Countdown for blast off. X minus five, four, three, two, X minus one, fire. From the far horizons of the unknown come transcribed tales of new dimensions in time and space. These are stories of the future. Adventures in which you'll live in a million could be years on a thousand maybe worlds. The National Broadcasting Company in cooperation with Galaxy Science Fiction Magazine presents X minus one. Tonight, Appointment in Tomorrow by Fritz Leiber. The first angry rays of the Sun, which surprisingly enough still rose in the East at 24-hour intervals, pierced the lacy tops of Atlantic comers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconscious fear because of the unpleasant similarity to the ray from World War Three's thermonuclear weapons. This was America approaching the end of the 20th century. America of the mask fad for women and the neocretin dress styles. America of your local radiation hospital, of the endless war and the loyalty detector. In his bedroom in the Thinker's Foundation, George Helmut slept. His educational sandman purred learnedly in his ear, droning tensor calculus through the night, filling the hours that used to hold man's formless fears and floating anxieties with the rigid form and anchored shapes of mathematics. Precisely at eight, the sidereal alarm went off. Under the soothing spray of the body temperature robo shower, Helmut took a deep breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world and his knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but he noted with impartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning. Off. Dry blast commence. Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he cleared his memory chains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep. He felt the snap of clearing non-thalamic reasoning returning as the brain surged into clear, sharp control. Off. Clothing. Color key 705. He stepped into his clothing, the severe tunic, tights, and soccasins of the modern businessman. He smiled. The next big move had come to him in his sleep, as many of his best decisions did, because he utilized the time-saving technique of somnoth thought, which could function at the same time as somnol learning. Attention. Robo locator. Category. Rocket physicist. Classification. Genius level. Time limit for search. 20 minutes. Commence. Take dictation. Dear fellow scientists, the project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man's future in deep space. Ample non-military government funds are available. There was a time when professional men scoffed at the Thinker's Foundation. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglected the professional men. Now both times are past. I would like to consult you this afternoon. Three o'clock sharp. Thinker's Foundation. Signed. Jors Helmut. End of dictation. The president is waiting to see Maisie, sir. He has the general staff with him. Marshal, peace to him. Tell him I'll be down in a few minutes. Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, Maisie, the great electronic brain, loomed over the knot of hushed voice men. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls, indicators, telltales, and terminals. The upper ones reached by a chair on a boom. This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the human brain. The machine that remembered by cutting delicate little notches on the rims of molecules. This was the machine that timid cyberneticists and stuffy professional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was the machine that the Thinkers with characteristic Yankee push had built and named with characteristic irreverence, Maisie. Have you the questions for the day, Mr. President? Here, Mr. Helmut. I see. The question on the Pakistan crisis is a little touchy. I don't know. If there is enough data to answer it, Maisie will do so. Well, of course. I didn't mean to. If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will code the questions for Maisie. Oh, section five, question four. Whom would that come from? Number four, physics, Uppley and his research team. I see. Thank you, Mr. President. While I'm coding the tape, there will be time to watch the takeoff of the Mars rocket. Beautiful, beautiful. I've often wanted to go to New Mexico. As a matter of fact, I've always wanted to go right through to Mars. Mr. President. My chief of staff thinks the project should be under the Army instead of the Thinkers Foundation. Mr. President, this is the way Maisie designed the project. Oh, I know, I know. That's what I told him. Still, I wish you people could bring back a few of those wise little devils from Mars. It would be a good thing for the party, the country. It's quite unthinkable. The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremely sensitive. The conflicts of ordinary earth mines would impinge on them psychotically. Only the thinkers can contact them because of the clear training and errorless memory chains. Perhaps someday in the future. Ah, there goes the rocket. Beautiful, beautiful. I am ready to submit the question tapes to Maisie. Stand back, gentlemen. Sorry, sorry. And now. All right, gentlemen. Maisie is thinking. The question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed out of a high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinning rollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness, it tantalized the silver fingers of a thousand relays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes, impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small room where a sweating fat man in shorts sat drinking beer. Here it comes. Get off my lap, honey. I've got work to do. Can it wait? I said get. Oh, you didn't have to do that. When Maisie thinks she thinks, open up another beer. Look, I'm not a robo barmaid. Honey, do what you're told or I'll ship you out where they'll work some of the upholstery off that frame, slopping radioactive mud. You don't have to get nasty, Jan. Here's your beer. That's better. It makes you fat. I like to be fat. It makes our relationship more poignant. Pass me the questions and get over to your keyboard. You're a greasy pig. What such an attractive pig. Start taping. Why, that dirty... What's the matter? One of the questions. Does Maisie stand for maelzel? For what? Maelzel. Does it? Look, you just keep sitting on your brains and letting me do the thinking. Tape. Maisie does not stand for maelzel. Maisie stands for amazing. Humorously given the form of a girl's name. Who is maelzel? Edgar Allan Poe. Huh? It's a story. Maelzel's chess player. About an automaton that was supposed to play chess. Poe proved it had a man inside it. Oh, and they want to know if Maisie... They're wrong. Maisie doesn't have a man inside it. Just a lump of conceited lard. You could have hit me with that. Look at my dress. Get me another glass of beer. That must have come from the physics section of the research institute. Opperley and that ape Farquhar. And we'll look into that. All right, start taping. Question one. The midterm election vidicast should be spaced as follows. Morton Opperley's living room was quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapes, there were books. And instead of a four by six TV screen, there was a Picasso. Still faintly radioactive from being smuggled out of the Manhattan crater, two physicists faced each other across the table. Old Mr. Opperley and young Mr. Farquhar. About that maelzel question, Willard, why do you keep teasing the zoo animals? Because the thinkers are charlatans who must be exposed. We know their Maisie is no more than a tea leaf reading fake. We've traced their Mars rockets and we know they go into orbit 500 miles above earth and stay there until it's time to come down with the latest miraculous Martian mental science. But we've already exposed the thinkers very thoroughly. You know the good it did. Ah, Willard, the age we live in wants magicians. A scientist tells people the truth. When times are good, when the truth offers no threat, people don't mind. But when times are very, very bad, well, a magician tells people what they wish were true. That perpetual motion works, that colored lights can cure cancer, that a psychosis is no worse than a bad cold, and that they live forever. In good times, magicians are laughed at. They're the luxury of a spoiled, wealthy few. But in bad times, people sell their souls for magic cures and buy perpetual motion machines to power their war rockets. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it's difficult and dangerous? In my day, Willard, I was one of the frightened men. Later, I was one of the angry men and then one of the minds of despair. And now I'm convinced that all of my reactions were futile. Exactly. You reacted. You didn't act. If you men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league, if you'd only had the guts and foresight to use your tremendous bargaining power to... Willard, we scientists weren't the stuff of which cloak and dagger men are made. Can you imagine Oppenheimer wearing a mask or old Einstein sneaking into the White House with a bomb in his briefcase? That's not the way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to men bargaining for power. Only established facts or lies are. What do you want to do? Surrender the world to charlatans without a struggle? The thinkers are vulnerable. Their power is based on a series of lies. For all power is, the greater the lie, the greater the power. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses, some faith healing, some science hocus pocus. The power of the thinkers isn't based on what they've got but on what the world hasn't got. Peace, honor, a good conscience. They've sent for me. Who? Jan Tregeren? No, George Helmut. I got the radiogram an hour ago. They know they'll have to produce a real nuclear rocket pretty soon and they'll need our help. I'm afraid, Willard. You think it might be a trap? After the Maelzel question, you think they might want to shut me up? I'm not afraid for your life. I'm worried about other things they might do to you. They'd better be worried about the things I'm going to do to them. Martian peace to you, Willard Farquhar. You have entered the Thinker's Foundation. Please remain on the slideway. I want to see George Helmut. May we take your hat and coat? What the? Do not be alarmed. Invisible radiations are slaughtering all the germs in your body, while more delicate emanations are producing a benign rearrangement of your emotions. Clap trap. I can recognize a 14-cycle sonic note when I hear one. Where's Helmut? This way, please. Helmut, cut out all this swami stuff. Where are you? I'm afraid Mr. Helmut won't be able to meet you, Mr. Farquhar. I'm Jan Tregeren. Perhaps you can have your conversation with me. George Helmut waited in a conference room with two dozen empty chairs. He had prepared by two hours rest with the somno teacher on full volume for this conference. Having strengthened his mind by hard years of somno learning, memory straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himself of the executive power to control the technicians and direct their specialized abilities. Together they would have built the true Mars rocket, but unfortunately no one came. Where are they? Report. No word from the door, master. They can't all be late. Did you check? The calls have been put through. What response? Dr. Burnside reports he received the second message just in time. What second message? The message calling off the meeting. Did he read the text of the second message back? Shall I play it back? Never mind. How was it signed? The signature. Signature, Mr. Jan Tregeren. George Helmut dejectedly examined his organizational charts, and then tapping his stylo on the pad, he extended his mental aura, cleared his memory chains of error, accelerated his cerebral processes by the Haber-Gerson process he had practiced for so many years. Slowly he could feel the tight, heart-squeezing disappointment of the head. He was in control again. Tregeren, he was the one to blame. Tregeren, who was so used to working by deception that he must be shown the light. Well, Willard, how was your adventure among the magicians? Well, they didn't hurt me. You're sure? And are you as determined as ever to smash and expose the thinkers? Of course. Only from now on I won't embarrass you by asking any male-zell questions. After this, I shall bore from within. Now, where have I heard that phrase before? Do I understand that you are becoming a thinker, Willard? Certainly. That's the only way to smash them. Out-trick all their trickeries, organize a fifth column, then strike. The end justifying the means, of course. Of course. I wonder if becoming a thinker doesn't simply mean that you've decided to use lies and tricks as your chief method. Well, you're working with Helmut? Not Helmut. Tregeren. I'm afraid that Helmut's career as a thinker is going to have quite a setback. Oh, well. Goodbye, Willard. Tregeren, I want to talk to you. Shall I leave? No, please stay. Jan? Stay. You are enjoy this. George has that errorless memory chain. Tregeren, you know why I'm here. I don't know. I've been sadly remiss in my precognition and clairvoyance exercise. I've been too busy with other things, other people, other exercises. But I don't need major to guess. You just went ahead and canceled the conference without consulting me. You called it without consulting me. You shouldn't do that sort of a thing, George. I was absolutely sure of my ground, perfectly prepared. I visualized it. The rocket boosting up on chemical power, then setting sail. Sail? Sail? A nuclear reactor rocket? Oh, George, you're fabulous. Yes, sail. Thin streams of nuclear reflecting material and the rocket feeding mason streams behind it. I conceived it all complete, except for technical details. George, you are a thinker, a real thinker. I know. Now look here, George, every man should stick to his trade. Technology isn't ours. You know as well as I do that we're going to have a nuclear spaceship and actually go to Mars someday. Are we? Yes. Just as we're going to have to build an actual mazey. I helped you organize the thinkers. At least I was your first partner. Our basic idea was that the time had come to apply science to the life of man on a large scale. The only thing holding the world back from this was the ignorance and superstition of the average man and the stuffiness and lack of enterprise of the academic scientists. Their worship of facts, even when the facts were clearly dangerous. Splendid. Splendid. Carrie, get me another beer. I'm filing my nails. All right, all right. Everybody wanted the new world, the trips to Mars, the knowledge of the human brain. All they lacked was the nerve to take the first big step. And that was what we supplied. Here's your beer. There was no time for slow and careful plotting. We couldn't afford to check and double check. We couldn't wait for the grudging approval of the professionals. We had to use fake stunts, tricks, anything to get over the big point. Once that was done, we were done. But once that was done, mankind was headed down the new road. It was easy to just heal the breach with the professionals and to make good in actuality what had been made good in pretence. Very good. The beer. We built Mazie. We built the Mars rocket. We discovered the wisdom of the Martians. We sold the people and the science the professionals had been too high-tone to advertise or bring into the marketplace. But now that we'd succeeded, it's time to let accomplishment catch up with imagination, to implement fantasy with fact. You suppose I would have gone in with you if I hadn't known that someday we'd actually make what we claimed we had already made? Oh, oh, was that it? John, the day has come. And I'm the man. I've prepared myself. Caddy, clear the decks. All right. I know you just want room to point that fat finger. I want her to stay. All right. George, look, every revolutionary wants to see the big change take place in his lifetime. But time for the second step. George, the average man's exactly where he was 10 years ago when we took over. Except he's got a new god. More than ever, he thinks of Mars as a Hollywood paradise with wise men and yummy princesses like Caddy here. Do you think I'm yummy, really? Shut up. Maisie is his mama, magnified a million times. The professional scientists, they're more jealous and stuffy than ever. All they like to do is turn the clock back to a genteel dream world of square caps and quadrangles. Bravo! I said shut up. George, maybe in 10,000 years, we'll be ready for the second big step. Meanwhile, the clever will rule the stupid. The realists will rule the dreamers. George, did you actually think you could have bossed those professionals, nuclear scientists, rocket physicists? Oh, now listen to me, boy. They'd have torn you to pieces in 20 minutes and glared at the chance. George, you baffled me. You know that Maisie and the Mars trips and all that are fakes, yet you believe in your somnolurning and consciousness expansion and optimism pumping like a corn-fed yokel. There is a place for the man who has the courage to dream. Sure. In a straight jacket. Oh, George, you remind me of those men who used to put out those lured little magazines with Cattie's grandmother on the cover in outer space in a stripped-down bathing suit. My grandmother never... I said shut up! That's what it is. Frustrated little men playing science god to generations of pimply high school chemistry students and gas station attendants, conning them into thinking there in the know, sprinkling a few formulas to the garbage and playing atom smasher, and then being very solemn about the role of imagination in science. George, the trouble with you is they forgot to take your zap gun and space cadet decoder pin away from you when you turned 13. That's your honest opinion? It's more than that. George, get a hold of yourself and quit taking fantasy in the veins. That's an order. Jan, the strange part of it is that I know as well as you do that Maisie and the Mars trips are fakes, but some things aren't. The human mind, Jan, is a tool that hasn't been perfected yet. There are more things in heaven than earth that are dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio. Who's Horatio? I said shut up! This is the last full cackle, George. You've been fooling around with ESP, huh? Telepathy? Maybe a little hypnotism? Maybe. All right. Guess what I've got in my drawer. Extend your consciousness. Telepath it. Visualize it. Never mind. I'll slay you in the middle effort. It's a pistol, see? Now, let me tell you something. I've got a couple of boys waiting outside. They'll take you by jet to New Mexico. George, congratulations. You're leaving for Mars tomorrow. Mars? Yes. I've decided Mars would be the best place for you. We'll arrange it so that your trip is, say, two years long. Perhaps in that time orbiting up there, you'll learn a little Martian wisdom. For example, the big liar must never fall for his own lie. Meanwhile, I've got a replacement for you. His name is Willard Farquhar. But I sent for him to... Yes. You see, I too believe in cooperation with the scientists. But by subversion, I'll offer them the hand of friendship with a big fat bribe in it. You know what the bribe is? The power to destroy me. That's what I'm offering. Join us. Learn our secrets. Bore from within. Bide your time before you strike. But while he's biding, I'll have him. And when he's ready to strike, you'll find it's not quite the time. Wait a little bit. Enjoy the power. Play with fat old Jan Tregeron like a cat. And by then, I'll have him. You can't replace me, Jan. Oh, you were a good man, George, when we needed catchy slogans, ray guns, plastic helmets, fancy sweaters. I warn you, Jan. Don't underestimate the mind. The human brain. Even caddy here is a fascinating instrument. For example, I had a little talk with caddy last week. Very boring. Ah, but useful. But when we were finished, her mind had something it didn't have before. You always were educational, George. Caddy, look at me. Look at me. Look at me. Now, put your hand on his arm. Now. Now, take his gun. Caddy, are you crazy? I've got his gun. What now? You see, Jan, there is a place for the dreamer, the man who believes, who can use his mind. I'm going to get rid of you, Jan, because the man who dares to dream will rule. Caddy, look at me. Look at me. Point the gun at him. Look at me. I can't anymore. It's too ridiculous. Jan, take your silly gun back. It's too heavy. What? Caddy. Caddy, I command you. Look at me. Look at me. The power of the mind. Hey, boys, come in and get him. I don't understand. Caddy. Caddy, look at me. Oh, all right. I'll look at you. Poor Superman. You have just heard X minus one presented by the National Broadcasting Company in cooperation with Galaxy Science Fiction magazine, which this month features You Go! by E.C. Tubb, which proves that for pure chilling horror, nothing can beat cold hard facts. Galaxy magazine on your newsstand today. Tonight by transcription, X minus one has brought you Appointment in Tomorrow, a story from the pages of Galaxy written by Fritz Leiber and adapted for radio by Ernest Kanoi. Featured in the cast were Ted Osborne, Dean Almquist, Pat Hosley, Bob Hastings, Arthur Hughes and Charles Penman. Your narrator was Floyd Mack. This is Fred Collins. X minus one was directed by Daniel Sutter and is an NBC radio network production.
