The work was demanding and dangerous. He had to alter recorded facts which were available elsewhere, in books and journals and the minds of men. Nothing could be done about basic theory. But quantitative results could be juggled a little to set the overall picture subtly askew. He would co-opt carefully chosen experts, men whose psychotypes indicated they would take the easy course of relying on Matilda instead of checking original sources. And the correlation and integration of innumerable data, the empirical equations and extrapolations thereof, could be tampered with.

  He turned his regular job over to Rodney and devoted himself entirely to the new one. He grew thin and testy; when Sorensen called, trying to hurry him, he snapped back: “Do you want speed or quality?” and wasn’t too surprised at himself afterward. He got little sleep, but his mind seemed unnaturally clear.

  Winter faded into spring while Thornberg and his experts labored and while the nation shook, psychically and physically, under the growing violence of Sam Hall. The report Thornberg submitted in May was so voluminous and detailed that he didn’t think the government researchers would bother referring to any other source. Its conclusion: Yes, given a brilliant man applying Belloni matrices to cybernetic formulas and using some unknown kind of colloidal probe, a psychological masking technique was plausible.

  The government yanked every man it could find into research. Thornberg knew it was only a matter of time before they realized they had been had. How much time, he couldn’t say. But when they were sure…

  Now up the rope I go, up I go,

  Now up the rope I go, up I go.

  And the bastards down below,

  They say, “Sam, we told you so.”

  They say, “Sam, we told you so,” God damn their eyes.

  REBELS ATTACK

  SPACESHIPS LAND UNDER COVER OF RAINSTORM

  SEIZE POINTS NEAR N DETROIT

  FLAME WEAPONS USED AGAINST ARMY BY REBELS

  “The infamous legions of the traitors have taken ground throughout the nation, but already our gallant forces have hurled them back. They have come out in early summer like toadstools, and will wither as fast—WHEEEEEEOOOOOO!” Silence.

  “All citizens will keep calm, remain loyal to their country, and stay at their usual tasks, until otherwise ordered. Civilians will report to their local defense officers. Military reservists will report immediately for active duty.”

  “Hello, Hawaii! Are you there? Come in, Hawaii! Calling Hawaii!”

  “CQ, Mars GHQ calling…bzzz, wheeee…seized Syrtis Major Colony and…whoooo…help needed…”

  The lunar rocket bases are assaulted and carried. The commander blows them up rather than surrender. A pinpoint flash on the moon’s face, a new crater; what will they name it?

  “So they’ve got Seattle, have they? Send a robomb flight. Scrub the place off the map…Citizens? To hell with citizens! This is war!”

  “…in New York. Secretly drilled rebels emerged from the notorious Crater district and stormed…”

  “…assassins were shot down. The new president has already been sworn in and…”

  BRITAIN, CANADA, AUSTRALIA REFUSE

  ASSISTANCE TO GOV’T

  “…no, sir. The bombs reached Seattle all right. But they were stopped before they hit—some kind of energy gun…”

  “COMECO to army commanders in Florida and Georgia: Enemy action has made Florida and the keys temporarily untenable. Your units will withdraw as follows…”

  “Today a rebel force engaging a military convoy in Donner Pass was annihilated by a well-placed tactical atomic bomb. Though our own men suffered losses on this account.

  “COMWECO to army commanders in California: the mutiny of units stationed around San Francisco poses a grave problem…”

  SP RAID REBEL HIDEOUT,

  BAG FIVE OFFICERS

  “Okay, so the enemy is about to capture Boston. We can’t issue weapons to the citizens. They might turn them on us!”

  SPACE GUARD UNITS EXPECTED FROM VENUS

  Jack, Jack, Jack!

  It was strange, living in the midst of a war. Thornberg had never thought it would be like this. Drawn faces, furtive looks, chaos in the telecast news and the irregularly arriving papers, blackouts, civil defense drills, shortages, occasional panic when a rebel jet whistled overhead—but nothing else. No gunfire, no bombs, no more than the unreal combats you heard about. The only local casualty list was due to Security; people kept disappearing, and nobody spoke about them.

  But then, why should the enemy bother with this unimportant mountain town? The self-styled Libertarian Army was grabbing key points of manufacture, transportation, communication, was engaging in pitched battles, sabotaging buildings and machines, assassinating officials. By its very purpose, it couldn’t wage total war, couldn’t annihilate the folk it wanted to free—an attitude historically rare among revolutionaries, Thornberg knew. Rumor said the defenders were less finicky.

  Most citizens were passive. They always are. Probably no more than one-fourth of the population was ever in earshot of an engagement. City dwellers might see fire in the sky, hear crump and whistle and crash of artillery, scramble aside from soldiers and armored vehicles, cower in shelters when rockets arced overhead; but the action was outside of town. If matters came to street fighting, the rebels never pushed far in. They would either lay siege or they would rely on agents inside the town. Then a citizen might hear the crack of rifles and grenades, rattle of machine guns, sizzle of lasers, and see corpses. But the end was either a return of military government or the rebels marching in and setting up their own provisional councils. (They rarely met cheers and flowers. Nobody knew how the war would end. But they heard words whispered, and usually got good service.) As nearly as possible, the average American continued his average life.

  Thornberg stayed on his personal rails. Matilda, the information nexus, was in such demand that users queued for their shared time. If the rebels ever learned where she was—

  Or did they know?

  He got few opportunities to conduct his private sabotages, but on that account planned each of them extra carefully. The Sam Hall reports were almost standardized in his mind—Sam Hall here, Sam Hall there, pulling off this or that incredible stunt. But what did one superman count for in these gigantic days? He needed something more.

  Television and newspapers jubilantly announced that Venus had finally been contacted. Luna and Mars had fallen, but the Guard units on Venus had quickly smashed a few feeble uprisings. Mere survival there demanded quantities of powerful, sophisticated equipment, readily adaptable to military purposes. The troops would be returning at once, fully armed. Given present planetary configurations, the highest boost could not deliver them on Earth for a good six weeks. But then they might prove a decisive reinforcement.

  “Looks like you may see your boy soon, chief,” Rodney remarked.

  “Yes,” said Thornberg, “I may.”

  “Tough fighting.” Rodney shook his head. “I’d sure as hell hate to be in it.”

  If Jack is killed by a rebel gun, when I have aided the rebels’ cause…

  Sam Hall, reflected Thornberg, had lived a hard life, all violence and enmity and suspicion. Even his wife hadn’t trusted him.

  …And my Nellie dressed in blue,

  Says, “Your trifling days are through.

  Now I know that you’ll be true, God damn your eyes.

  Poor Sam Hall. No wonder he had killed a man.

  Suspicion!

  Thornberg stood for a moment while a tingle went through him. The police state was founded on suspicion. Nobody could trust anybody else. And with the new fear of psychomasking, and research on that project suspended during the crisis—

  Steady, boy, steady. Can’t rush into action. Have to plan very carefully.

  Thornberg punched for the dossiers of key men in the administration, in the military, in Security. He did this in the presence of two assistants, for he thought that his own frequent sessions alone in the coordination booth were beginning to look funny.

  “Top secret,” he warned them, pleased with his cool manner. He was becoming a regular Machiavelli, “You’ll be skinned alive if you mention it to anyone.”

  Rodney gave him a shrewd glance. “So they’re not even sure of their top men now, are they?” he murmured.

  “I’ve been told to make some checks,” snapped Thornberg. “That’s all you need to know.”

  He studied the files for many hours before coming to a decision. Secret observations were, of course, made of everyone from time to time. A cross check with Matilda showed that the cop who filed the last report on Lindahl had been killed the next day in a spontaneous and abortive uprising. The report was innocuous: Lindahl had stayed at home, studying various papers; he had been alone in the house except for a bodyguard in another room who had not seen him. And Lindahl was Undersecretary of Defense.

  Thornberg changed the record. A masked man—stocky, black-haired—had come in and talked for three hours with Lindahl. They had spoken low, so that the cop’s ears, outside the window, couldn’t catch what was said. After the visitor left, Lindahl had retired. The cop went back in great excitement, made out his report, and gave it to the signalman, who had sent it on to Matilda.

  Tough on the signalman, thought Thornberg. They’ll want to know why he didn’t tell this to his chief in New Washington, if the observer was killed before doing so. He’ll deny every such report, and they’ll hypnoquiz him—but they don’t trust that method anymore!

  His sympathy quickly faded. What counted was having the war over before Jack got home. He refiled the altered spool and did a little backtracking, shifting the last report of Sam Hall from Salt Lake City to Atlanta. More plausible. Then, as opportunity permitted, he worked on real men’s records.

  He must wait two haggard days before the next order came from Security for a check on Sam Hall. The scanners trod out their intricate measure, transistors awoke, in due course a cog turned. LINDAHL unrolled before the microprinter. Cross references ramified in all directions. Thornberg attached a query to the preliminary report: this looked interesting; did his superiors want more information?

  They did!

  Next day the telecast announced a shake-up in the Department of Defense. Nobody heard more about Lindahl.

  And I, Thornberg reflected, have grabbed a very large tiger by the tail. Now they’ll have to check everybody. How does a solitary man keep ahead of the Security Police?

  Lindahl is a traitor. How did his chief ever let him get such a sensitive position? Secretary Hoheimer was a personal friend of Lindahl, too. Have Records check Hoheimer.

  What’s this? Hoheimer himself! Five years ago, yes, but even so—the dossier shows he lived in an apartment unit where Sam Hall was janitor. Grab Hoheimer! Who’ll take his place? General Halliburton? That stupid old bastard? Well, at least his nose is clean. Can’t trust those slick characters.

  Hoheimer has a brother in Security, general’s rank, good detection record. A blind? Who knows? Slap the brother in jail, at least for the duration. Better check his staff…Central Records shows that his chief field agent, Jones, has five days unaccounted for a year ago; he claimed Security secrecy at the time, but a double-cross check shows it wasn’t true. Shoot Jones! He has a nephew in the army, a captain. Pull that unit out of the firing line till we can study it man by man! We’ve had too many mutinies already.

  Lindahl was also a close friend of Benson, in charge of the Tennessee Atomic Ordnance Works. Haul Benson in! Check every man connected with him! No trusting those scientists; they’re always blabbing secrets.

  The first Hoheimer’s son is an industrialist, owns a petroleum-synthesis plant in Texas. Nab him! His wife is a sister of Leslie, head of the War Production Coordination Board. Get Leslie too. Sure, he’s doing a good job, but he may be sending information to the enemy. Or he may just be waiting for the signal to sabotage the whole works. We can’t trust anybody, I tell you!

  What’s this? Records relays an Intelligence report that the mayor of Tampa was in cahoots with the rebels. It’s marked “Unreliable, Rumor”—but Tampa did surrender without a fight. The mayor’s business partner is Gale, who has a cousin in the army, commanding a robomb base in New Mexico. Check both the Gales, Records…So the cousin was absent four days without filing his whereabouts, was he? Military privilege or not, arrest him and find out where he was!

  • Attention, Records, attention, Records, urgent. Brigadier John Harms-worth Gale, etc., etc., refused to divulge information required by Security Officers, claiming to have been at his base all the time. Can this be an error on your part?

  • Records to Security Central, ref: etc., etc. No possibility of error exists except in information received.

  • To Records, ref: etc., etc. Gale’s story corroborated by three of his officers.

  Put that whole damned base under arrest! Recheck those reports! Who sent them in, anyway?

  • To Records, ref: etc., etc. On attempt to arrest entire personnel, Robomb Base 37-J fired on Security detachment and repulsed it. At last reports Gale was calling for rebel forces fifty miles off to assist him. Details will follow for the files as soon as possible.

  So Gale was a traitor. Or was he driven by fear? Have Records find out who filed that information about him in the first place.

  We can’t trust anybody!

  Thornberg was not much surprised when his door was kicked open and the Security squad entered. He had been expecting it for days, maybe weeks. A solitary man can’t keep ahead of the game forever. No doubt accumulated inconsistencies had finally drawn suspicion his way; or, ironically, the chains of accusation he forged had by chance led to him; perhaps somebody here, like Rodney, had decided something was amiss and lodged a tip.

  Were that last the case, he laid no blame. The tragedy of civil war was that it turned brother against brother. Millions of decent people were with the government because they had pledged themselves to be, or simply because they didn’t believe in the alternative. Mostly, Thornberg felt tired.

  He looked down the barrel of a revolver and up to the eyes of the blackcoat behind. They were equally empty of feeling. “I assume I’m under arrest?” he said tonelessly.

  “On your feet,” the leader snapped.

  June could not hold back a whimper of pain. The man who held her was twisting her arm behind her back, obviously enjoying himself. “Don’t do that,” Thornberg said. “She’s innocent. Had no idea what I was carrying out.”

  “On your feet, I told you.” The leader thrust his gun closer.

  “I suggest you leave me alone, too.” Thornberg lifted his right hand, to show a ball he had taken from his desk when the squad arrived. “Do you see this? A thing I made against contingencies. Not a bomb per se—but a radio trigger. If my fingers relax, the rubber will expand and close a circuit. I believe such a device is called a dead-man switch.”

  The squad stiffened. Thornberg heard an oath. “Release the lady,” he said.

  “You surrender first!” said June’s captor. He wrenched. She screamed.

  “No,” Thornberg said. “June, dear, I’m sorry. But have no fears. You see, I expected this visit, and made my preparations. The radio signaller won’t touch off anything as melodramatic as a bomb. No, instead it will close a relay which will activate a certain program in Matilda—the Records computer, you know, the data machine. Every spool will be wiped. The government will have not a record left. Myself, I am prepared to die. But if you men let me complete that circuit, I imagine you’ll wish there had been a bomb. Now do let go of the lady.”

  The blackcoat did, as if she had suddenly turned incandescent. She slumped sobbing to the floor.

  “A bluff!” the leader shouted. Sweat made his face shiny.

  “Do you wish to call it?” Thornberg made a smile. “By all means.”

  “You traitor—”

  “I prefer ‘patriot,’ if you please. But be the semantics as they may, you must admit I was effective. The government has been turned end for end and upside down. The army is breaking apart, officers deserting right and left for fear they’ll be arrested next, or defecting, or leading mutinies. Security is chasing its own tail around half a continent. Far more administrators are being murdered by their colleagues than the underground could possibly assassinate. The Libertarians take city after city without resistance. My guess is that they will occupy New Washington inside another week.”

  “Your doing!” Finger quivered on trigger.

  “Oh, no. Spare my blushes. But I did make a contribution of some significance, yes. Unless you say Sam Hall did, which is fine by me.”

  “What…will…you do now?”

  “That depends on you, my friend. Whether I am killed or only rendered unconscious, Matilda dies. You could have the technicians check out whether I’m telling the truth, and if I am, you could have them yank that program. However, at the first sign of any such move on your part, I will naturally let the ball go. Look in my mouth.” He opened it briefly. “Yes, the conventional glass vial of prussic acid. I apologize for the cliché, but you will understand that I have no wish to share the fate that you people bring on yourselves.”

  Bafflement wrestled rage in the countenances before Thornberg. They weren’t used to thinking, those men.

  “Of course,” he went on, “you have an alternative. At last reports, a Liberation unit was established less than two hundred kilometers from here. We could call and ask them to send a force, explaining the importance of this place. That would be to your advantage too. There is going to be a day of reckoning with you blackcoats. My influence could help you personally, however little you deserve to get off the hook.”

  They stared at each other. After a very long while, wherein the only sounds were June’s diminishing sobs, unevenly drawn breaths among the police, and Thornberg’s pulse rapid in his ears, the leader spat, “No! You lie!” He aimed his gun.