Astounding Science Fiction (British Edition), April 1944 — page 53: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

GALLEGHER PLUS 51 “Turn the switch off,” Gallegher said. Narcissus obeyed. The valve snapped shut and the grooved wheel stopped turning. Other activity ceased instantly. The music died. The tentacles stretched out the window ~ stopped swirling, and shortened to their ~ normal inactive length. “Well, there’s apparently no end pro- duct,” Gallegher remarked. “It eats dirt and digests it completely. Ridiculous.” “Ts it?” “Sure. Dirt’s got elements in it. Oxygen, nitrogen—there’s granite under New York, so there’s aluminum, sodium, silicon—lots of things. No sort of physical or chemical change could explain this.” “You mean something ought to come out of the machine?” “Yes,” Gallegher said. “In a _ word, exactly. I'd feel a lot better if something did. Even mud.” . “Music comes out of it,” Narcissus pointed out. “If you can truthfully call that Squalling music.” “By no stretch of my imagination can I bring myself to consider that loathsome thought,” the scientist denied firmly. “Tl admit my subconscious is slightly nuts. But it’s got logic, in a mad sort of way. It wouldn’t build a machine to convert dirt into music, even if such a thing’s possible.” “But it doesn’t do anything else, does it?” “No. Ah. Hm-m-m. I wonder what Hop- per asked me to make for him. He kept talking about factories and audiences.” “He'll be here soon,” Narcissus said. “Ask him.” Gallegher didn’t bother to reply. He thought of demanding more beer, rejected the idea, and instead used the liquor organ to mix himself a pick-me-up of several liqueurs. After that he went and sat on a generator which bore the conspicuous label of Monstro. Apparently dissatisfied, he changed his seat to a smaller generator named Bubbles. Gallegher always thought better atop Bubbles. The pick-me-up had oiled his brain, fuzzy with alcohol fumes. A machine without an end product—dirt vanishing into nothing- ness. Hm-m-m. Matter cannot disappear like a rabbit popping into a magician’s hat. It’s got to go somewhere. Energy? Apparently not. The machine didn’t manufacture energy. The cords and sockets showed that, on the contrary, it made use of electric power to operate. And so— What? Try it from another angle. Gallegher’s subconscious, Gallegher Plus, had built the device for some logical reason. The reason was supplied by his profit of thirty-three hundred credits. He’d been paid that sum, by three different people, to make—maybe —three different things. Which of them fitted the machine? — Look at it as an equation. Call clients a, b, and c. Call the purpose of the machine —not the machine itself, of course—x. Then a (or) b (or) c equals x. Not quite. The term a wouldn’t repre- sent Dell Hopper; it would symbolize what he wanted. And what he wanted must necessarily and logically be the purpose of the machine. Or the mysterious J. W., or the equally mysterious Fatty. Well, Fatty was a shade less enigmatic. Gallegher had a clue, for what it was worth. If J. W. was represented by b, Fatty would be c plus adipose tissue. Call adipose tissue t, and what did you get? Thirsty. Gallegher had more beer, distracting Nar- cissus from his posturing before the mirror. He drummed his heels against Bubbles, scowling, a lock of dark hair falling lankly over his eyes. Prison? Uh! No, there must be some other answer, somewhere. The DU stock, for example. Why had Gallegher Plus bought four thousand credits’ worth of the stuff when it was on the skids? If he could find the answer to that, it might help. For Gallegher Plus did nothing without purpose. What was Devices Un- limited, anyway? He tried the televisor Who’s Who in Manhattan. Luckily Devices was corporated within the State and had business offices here. A full-page ad flipped into view. DEVICES UNLIMITED WE DO EVERYTHING! Rep 5-1400-M. Well, Gallegher had the firm’s ‘visor number, which was something. As he began to call RED, a buzzer murmured, and Nar- cissus turned petulantly from the mirror and went off to answer the door. He returned in a moment with the bisonlike Mr. Hopper. “Sorry to be so long,’ Hopper rumbled. “My chauffeur went through a light, and a cop stopped us. I had to bawl the very devil out of him.” comiclooks C©