COPYRIGHT INFO
The Scheme of Things is copyright © 1966 by Lester del Rey.
Cover art © Alexander Potapov / Fotolia.
Cover design by John Betancourt.
This edition copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press, LLC.
All rights reserved.
ALSO BY LESTER DEL REY FROM WILDSIDE PRESS
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
The Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack #5: Lester del Rey
NOVELS
Day of the Giants
The Scheme of Things
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
Welcome to our third Lester del Rey release! (The first was The Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack #5: Lester del Rey; the second was Day of the Giants. They are both currently available from ebook stores everywhere.)
Wildside Press has been publishing great science fiction and fantasy since 1987. We have continued to grow and expand into many other genres, until today we are one of the largest “small presses” in the world.
Over the years, we have purchased the estates of a number of classic authors, including Lester del Rey, Mack Reynolds, Carl Jacobi, Reginald Bretnor, and others. We are working hard to digitize all their works and bring them out in new ebook editions. (And sometimes we work with other publishers to fascilitate the process.)
If you enjoy the stories of Lester del Rey, watch for additional new releases coming soon. (Many more are on the way!)
—John Betancourt
Publisher, Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidepress.com
A NOTE ABOUT TYPOS
Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.
If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at [email protected] or use the Wildside Press message boards.
THE SCHEME OF THINGS
by Lester Del Ray
CHAPTER 1
It began when the class disappeared.
But that wasn’t the most frightening part of it. Things were further complicated by what appeared in its place. Something did appear. But Mike Strong, Assistant Professor of Logic at Kane University, wasn’t sure what it was. It was no lapse into temporary unconsciousness like a maiden with the vapors; nothing like that. All the bright eager young faces were there; then they were gone; along with all the bored uninterested young faces too, for that matter; and the seats and the desks and the classroom itself.
Gone—and in their place, a thing of contradictions and paradoxes—real and unreal; both vague and sharply outlined; frightening, but at the same time, strangely exhilarating.
The lapse was brief. At least it seemed so to Mike. The class was still present when he “returned” to his desk, although it was in the process of breaking up, his students moving toward the door.
He checked them sharply. “Who dismissed you?”
They paused to stare blankly, Lathan Mott finally speaking for them. Mott, an indifferent student but a promising fugitive from some high school athletic field, regarded Mike as though he’d just called a football signal in Congolese.
“You did,” Mott said.
The moment had embarrassing possibilities. The class continued to regard Mike curiously as he strove for a face-saving rejoinder. He almost blurted, I did? But then he caught himself. He spoke icily.
“But I didn’t suggest charging out of here like a herd of elephants.”
They pondered this, looked at each other with innocent, Who, me? expressions on their faces. Then they charged out of the classroom like a herd of elephants.
Mike was happy to see them go. He needed time to pull himself together. More frightened than excited now, he searched for comparatives and found none. But the vagueness of his lapse clarified slightly.
However, the clarification was even more frightening. Lathan Mott. He recalled seeing Lathan during the interlude he now refused to concede as a dream. Lathan had been stripped to the waist. There had been blood on his chest and a look of grim defiance on his face. As Mike stood watching, an observer now where he had been a participant before, he saw Lathan Mott pick up a submachine gun and fire a burst into what had been previously clear to Mike but was now a fog. A scream of death and agony came out of the fog and then Mike lost the whole thing and he was again sitting at his desk.
A man with a mental cancer?
The thought came to him as he got up and strode out of the classroom.
Outside, he paused on the walk and looked out across the campus. The logical conclusion—You’re cracking up—came again. He struggled with it, trying to attach himself to the quiet, well-ordered reality around him. Kane University was functioning smoothly in a mathematically precise world. All he had to do was to hang on tight and let the world spin the nonsense out of his skull.
He forced a quiet smile. The crazy image of blonde, broad-shouldered young Lathan Mott wanted to come back and reestablish itself, but Mike drove it away. Slamming his mental door against it, he planned his evening—planned it like a newly released paraplegic shaping his first steps.
He would go home to his bachelor apartment on Faculty Row. He would have a drink. He would phone Donna. Simple, safe, satisfying. Anchoring his smile tighter, he went about it. But—
—he wasn’t phoning Donna. He was calling Vera to reassure her because it was already six o’clock and she wanted to get to the theater early to have it out with Vladimir Solonoff.
Vera was dressing when he got home and he kissed the classic curve of her neck. “Did you get some rest today, dear?”
Vera was in a dramatic mood. “Rest? Are you insane? How could I relax with that Russian slob waiting to walk all over my lines tonight?”
“Darling, I think perhaps you’re not asserting yourself. After all, you’re the star of ‘Far Bugles’ He wouldn’t dare use such tactics on Davis or Crawford.”
“You dare to mention those hams—”
“I’m sorry,” Mike said hastily. “But Solonoff—-”
“He’s so damnedably clever! He’ll fall over his own feet protesting innocence. Then he’ll go onstage and blow cigarette smoke all over me!”
“But Max is a good director. All you have to do is mention it to him and Max will clobber Solonoff. Your name on the marquee is the important one.”
Vera waved her arms dramatically. “You have such simple answers for everything. You sit in your plush office all day ordering people to fetch and carry. You have no concept of how I’ve fought and struggled to get where I am.”
This seemed a little irrelevant but Mike was indulgent. He loved Vera. He loved her flashing moods and quick changes. The sunshine and storm of her awed him. She was fire and ice. Her bursts of temperament were like the flashing of neon lights and he was the luckiest of men for having married her.
One of the columnists had quoted a former husband as having said, “A week with Vera Spain is far, far more precious than a lifetime with an ordinary woman.” Mike agreed.
“Darling,” he said, “I’ve let you handle this thing yourself, but now I think it’s time I took a hand. I’ll have a word with Solonoff tonight.”
Vera leaped up from