The Zap Gun

Squeakily, she said, "Martha Raines."

Febbs pointed to the next person in turn.

"Jason Gill."

"Harry Markison."

"Doreen Stapleton."

"Ed L. Jones." The last man, at the far end, spoke firmly. And that was that. In defiance of the law of Wes-bloc and its police agencies they knew one another by name.

Ironically, since the Emergency had passed, the UN-W Natsec Board now "allowed" them to enter the kremlin and officially participate in its meetings. And that's because individually, Febbs realized as he looked around the rickety table, each of us possesses nothing. Is nothing. And the Board knows it. But all six of us together—

Aloud he said commandingly, "Okay; let's begin. Every one of you when you walked through this door brought your component of that new weapon, that item 401 they call the Molecular Restriction-Beam Phase-Inverter. Right? I saw a paper bag or neutral, ordinary-looking plastic carton under everyone's arm. Correct?"

Each of the five concomodies facing him mumbled a yes, Mr. Febbs or nodded or both. In fact each had placed his package on the table, in plain sight, as a show of courage.

Febbs instructed in a sharp, emotion-laden voice, "Open them up. Let's see the contents!"

With shaking fingers and great trepidation, the paper bags and cartons were opened.

On the table rested the six components. When assembled (assuming that someone in this room could accomplish this) they formed the dread new Molecular Restriction-Beam Phase-Inverter.

Tapes of the tearwep in action at Lanferman Associates' huge subsurface proving-levels indicated that no defense against it existed. And the entire UN-W Natsec Board, including the six at-last-allowed-in concomodies, had solemnly viewed those tapes.

"Our task," Febbs declared, "of rebuilding these components back to form the original tearwep falls naturally onto myself. I personally shall take full responsibility. As you all know, the next formal meeting of the Board is one week from today. So we have less than seven days in which to reassemble the Molecular Restriction-Beam Phase-Inverter, item 401."

Jason Gill piped, "You want us to stick around while you put it back together, Mr. Febbs?"

"You may if you so desire," Febbs said.

Ed Jones said, "Can we offer suggestions? The reason I ask that is, see, my job in real life—I mean before I was a concomody—was standby electrician at G.E. in Detroit. So I know a little about electronics."

"You may offer suggestions," Febbs decided, after some thought. "I will permit it. But you understand our sacred pact. As a political organization we are to allow policy to be decided by our elected leader without bureaucratic, hampering-type restrictions. Correct?"

Everyone mumbled correct.

Febbs was that unhampered, unbureaucratically restricted, elected leader. Of their clandestine political revolutionary-type organization which (after long debate) had titled itself, menacingly, the BOCFDUTCRBASEBFIN, The Benefactors of Constitutional Freedoms Denied Under the Contemporary Rule By a Small Elite By Force If Necessary. Cell One.

Picking up his component and Ed Jones', Febbs seated himself and reached into the bin of brand-new tools with which at great cost the organization had provided itself. He brought out a long, slender, tapered, German-made screwdriver with autonomic clockwise or anti-clockwise rotation action (depending on which way you pressed the plastic handle) and began his work.

Reverently, the other five members of the organization watched.

An hour later Surley G. Febbs grunted sweatily, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief as he halted to take a breather, said, "This will take time. It isn't easy. But we're getting there."

Martha Raines said nervously, "I hope a roving, random police monitor doesn't happen to cruise by above-surface and pick up our thoughts."

Politely, Jones pointed and said, "Um, I believe that doodad there fits up against that template. See where those screw-holes are?"

"Conceivably so," Febbs said. "This brings me to something I intended to take up later. But since I'm pausing for a while I might as well say it to you all now." He glanced around at them to be sure he had their individual, undivided attention, and then spoke as authoritatively as possible. Given a man of his ability and knowledge this was very authoritative. "I want all of you comprising Cell One clear in your minds as to the exact type of socio-economic, pol-struc of society we shall install in place of the undemo-tyr by the privileged cog elite which now holds power."

"You tell 'em Febbs," Jones said encouragingly.

"Yeah," Jason Gill agreed. "Let's hear once again! I like this part, what happens after we run 'em out of office with this item 401."

With superlative calm, Febbs continued, "Everyone on the UN-W Natsec Board will of course be tried as war criminals. We've agreed on that."

"Yeah!"

"It is Article A in our Constitution. But as to the rest of the cogs, especially those Commie bastards in Peep-East that traitor General Nitz is so pally with. Like that Marshal Paponovich or whatever his name is. Well, like I've explained to you in our past secret meetings down here—"

"Right, Febbs!"

"—they're really going to get it. They're the worst. But mainly we have to seize—and I demand absolute obedience on this, because this is tactically crucial—we initially must gain control of the ENTIRE SUBSURFACE INSTALLATIONS OF LANFERMAN ASSOCIATES IN CALIFORNIA, because as we all know, it's from there the new weapons come. Like this 401 they stupidly turned over to us for—ha-ha—'plowsharing.' I mean, we don't want them to build any more of these."

Martha Raines asked timidly, "And what do we do after we, ah, seize Lanferman Associates?"

Febbs said, "Thereupon we then arrest their hired stooge, that Lars Powderdry, And then we compel him to start designing weapons for us."

Harry Markison, a middle-aged businessman with a certain amount of common sense, spoke up. "But the weapon by which we won what they are now calling 'The Big War' with—"

"Get to it, Markison."

"It, uh, wasn't designed by Mr. Lars, Incorporated. Originally it was some sort of maze invented by some non-cog toy-manufacturing outfit, Klug Enterprises. So—don't we have to beware that this Klug fella—"

"Listen," Febbs said quietly. "I'll tell you the real scoop on that. But now I'm busy."

He then picked up a small Swedish watchmaker's screwdriver and resumed the task of reassembling weapon 401. He ignored the other five concomodies. There was no more time for blabbing; work had to be done, if their blitz-swift coup again the cog elite was to be successful. And it would be.

Three hours later, with most of the components (in fact all except one fast, outlandish, goose-neck-squash-like geegaw) assembled ready for all systems go, with Febbs wet with perspiration and the other five concomodies out of their minds or bored or restless, depending on their natures, there sounded—shockingly, making the room suddenly deathly still—a knock at the door.

Laconically, Febbs grunted, "I'll handle this." From the tool bin he lifted a beautifully balanced Swiss chrome-steel hammer and walked slowly across the room, past the rigid, pale other five concomodies. He unbolted, unfastened, untied the triple-locked door, opened it a crack, peered out into the gloomy hall.

A spic-and-span-new shiny autonomic 'stant mail delivery robot stood there, waiting.

"Yes?" Febbs inquired.

The 'stant mail robot whirred, "Parcel for Mr. Surley Grant Febbs. Registered. Sign here if you are Mr. Febbs or if not Mr. Febbs then on line two instead." It presented a form, pen and flat surface of itself on which to scribble.

Laying down the hammer Febbs said, turning briefly to the other five concomodies, "It's okay. More tools we ordered, probably." He signed the form, and the autonomic 'stant mail delivery robot handed him a brown-paper-wrapped package, Febbs shut the door, stood shakily holding the package, then shrugged in courageous defiance. He walked unconcernedly back to where he had been sitting.