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  BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY JOHN RUSSELL FEARN

  1,000-Year Voyage: A Science Fiction Novel

  Black Maria, M.A.: A Classic Crime Novel

  The Crimson Rambler: A Crime Novel

  Don’t Touch Me: A Crime Novel

  Dynasty of the Small: Classic Science Fiction Stories

  The Empty Coffins: A Mystery of Horror

  The Fourth Door: A Mystery Novel

  From Afar: A Science Fiction Mystery

  The G-Bomb: A Science Fiction Novel

  Here and Now: A Science Fiction Novel

  Into the Unknown: A Science Fiction Tale

  Last Conflict: Classic Science Fiction Stories

  The Man from Hell: Classic Science Fiction Stories

  The Man Who Was Not: A Crime Novel

  One Way Out: A Crime Novel (with Philip Harbottle)

  Pattern of Murder: A Classic Crime Novel

  Reflected Glory: A Dr. Castle Classic Crime Novel

  Robbery Without Violence: Two Science Fiction Crime Stories

  Rule of the Brains: Classic Science Fiction Stories

  Shattering Glass: A Crime Novel

  The Silvered Cage: A Scientific Murder Mystery

  Slaves of Ijax: A Science Fiction Novel

  Something from Mercury: Classic Science Fiction Stories

  The Space Warp: A Science Fiction Novel

  The Time Trap: A Science Fiction Novel

  Vision Sinister: A Scientific Detective Thriller

  What Happened to Hammond? A Scientific Mystery

  Within That Room!: A Classic Crime Novel

  RULE OF THE BRAINS

  CLASSIC SCIENCE

  FICTION STORIES

  JOHN RUSSELL FEARN

  Edited by Philip Harbottle

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 1934, 1938, 1941 by John Russell Fearn

  Copyright © 1970 by Carrie Fearn

  Copyright © 2002, 2005, 2012 by Philip Harbottle

  Published by Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  DEDICATION

  For Dave Gibson

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  These stories were previously published individually as follows, and are reprinted by permission of the author’s estate and his agent, Cosmos Literary Agency.

  “Rule of the Brains” was first published in Vision of Tomorrow #11, August 1970. Copyright © 1970 by Carrie Fearn; Copyright © 2012 by Philip Harbottle.

  “He Never Slept” was first published in Astounding Stories, June 1934. Copyright © 1934 by John Russell Fearn; Copyright © 2012 by Philip Harbottle.

  “Mystery of the Martian Pendulum” (with Raymond A. Palmer) was first published in Amazing Stories, October 1941. Copyright © 1941 by John Russell Fearn and Raymond A. Palmer; Copyright © 2005 by Philip Harbottle

  “The Mental Ultimate” was first published in Astounding Stories, February 1938. Copyright © 1938 by John Russell Fearn; Copyright © 2002 by Philip Harbottle.

  RULE OF THE BRAINS

  CHAPTER 1

  The machine-room of the Central Power House was droning to the current of infinite energy. It was the sweet, bass hum of inexhaustible atomic power, leashed by man. It was the song of mighty engines, which carried perpetual energy to the heart of the giant city, capital of the world.

  As Chief Overseer Sherman Clarke went on his usual morning round, he glanced at each highly polished monster with the eye of familiarity. For fifteen years he had made his circuit of the machinery at exactly the same time. For fifteen years he had never seen as much as a milliampere of variation on the power-gauges. For fifteen years he had never seen even a hint of a breakdown. For fifteen years he—

  It was becoming intolerable! Always the same men and women, dressed in their spotless overalls, standing or sitting before their completely foolproof switchboards.... Sherman Clarke knew exactly what each would say as he paused at their machine for the daily report.

  “Everything O.K., sir.”

  He was sick of the very words, wearied with the sight of almost expressionless faces. Every man or woman looked the same—calm, impersonal. A total lack of emotion born of scientifically nurtured bodies and brains. Never a gleam of inspiration in the eyes, a spark of sudden humour—nothing but calm, methodical, unvarying efficiency.

  Preoccupied with his troubled thoughts, Sherman Clarke continued on his way down the long central aisle between the machines. Eyes followed him, but without interest. He was as familiar as the machines themselves. In stature he was a big man, lumbering in his walk, and with shoulders broad enough to bear the responsibility he carried. A casual observer would have placed him as generous and easygoing—but the more thoughtful would have noticed that his face was ruggedly strong, to the point of ugliness. His firm, powerful mouth was uncommon among the flaccid, pale-faced scientists who tended the city’s heart.

  Sherman Clarke was uncommon in many ways. He looked like a living dynamo in the midst of sleepwalkers. Nobody had ever seen that apathetic look of resignation in his grey eyes: he always looked as if he were battling with inner thoughts...as in truth he was. A conflict had long been raging within him, and it was about due to explode.

  Presently he paused before the great shining belly of one of the machines and glanced up at the figure in overalls leaning against the guardrail.

  “Everything O.K., sir,” the man said, seeing Clarke’s unruly black hair below him. “Here’s the record chart.”

  Clarke took it and examined the notations.

  “From the writing, Turner, I imagine that you would have made a very good doctor,” he observed drily, glancing up. “You once made application to be one, didn’t you?”

  Boyd Turner nodded. “Yes, sir, and I studied hard enough to have been able to take Certificate A in surgery—but what use is that in a world where accidents or ill health are as rare as a collision between two stars? I was young, then. As soon as I saw I was wasting my time, I applied to the Appointments Bureau for a position, and they put me here.”

  The young man’s keen, high-cheekboned face was shocked for a moment out of its calmness into bitterness as he uttered the last words.

  “A first-class surgeon wasted, eh?” Clarke sympathised.

  Turner stared reflectively into the droning distances. “Well, not quite that; I have my degrees.... But there it is! With every comfort found by the State, and perfect health, I should be satisfied.”

  “Damned waste!” Clarke muttered angrily.

  He walked on again, leaving Boyd Turner looking after him in some surprise. And within Clarke the smouldering embers of his inner conflict were fanning into brightest flame.

  He paused again at the Atomic Force Transformer, an immense four-purpose plant feeding the engines of light, power, traffic, and weather control. It was in fact the master-engine. Here, pacing the metal gridded balcony running round the switchboards, were two men and two women, their faces entirely inscrutable.

  “Tell me something,” Clarke asked, as he took the report handed down to him; “do you four enjoy your work?”

  The question startled them for a moment, then one of the women—a dark-haired, thoughtful type with cleanly cut features—answered slowly.

  “It’s hardly a question of enjoying a thing, Mr. Clarke, when you’ve been ordered to do it. I’d much rather be in the nursing profession, but I’m not allowed to be. Nobody seems to need a nurse. And besides,” the woman went on wistfully, “I suppose I’m just chasing a shadow. I don’t need to do the thing I like. After all, I have security.”

  “Lethargy—mental stagnation,” Clarke muttered, frowning to himself. Then he looked at the woman’s companions. “What about you three? Have you ever had any ambition?”

/>   “Architect,” one of the men said seriously.

  “Writer,” the other woman answered. “Only there’s nothing to write about. The basic concern of any writer is the human condition, but hatred, jealousy, and so forth died when the Scientific Age came in after the War.”

  “But surely there must be something to write about, even yet?” Clarke reflected.

  The woman shook her blonde head. “With the basic emotions reduced to one common level by the hand of science?” The woman’s blue eyes reflected profound doubt. “No, Mr. Clarke. Writing—indeed, anything at all which calls for a creative imagination—has no place in a world which believes it has achieved perfection.”

  There was silence at that, then the remaining man spoke.

  “I don’t feel as badly as the others, perhaps....” He was a sharp-nosed individual with rather less of the usual air of complacency about him. “I’m an engineer and a physicist as well, so machines are just part of my life. Of course I’d prefer to carry out research instead of just play about with switches on this board...but where’s the incentive?”

  “So if you had the chance,” Clarke said, “you would much prefer to do things your own way? All of you?”

  They nodded slowly, then the dark woman gave her tired smile.

  “But why should we? We’ve got everything we need already!”

  “Everywhere the same thing!”

  Clarke seemed to be talking partly to himself; then with a sudden convulsive effort he tightened his big fist and crushed the report in his palm. He turned and went striding off down the centre aisle. All eyes followed him as he went—eyes that for once held surprise. It was unusual for him to hurry, unusual for him to crash a report so savagely that the head office would never be able to read it.

  “Stagnation! Genius going to waste! A city so perfect that nothing ever happens! What kind of life is that for a human being?” Clarke’s thoughts were bitter.

  At the end of the long aisle he stopped and looked through the gigantic window on to the city. It lay in all its grey and gleaming splendour, a symphony of slender towers and massive buildings. The metal shone with the iridescence of satin in the morning sunshine—Monolite, the wonder metal, even more endurable and tractable in manufacture than plastic compound.

  Clarke looked down on the orderly streets with the dots of vehicles moving to and fro; then his eyes rose to the loftily perched pedestrian ways, to the even higher mono-rail tracks, and finally to the great rooftop parking spaces for aircraft. As he watched, a giant airliner crept across the blue sky like a silver shuttle.

  Major City was the acknowledged capital of the world in this year of 2068. It housed commerce, power, and wealth. In it dwelt the Governing Party under the Presidency of one man, Luther Nolan, who was virtually controller of the world.... The city had perfection and scientific achievement embodied in every symmetrical line. And here in this giant power house was the heart of it all—humming and droning, manned by human beings in whom ambition was utterly strangled....

  That strange look of conflict crossed Sherman Clarke’s face again. Finally he looked once more at the city, then behind him at the monsters, which fed it its lifeblood. Suddenly his thoughts came into focus.

  Wheeling round, he strode back down the aisle and stopped when he came to the huge, four-purpose machine.

  Grimly he climbed the ladder up to the balcony where the men and women were working. He pushed past them with the fierceness born of intense purpose and seized hold of the big knife-switch, which controlled the main source of power.

  Breathing hard, he dragged it free of the imprisoning contact blades.

  Instantly the steady rhythm that had pervaded the powerhouse since its inception began to whine lower and lower down the scale until it faded into an awesome silence.

  Flywheels circled aimlessly to a standstill; power-needles sank gently to zero.

  Then came an excited babble of voices and with it the violent ringing of the alarm bells.

  “What the devil have you done?”

  The would-be architect seized Clarke’s arm fiercely, but he found himself whirled back against the rail by unexpectedly strong muscles.

  “Keep away from me!” Clarke ordered, his eyes watching the quartet intently. “Keep away—at least until you have heard me out.”

  He was obeyed because nobody knew exactly how to handle the situation. Clarke turned and gazed below on to the workers who had come surging forward and were now looking up at him.

  “All right, I’ve stopped the machines!” he cried suddenly, and his powerful voice carried even over the din of the alarm bells. “I’ve stopped them for our own good! I’d smash them too, if that were possible. Why? Because they have destroyed our initiative and individuality—!”

  “He’s a revolutionary!” somebody shouted.

  “No, my friend—I’m an ordinary man, but I didn’t go to sleep like the rest of you!” Clarke’s voice took on a fierce compulsion. “Look at yourselves! Rotting away, your minds in chains—”

  Clarke stopped suddenly as in the distance the great sliding doors opened and a small army of uniformed officials came hurrying in. Within minutes they had crossed the vast space, then they pushed their way through the narrow gangway the workers made for them.

  “Hey, you!” Their leader stood glaring up at Clarke. “What’s going on here? The power and light has failed throughout the city! You’re the Overseer, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” Clarke agreed calmly. “And I know light and power have failed. I pulled out the main switch!”

  The leader stared incredulously for a moment as the meaning of the words sank in.

  “Have you gone mad?” he shouted. “Everything is at a standstill! The President will want to see you immediately.”

  For a moment or two Clarke looked at the faces of the other workers. Most of them were thoughtful, as they were evidently weighing up the few brief truths he had managed to give them.... Abruptly he turned and slammed the power level back into position again. A mounting whine spread through the immense hall.

  “That’s better,” the official said, clearly relieved. “Now you had better come with us and explain yourself. This will probably cost you your job.”

  “Perhaps it will have been worth the trouble,” Clarke responded drily; then, after a final glance at the men and women returning to their posts, he descended from the balcony and joined the group of officials below.

  CHAPTER 2

  From the power house, he was taken by a fast official car along the private vehicular track to the city’s centre, and finally into the great building within which lay the President’s chambers and all Government authority.

  Though he had never met the President, Clarke was at least familiar with the building. He was conducted through the great hallway where massive monolite pillars supported the transparent roof. Light and gleaming metal was everywhere. Upon the distant walls were maps of every part of the world, executed in relief and cunningly lighted from behind.

  From the hallway one corridor led direct to the President’s quarters. Before he reached it, however, Clarke found himself facing an armed guard. Ordered to halt, he had to wait patiently whilst electric eyes and X-rays searched him. Finally, divested of everything save his overalls, he was permitted to finish the journey down the long corridor alone. He came to a monolite door of unusual thickness, studded with great rivets of polished copper. In the centre of the door was the world crest—a globe held in one strong hand.

  A slide moved back in the door centre. Television, Clarke guessed, transmitting his image back to the controlling desk within. A pause, then the heavy door opened silently, to close again the moment he had stepped beyond it.

  The President’s office was immense. The President himself sat at his desk, the big window behind him casting him into a partial silhouette. Clarke moved slowly towards him, trying to avoid making a noise as he crossed the highly polished metallic floor. When at last he reached the broad desk, he sto
od waiting until Luther Nolan laid aside his pen and sat back in his padded chair.

  Looking directly into those searching grey eyes, Clarke understood why this man controlled the affairs of the world. He conveyed an impression of resoluteness. Mental and physical power were embodied in the sharply featured face and heavy shoulders. Wiry grey hair swept back from an expansive brow. But, if one looked closely, as Clarke, did, there were little seams and lines noticeable about the strong mouth, and at the corners of the eyes. Worry and responsibility had left their mark, even in this city where perfection had been achieved.

  “Sit down, Mr. Clarke...,” the President motioned to a chair.

  Inwardly surprised, Clarke did so. He had anticipated anger, an outburst against his action in the power house. He had expected also to be referred to by his census number. Instead, there was composure and politeness.

  “Are you unwell, Mr. Clarke?”

  Clarke looked back into the impersonal grey eyes.

  “Unwell, sir?” he repeated. “That isn’t possible nowadays.”

  “Then how do you explain the failure of the city’s light and power for exactly eight and a quarter minutes this morning?”

  Clarke compressed his lips. He could now detect the hard-cutting edge behind the pleasant voice.

  “I did it deliberately, sir!”

  “Deliberately?” the President was genuinely surprised. “You realise the gravity of your statement?”

  “I do, sir—yes.”

  Silence; the President was momentarily off-guard. For a man to come in and admit that he had deliberately endangered the city was unheard of. It demanded delicate treatment.

  “You are a sensible man, Mr. Clarke,” Luther Nolan resumed, his eyes searching Clarke’s face as he leaned across the desk. “And a highly efficient one, otherwise you would not occupy the position you do. For that reason I presume you had a motive for your astonishing action?”

  “The whole thing is really very simple. I shut off the power as a warning to you and your Governing Advisers that we workers in the Power Room can paralyze the city at will.”