. “Alph Agar, you must resign.”

Alph Agar went to the window. The panorama spreading below him was the Unit: the huge, low buildings, the landscaped parks, the testing fields stretching to the horizon, the web of roads, the Fly-Wheels of all classes, rolling across the skies, rising and landing, spinning along the roads.

Agar watched the Fly-Wheels that had been all of his life up to now: the tremendous flat-rimmed wheel rotating about the stationery cylindrical cabin; the all-purpose vehicle that was equally at home in the air, on land, on water or under water. He knew every last detail of its construction, every principle and theory upon which it was founded. He knew, down to the ninth decimal place, the critical angular velocity which would take it off the vanes along its periphery on lift and velocity; the intricacies of its sealed atomic power plant that never needed attention and would outlast the vehicle itself.

He knew these things, he thought, but he couldn’t operate a Fly-Wheel. Because of this; and because of Ker Kermit, who wanted his job; and because of a quirk of circumstance, was he to relinquish everything that had given his existence meaning? No, thought Agar, not this easily, not without a struggle.

“I will not resign,” he said to Jean-Jean. “I will acquire a license and enter that exhibition and do my best.”

“And lose. Honestly, Alph Agar, you’re the most stubborn....” She was beginning to look angry. “How can you compete with people who are born pilots? You’re not the pilot type, you know. You’re stiff, you’re methodical, you’re deliberate. You don’t know how to relax. In a Fly-Wheel, you have to let yourself go; you have to become part of it, move with it, feel with it, not sit in it like a passenger.”

Stiff, thought Alph Agar. Methodical. Deliberate. So this was Jean-Jean’s picture of him. Hardly a romantic conception. Well, he supposed he was a fool to imagine she might someday come tenderly into his arms, her brisk manner turned soft for him, her ripe lips waiting for his, her body that was both girl’s and woman’s yielding for him, her.... “Hrrrmph!” He cleared his throat and shook his head.

What was the matter with him? Where was his mental discipline? For a fleeting moment, he wondered what would happen if he simply followed his impulse and walked up to Jean-Jean and grasped her firmly; then the discipline took rigid hold. Impulses, he knew, should not be trusted. What, after all, would Jean-Jean want with a man like him?

“Alph Agar,” said Jean-Jean again, “is the Directorship more important than your life?”

“The Directorship is my life.”

She stared at him, her hazel eyes seeming to moisten and then narrow. “Yes. I suppose it is. I suppose it is. Oh, you boob!”

“Boob?”

“Archaic, twentieth century. Look it up.”

“Wait a minute. Where are you going?”

“I’m taking the rest of the day off,” said Jean-Jean tightly. “I’m going to see my boy-friend.”

“Jean-Jean....” But she was gone.

From several thousand feet above the ground, Alph Agar surveyed the view. Beautiful, he supposed, but frightening. Once he got up here, he could never quite escape the notion that man’s natural place was on the ground. However, he thought, he wasn’t doing too badly lately. His grip on the controls was firm. The Fly-Wheel was coursing along smoothly, maintaining a consistent level. He glanced at the man sitting beside him, his chauffeur, Kim Koom. “All right?”

Kim Koom licked his lips nervously. “All right, Alph Agar, but please don’t look at me; don’t let your attention wander from your piloting.”

“Come, come, I’ve made some improvement, Koom. I might be allowed a little more freedom don’t you think?”

“The controls,” said Koom. “Watch the controls.”

Agar focused on his piloting again. Any way, he thought, he was feeling a shade more confident. He had handled things pretty well, lately. Take the matter of that weasel, Ker Kermit. He had been icily distant to Kermit, but polite, not allowing the man to suspect that he was worried. And Jean-Jean; he had been pleasant but impersonal with her, restraining any hint of his feelings.

“All right,” said Koom. “Land.”

Absently, Agar headed the Fly-Wheel towards the secluded field behind his house. “No!” yelled Koom abruptly. “Not like that!”

The clouds above them began speeding down towards them, then receding even faster. The big wheel started a drunken wobble about the sky which changed into a wild, tilted dance. Spinning like a top, it went plummeting into the woods, levelling off at the tree tops, sending down showers of leaves and branches, frightening small animals into scurrying panic; it scraped over a high, rocky ledge, hopped high one last time, and plowed deep furrows, finally rolling to a trembling halt.

Koom seemed shaken. He opened his mouth several times, producing only a gulp. Agar helped him out of the cabin, noticing that a young man who had been standing at the edge of the field was heading their way. “Alph Agar,” said Koom weakly. “I have had enough. I cannot instruct you any longer. My nerve is gone. I’m sorry.”

“Look here, Kim Koom, I admit that landing wasn’t perfect, but....”

“No,” said Koom with finality, staggering off.

What was the use, thought Agar? If even Koom was giving him up.... The young man was close now. With surprise, Agar recognized Lar Lerry, one of the Unit’s crack pilots. What was he doing here?

“Zoops!” said Lerry. “What a landing!”

Agar eyed him sternly. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“Zoops!” repeated Lerry. “What a landing.” He grinned. “Look, Alph Agar, I know all about it. Don’t ask me how I know; I’m not supposed to tell, but I’m here to help you. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. Now let’s take her up again; I can teach you how to handle a Fly-Wheel if anybody can.”

In the days that followed, Agar had to admit that Lerry was helping him. For the first time, his awkwardness at the controls seemed to be lessening. The Fly-Wheel was actually obeying him for more than five minutes at a time. When he wanted to soar, he soared. When he wanted to tilt, he tilted. When he wanted to roll along the ground, he rolled. He began to feel hope, real hope. Perhaps he might fool Ker Kermit and Jean-Jean and come out of that exhibition alive, after all.

“You’ll be taking your license qual pretty soon,” Lerry told him. “Just a few more lessons. Then I’ll show you how to make this rolly-polly sit up and beg.”

But getting any other type of information out of Lerry was impossible. He wouldn’t explain why he was helping Agar, or who might have put him up to it, or how he had discovered Agar’s predicament. Agar spent hours in surmise, and always returned to the suspicion that this was Jean-Jean’s doing. Was Lerry the boy-friend she kept mentioning? Was Jean-Jean doing this because she felt sorry for him? Pity wasn’t what he wanted from her.

“Don’t be silly, Alph Agar,” Jean-Jean said, tossing her shining, coppery hair back, when he asked her point-blank. “Why should I try to help a man as stubborn as you are? In my opinion, you ought to resign right now. That’s the only way to save your life. Suppose I call the Board?” She looked eager.

“Never mind.” Jean-Jean turned away and began furiously talking at the Speak-a-Type, which rattled and stuttered as the type keys tried to keep up with her.

Still, Agar’s confidence was rising, despite frequent periods of disquiet, as for example whenever he spoke to Ker Kermit. Kermit seemed a mine of unsettling information lately. “Old fellow,” he would say, “have you heard how they intend to conduct the execution of the unfortunate loser? Not in decent privacy, but according to Betelgeusian custom, out on the field before all the spectators. They’re going to chop the poor chap’s head quite off with an axe. Barbarous, don’t you think? Fortunately, I don’t suppose either of us has anything to worry about.” He would look at Agar blandly.

As the date of the exhibition drew nearer, Agar found it difficult to avoid thinking of that axe, but his increasing proficiency with the Fly-Wheel helped a lot. He was a long way from the effortless control that a good pilot had, but still he felt that he had a chance.

“One more hop,” Lar Lerry said, “and then you’ll take the license qual.”

The take-off was good. Agar sent the Wheel rolling up towards the clouds as though it were climbing an easy hill. Levelling, he cruised for a while, approaching the Unit. It was a warming feeling, doing his own flying near the Unit instead of being chauffeured.

A line of Fly-Wheels from the Unit appeared dead ahead, crossing in front of him. Plenty of time to clear, thought Agar. Deliberately, he selected what he believed to be the elevation control and pulled it. The Wheel did not elevate, but tilted to a forty-five degree angle, still closing in fast on the other Fly-Wheels. Hastily, Agar did several other things, none of which he was entirely clear about afterwards.

The sound of the air stream changed into a hideous scream, and end-over-end, the Fly-Wheel flipped over the other vehicles; spun wildly; dropped earthwards and skimmed the ground, scattering a group of Unit employees. It headed for one of the buildings; swerved through the huge open window into the shop, paralyzing the workers in there, and shot out the opposite window taking the glass with it. It traced a perfect series of sine curves in the air; sheared off a flag pole; neatly clipped a line of hedges, darted about the testing fields like an insane horse fly; mounted towards the stratosphere until it was a scarcely-visible dot, and came whistling down at a fearful velocity, causing a nearby meteorological observatory to suspect the presence of a small meteorite. It levelled off just before smashing into the ground, chased itself around the field and came to a teetering halt. A moment of shocked silence held the entire Unit motionless; then from all directions people began streaming towards the Fly-Wheel. Lar Lerry sat motionless in his seat, a dreamy look in his eyes, nodding his head slowly as though he had discovered some age-old secret.

A husky foreman pounded on the door. “Come out of there, you miserable idiots. What kind of stuff are you... oh, it’s you, Alph Agar. I beg your pardon, Alph Agar.”

Agar descended from the Wheel, leading Lar Lerry, and found himself in the midst of a buzzing crowd. “It’s quite all right,” he said, and looked about at the curious, startled faces. “I... er... that is, well I was flying, merely flying. What is all the disturbance about?” Ker Kermit pushed through the mob, smiling. “Oh, Director! A trifle wild, wouldn’t you say? You aren’t hurt, I hope?”

Jean-Jean appeared. “Alph Agar, for goodness sake!”

Lar Lerry came awake. He eyed Agar skittishly. “No,” he said. “No more. I’m through.” He spotted Jean-Jean. “Honey, I’m sorry, but I’ve had enough. I’d like to finish this job for you, but it’s too risky. I give up.”

Agar stared at Jean-Jean and the world slowly grew dreary. Pity! Jean-Jean had influenced her boy-friend, Lar Lerry, to help him because she felt sorry for him. Pity! He didn’t want it.

Well, he thought, it didn’t matter anyway. He was through. He couldn’t operate a Fly-Wheel and he’d never learn. He could feel the sharp edge of that axe slicing through his neck now. Unless he resigned.

“Alph Agar,” said Jean-Jean. “Pawl Pastin called. He wants you to call him back.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

Glad to escape the crowd, Agar returned to the office, accompanied by a silent Jean-Jean, and part of the way by a lively Ker Kermit. He’d been deluding himself, Agar thought. He didn’t have a chance. Should he give up the Directorship? To save his life, could he throw away everything he had worked for?

Frankly, thought Agar, he could. When the chips were down, he would react the same as anybody else to save his life, he realized. Life, after all, was worth more than a Directorship, it came to him. Whatever Pastin had in mind, he would hand in his resignation now.

But when Pastin appeared on the Talkassee screen, his first words staggered Agar. His dry, precise voice had a suggestion of asperity in it. “Good day. It has come to the attention of the board that in violation of Article 1382 you do not hold a Fly-Wheel operator’s license. Is this correct?”

How had Pastin found out? Well, the decision was out of his hands now. In a way, it was a relief that it was over. “Yes, that is correct.”

“Therefore it is necessary that you be dismissed from your Directorship, after the exhibition.”

“Yes, of course, Pawl Pastin ... did you say after the exhibition?”

“After the exhibition.”

“But that’s ridiculous! Why should I risk my life when I’m to be dismissed? I resign now!”

“Sorry. Whether you resign or are dismissed, it is now too late to withdraw. The list of participants has already been presented to the Betelgeusian delegation and cannot be altered. You must participate in the exhibition. If you wished to resign, you should have done so when you had the chance. Rules are rules, Alph Agar. This organization has become great through its policy of rigid adherence to rules. You should know that.”

“I refuse to participate!” snapped Agar.

“In that case you will automatically receive low rating and will be executed.”

“We’ll see about that! Good day!”

Agar called Unit C4439 of the Information Bank of the Master Law and Policy Machine and described the situation.

“Point,” intoned Unit C4439, “it is true that list has been submitted. Point: Betelgeusian custom requires that low rating be given to any who withdraw. Execution must follow. Point: To be consistent with previous policy, Budd-Jarvis and Government must go along with Betelgeusian custom. Point: Your violation of Article 1382 now gives Budd-Jarvis option of dismissal date, as per Company Article 589,624.3. Point: Therefore Budd-Jarvis attitude in this matter is legal and correct. No appeal possible. End of points. Further data, please?”

“No further data.”

“Thank you,” smiled Unit C4439. “I am disconnecting. May you dwell in happiness.”

“May you—oh, well, what’s the use. Betelgeusian custom! Who’s running this world anyway, the Terrans or the Betelgeusians?”

Heavily, Agar dropped into a chair. He was finished. Jean-Jean came to him. Her voice was throaty. “Oh, Alph....”

“What did you say?”

“I mean, oh Alph Agar, what are you going to do?”

“Never mind,” said Agar dully. “Never mind. We have work to do. Let’s get at it.”

“But....”

“Never mind, I said.” They worked.

After a while, Agar said through his teeth, “That Ker Kermit. He got me into this. Probably he informed on me too, although I don’t know how he found out. If I weren’t a civilized man....”

“Alph Agar,” broke in Jean-Jean in a small voice, “it was I who informed the board that you were in violation of Article 1382.”

“You?”

A tear escaped from under an eye-lash and trickled down her lovely cheek. “I... I thought he would fire you and you wouldn’t have to compete. I really didn’t think you had a chance, even with Lar Lerry teaching you.”

“Yes,” said Agar. “Lar Lerry. And now this. If by some wild chance I should escape with my life, I’d lose the Directorship anyway. Jean-Jean, why can’t you mind your own business?”

She stiffened. “I was only trying to....”

“Yes,” he said morosely. “I know. Take a letter.”

“Why, oh why,” muttered Jean-Jean, “did I have to fall in love with a jerk?” There, thought Agar, was a woman for you. Despite all the trouble he was in now, she had to talk about her personal affairs. So easily, so lightly, she changed the subject. Was it Lar Lerry she was talking about? Severely, he repressed a pang.

“In love?” he questioned. “Who might you be in love with, Jean-Jean? And what is a jerk?”

She glared at him. “Who, never mind. ‘Jerk’, archaic, twentieth century, ‘damn fool’, ‘jackass’. Let’s have that letter.”

The whole thing got out pretty fast, and the news travelled all over the Unit. Agar found himself treated with the respect and deference that might be accorded a corpse. His every order was followed with alacrity. He heard a rumor that the employees were taking up a collection for a tombstone. Whispers trailed him as he walked around the plant. “Poor guy ... good Director ... shame to lose him....” He began to wish for opposition, hostility, even disrespect, some sign that he was still alive and lusty. He acted high handed and arrogant at times. “Nerves are shot,” he would overhear.

Ker Kermit’s actions became increasingly obnoxious; his ever-present smile looked more and more like a laugh. He began to assume Agar’s duties. Agar found that many of his executive directives were superfluous; Kermit had already taken care of them. His orders were countermanded by Kermit. Kermit’s signature appeared on papers before he had a chance to look at them. Kermit began snooping around his private records. “After all, old fellow,” Kermit would say, “you may as well acquaint me with things. One never knows what might happen, does one?”

The worst of it was that the Unit seemed to be accepting Kermit as the new Director. Alph Agar felt that he was already dead.

The day before the exhibition, Kermit walked into Agar’s office with an interior decorator. “We’ll move all this stuff out,” he explained to the decorator. “Start from scratch. I’d like the walls a sort of aquamarine. I think in that corner we might have a kidney shaped lounge. As to the desks....”

Agar rose. About three steps, he thought. Three steps, and he could reach Kermit and wreck that alert, mocking face. He looked down at the white knuckles of his clenched fists. Why not? This man had deliberately planned to ruin and destroy him, although he couldn’t prove that. A blind, animal rage began rising within him and Kermit’s face seemed to enlarge and waver.

Horrified, he let his arms relax. What had he been thinking? What uncivilized passions were threatening to take charge? Where were the dignity and mental discipline that a Director should have?

“If you gentlemen don’t mind,” Agar said, “I’m very busy....”

Fifteen Fly-Wheels waited before the crowded stands, pilots at the controls. In a special, roped off section sat the Betelgeusian Delegation, Budd-Jarvis officials and Government representatives. Elsewhere, the Board of Government Raters checked their instruments and sounded the warning chimes. The beehive drone of the crowd hushed.

Alph Agar desperately studied the printed instruction sheet that had been handed to each contestant.

The first instruction read: “At seven point nine miles per hour, roll between the yellow ground markers. Upset the last two markers by flipping the rear of your vehicle. Points will be deducted for failing to do so, or for upsetting any other markers.”

The signal sounded. The competition was on.

Agar headed his Fly-Wheel between the markers. Nervously, he realized that he had barely an inch of clearance on each side. He slowed almost to a standstill as he entered the first two markers, noting that most of the other Fly-Wheels were already gliding smoothly through the course. Feeling that he was about to stall, he accelerated.

His Fly-Wheel shot ahead, knocked over all the markers except the last two, weaved through the other Fly-Wheels, skimmed the stands causing the crowds to duck and thudded to earth just in time to avoid annihilating the Betelgeusian Delegation, leaving the eight-eyed Betelgeusians blinking all their eyes and chirping hysterically.

“At six point eight feet altitude, traverse the field four times at 223 miles per hour, with Fly-Wheel vertical. Repeat, with Wheel horizontal. Repeat at twenty-two degree six minute angle in quadrant one, and two hundred degree angle in quadrant three.”

Grimly, but hopelessly Agar essayed the next trial, and stared in amazement at his altimeter as he achieved six point eight in one smooth motion. He accelerated to exactly 223 miles per hour. Four times, he traversed the field, noting that he finished first.

Well! Perhaps he was getting the hang of this.

With a flourish, he set the control for horizontal position, and the Fly-Wheel went into a sickening spin, at such high velocity that it was almost invisible to the spectators. Agar blacked out.

He came to, to find his Fly-Wheel balanced on the topmost beam of the grand-stand, while thousands of faces stared up at him.

His attempt at the quadrant one test failed utterly.

His failure in quadrant three was spectacular.

Grimly and doggedly, he plowed through the next two hours, aware that as the tests grew more difficult, his showing grew poorer; aware that the spectators were acquiring the habit of ducking nervously as he went into each test and that the eight-eyed Betelgeusians were focusing most of their eyes upon him.

When he reached the last test, he knew that it was all up. No use trying anymore. Indifferently, he manipulated the controls. The Fly-Wheel shuddered and skidded, dropped to the ground, digging a large crater, jumped into the stands, causing a hasty exodus, took off and circled the stands at incredible speed with the sound of a titanic buzz-saw, dove at the Betelgeusian Delegation, hovering just above the flooring, forcing them to drop and crawl away, fled across the field in blurry sweeps and finally dug another crater in which it laid itself gently to rest.

Dismally, Agar plodded towards the benches and sat down to wait. Ker Kermit joined him. “Too bad, old fellow,” he said, smiling. Agar watched the Board of Raters checking their results. He waited through the endless speeches. The pit of his stomach felt very empty.

Knowing that hope was futile, he hoped anyway as Pawl Pastin finally approached, but when he saw the look in Pastin’s eyes, he straightened. “All right,” he said, his voice firm. Must maintain the dignity of a Director to the last. “I’ll go. Just don’t touch me.”

The axe-man was waiting, nervously swinging the polished axe. Incongruously, Agar felt sorry for him; the man had never done this before, he knew. He knelt, feeling the wooden block hard against his forehead. He closed his eyes, waiting in darkness for the blow, thinking now only of Jean-Jean, regretting that she would never know how much he cared.

There was a stir in the stands, and the blow did not come. Agar opened his eyes and saw that the axe-man had lowered his axe, and officials were rushing towards him. They led him before the roped off section of the stands, where the Betelgeusians were chirping excitedly and waving their ropy limbs.

Pawl Pastin appeared. “The Betelgeusians seem to disagree with the Government Raters,” he informed Agar.

The Betelgeusians fell silent and the official interpreter began to speak. “The Betelgeusians say,” he explained in the loud tones of an announcer, “that they are shocked at our decision. They consider Alph Agar’s performance the most remarkable and daring of the day. They consider him the winner, not the loser. They say that they cannot understand our method of rating and that it is their own custom to value highly the type of courage, audacity and imagination that Alph Agar has shown here to-day. They demand his release.”

An annoyed look appeared on Pawl Pastin’s face. “Highly irregular,” he said. “That would be against the rules. The rules have already been laid down, and we must abide by them. We cannot make last minute changes. Tell the Betelgeusians that Alph Agar must be executed.”

“Just a moment,” interrupted a Government representative. “That would be defeating our purpose; both the Government and Budd-Jarvis want to please the Betelgeusians. I recommend that we go along with them.”

“I fully understand that!” snapped Pawl Pastin. “And personally, I would prefer to free Alph Agar. Rules, however, take precedence over all other considerations. I have no authority to violate the rules.”

“All right,” said the Government man. “As Minister of Diplomacy, Sector Thirty-Six, empowered to represent the Government, I proclaim that Government sanction to this execution is withdrawn. You are directed to free Alph Agar.”

“You are overlooking something. Your directive is in violation until confirmed by the Minister of Interior Policy, Sector Thirty-Seven, ratified by the Board of Industrial Relations, and recorded by the Office of Diplomatic Records. The execution must proceed!”

A fierce rebellion took hold of Agar. He had been resigned before, but now! ... to be so close to life again and cheated by red tape! He opened his mouth.

A clear, feminine voice rang out from the edge of the knot of officials. It was Jean-Jean’s. “As secretary and representative of Director Alph Agar, I have something to say! This situation is ridiculous. Since it is the Prime Executive Board that makes the rules, and all the members are present at this exhibition, why don’t you simply call a meeting now, and reconsider the rules?”

Pawl Pastin looked startled. “Why yes,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of that. We can call an emergency meeting.”

The vote was immediately taken. “Because of a unanimous desire to satisfy the Betelgeusians,” Pawl Pastin announced when the results were in, “the Board orders the release of Director Alph Agar.”

Alph Agar felt soft, yielding curves hit him with a sweet pressure. Coppery hair was silky on his cheek and arms were around his neck. “Oh, Alph, Alph,” Jean-Jean was whispering in his ear.

“Alph,” said Agar indistinctly. “You’re calling me Alph.” She drew back and looked at him with moist eyes. “Because I love you, you jerk. Since you won’t tell me, I’ll have to tell you. Do you love me?”

“Oh, Jean,” said Alph. “Jean.”

The interpreter’s loud voice rapped out, “The Betelgeusians say that they are waiting to witness the execution!”

Heads jerked up. “What execution?” crackled Pastin.

“The execution of the loser. They say that now that Alph Agar has been released, a loser must be chosen.”

Pastin frowned. It was clear that he was losing his patience. “Tell them,” he said “that the Board of Government Raters has already turned in their tally. Agar was considered the loser. No alternative was provided. Ask them whom they believe to be the loser.”

A chorus of chirping broke out among the Betelgeusians.

“They regard Assistant Director Ker Kermit as the loser. They consider his performance dull and routine. They found no imagination in it, only precision.”

“Very well,” said Pastin grimly. “We’ll take a vote on it.”

The Board was in conference longer this time, but finally Pastin announced: “Again we will yield to their wishes. Tell them that Ker Kermit shall be executed at once. Guards, lead him away!”

Kermit’s face had turned sick. His confidence and drive had been shocked out of him. Spiritlessly, he allowed himself to be led toward the axe-man.

Getting what he deserved, thought Agar, but he felt no elation. Neither was he sorry for Kermit. There was something else.... Anger. Something had been bothering him about this whole thing for a long time, and now a terrible rage was beginning to gather within him. At what? He wasn’t sure exactly, but something was rotten here.

He started forward. He knew.

Mental discipline. He checked himself. Discipline. Dignity. Restraint. It was not fitting to give way to uncivilized emotion.

Hell! he thought with a final irritation. Oh, the hell with discipline and the hell with dignity!

He planted himself squarely before the Betelgeusian Delegation, hands on hips. “Tell them,” he roared at the interpreter in a voice that he was unfamiliar with, “that we are a proud and peaceful people. Tell them that now, because they have been bending us to their will, we are about to deny our own hearts and do something shameful ... the taking of human life for hope of gain. Tell them that up to now we have been weak!” He raised his clenched fist and shook it at them. “And tell them this!” he shouted. “There will be no execution, and if they insist upon it, I will personally come up there and pound some respect into them, one at a time, or all at once!”

Tumult. Mad chirping. Pawl Pastin’s white face stared at Agar. “What have you done, man?”

The interpreter’s voice rose again: “The Betelgeusians say,” he announced, “that once again they are impressed by the reckless audacity of Alph Agar. They say that they cannot resist arguments presented with such courage. They say that they admire a people that can produce a man like Alph Agar, that they will not insist upon the execution, and that they are ready to do business with both Budd-Jarvis and the Government.”

Alph Agar sat in his office, holding Jean-Jean in his lap. He kissed her again.

There was a discreet tap at the door. After Jean-Jean straightened herself out, Agar called, “Come in.”

Ker Kermit entered. “Pawl Pastin to see you,” he announced respectfully. “Will you see him now, boss?”

“Certainly.” Kermit left and Pastin entered and took a chair. His voice and manner were as dry as ever. “First, allow me to convey the gratitude of both Budd-Jarvis and the Government for your part in the Betelgeusian affair. Without the necessity of an execution, we’ve gained our ends, thanks to you. You will receive official recognition of this, very soon.”

“Why,” said Agar, “that’s fine.”

“However,” continued Pastin, “the main purpose of this visit is to discharge you from the Directorship.”

“What!”

Pastin spread his hands. “But naturally. Rules are rules, you know. You are still in violation of Article 1382. I informed you that you would have to lose the Directorship after the exhibition.”

“We’ll see about that!” But it was without much hope that he put the call through to Unit C4439 and gave the data.

“Point,” smiled Unit C4439. “Since you were allowed to compete in the exhibition, it must be considered that Government sanction to operate a Fly-Wheel existed. Point: Government sanction under such circumstances is by License Division Article 14986.39 equivalent to a permanent license of rating .90-L Wullen. End of points. Further data, please?”

“No further data.”

“Thank you,” smiled Unit C4439. “I am disconnecting. May you dwell in happiness.”

“I was wrong,” admitted Pastin, rising to go. “By the rules, you retain your Directorship.” At the door he turned and permitted himself a microscopic smile. “However, I am not quite so obtuse as you may think me. May you dwell in happiness.”