The Cosmic Computer

Command, and a great deal that needed his personal attention at the bank. Morgan Gatworth and Lorenzo Menardes and one or two others followed. Kurt Fawzi, however, refused to leave. Merlin was somewhere here at Force Command, he was sure of it, and he wasn’t leaving till it was found. Neither were Franz Veltrin or Dolf Kellton or Judge Ledue. Tom Brangwyn resigned as town marshal; Klem Zareff was too busy even to think of Merlin; he had almost as many men under his command, and twice as much contragravity, as he had had when the System States Alliance Army had surrendered.
Conn flew to Litchfield, and found that the public works project had come to a stop at noon of the day when Force Command was entered, and that nothing had been done on it since. The cold vitrifier was still standing in the middle of the Mall, and topside Litchfield was littered in a dozen places with forsaken equipment and half-completed paving. There was no one in Kurt Fawzi’s office in the Airlines Building, and the employment office was jammed with migratory workers vainly seeking jobs.
He hunted up Morgan Gatworth, the lawyer.
“Can’t some of you get things started again?” he wanted to know. “This place is worse than it was before they started cleaning up.”
“Yes, I know.” Gatworth walked to an open window and looked down on the littered Mall. “But everybody just dropped everything as soon as you opened Force Command. Kurt Fawzi’s not been back here since.”
“Well, you’re here. Lester Dawes and Lorenzo Menardes are here. Why don’t you just take over. Kurt Fawzi couldn’t care less what you do; he’s forgotten he is mayor of Litchfield. He’s forgotten there is a Litchfield.”
“Well, I don’t like to just move into the mayor’s office and take over⁠ ⁠…”
From somewhere below, a submachine gun hammered. There were yells, pistol shots, and the submachine gun hammered again, a couple of short bursts.
“Some of the farm-tramps who can’t get jobs, trying to steal something to eat, I suppose,” Conn commented. Gatworth was frowning thoughtfully. He’d only need one more, very slight, push. “Why don’t you talk to Wade Lucas. He’s got brains, and he’s honest⁠—nobody but an honest man would have made himself as unpopular as Lucas has. If you pretend to be disillusioned with this Merlin business it might help convince him.”
“He was blaming you and your father for what’s been going on here in the last two weeks. Yes. He’d help get things straightened out.”
At home, he found his mother simply dazed. She was happy to see him, and solicitous about his and his father’s health. It seemed at times, though, as if he were somebody she had never met before. Events had gotten so far beyond her that she wasn’t even trying to catch up.
Flora, returning from school, stopped short when she saw him.
“Well! I hope you like what you’ve done!” she greeted him.
“For a start, yes.”
“For a start! You know what you’ve done?”
“Yes. I don’t know what you think I’ve done, though. Tell me.”
“You’ve turned everything into a madhouse; you’ve sent this whole world Merlin-crazy. Look at the stock market⁠ ⁠…”
“You look at it. All I can see is a pack of lunatics playing Russian roulette with five chambers loaded out of six. Some of this so-called stock that’s being peddled around isn’t worth five millisols a share⁠—Seekers for Merlin,  Ltd., closed today at a hundred and seventy. You notice, there isn’t any  L. E. & S. being traded. If you don’t believe me, talk to Lester Dawes; he’ll tell you what we think of this market.”
“Well, it’s your fault!”
“In part it’s my fault that any of these quarter-wits have any money to play the market with. They wouldn’t have money enough to play a five-centisol slot machine if we hadn’t gotten a little business started.”
There was just a little truth to that, too. A few woolen socks were coming out from under mattresses, and a few tin cans were being exhumed in cellars, since the new flood of Federation equipment and supplies had gotten on the market. He’d seen a freshly lettered sign on Len Yeniguchi’s tailor shop: Quarter Price in Federation Currency.
That night, however, he had one of the nightmares he used to have as a child⁠—a dream of climbing up onto a huge machine and getting it started, and then clinging, helpless and terrified, unable to stop it as it went faster and faster toward destruction.

Klem Zareff’s patrols were encountering larger outlaw bands, the result of gang mergers. They were fighting with prospecting parties, and prospecting parties were fighting one another. Much of this was making the newscasts. One battle, between two regularly chartered prospecting companies, lasted three days, with an impressive casualty list.
Public demands were growing that the Planetary Government do something about the situation; the government was wondering what to do, or how. There were indignant questions in Parliament. Finally, the government dragged a couple of armed ships off Mothball Row⁠—a combat freighter like the Lester Dawes, and a big assault transport⁠—and began trying to get them into commission.
And, of course, the market boom was still on. The newscasts were full of that, too. He had started worrying about if a bust came; now he was worrying about what would happen when it did. Another good reason for wanting to get to Koshchei and getting a hypership built; when the bust came, he and his father would want one, very badly.
In any case, it was time to begin getting an expedition ready for Barathrum Spaceport. Quite a few of the new companies had large contragravity craft, and the nascent Planetary Air Navy was approaching a state of being. He wanted to get out there before anybody else did.
Maybe if they got the hypership built soon enough, it would start a second, sound boom that would cushion the crash of the present speculative market when it came, as come it must.
He talked to Klem Zareff about borrowing a couple of the eighty-foot gunboats. Zareff’s attitude