Frank Diacono closed the file cabinet and picked up his office phone in mid-ring. "Diacono," he said.
"Frank, this is Bill. Just wanted to remind you about this evening."
"Don't worry, Bill, I won't forget—not with Sharon fixing lasagna."
"Uh, I'm not sure about the lasagna, Frank. She was thinking maybe she'd have gefilte fish instead."
"Gefilte fish? What's gefilte fish?"
"Damned if I know."
Diacono waited a beat. "Bill, you know it's not okay to put me on like that," he said, "a poor dumb dago jock like me." He went into his Mafia mobster impression. "I got friends that would be offended, you know? One short phone call to Vegas..."
"Gee, Frank, I forgot. I didn't mean to offend you. My profuse apologies."
"Profuse ain't enough, Bill. They got to be abject, too. Eh? And never forget the Mafia."
"You've got it, Mr. Diacono, sir. And lasagna it will be. I'll get on the hotline to Sharon right away."
"Seven o'clock?"
"Right. Oh, and Frank: Did you have a chance to read that story I wanted you to read?"
"Last night, before I went to bed."
"Good. Don't forget to bring the magazine with you. It's a collector's item."
"I put it on my dashboard this morning."
When they'd hung up, Diacono looked at his watch and decided to take a break. He went to the coffee room and poured his pint mug full, dropping a quarter into the money can, then took the coffee back to his office. He didn't, at the moment, feel like sitting around talking to whoever might turn up.
The magazine that Bill Van Wyk had loaned him was Galaxy Science Fiction for March 1952. Diacono had enjoyed SF novels since he'd been a kid, and frequently picked up one of the magazines as well. But Bill Van Wyk had shelves and shelves of science fiction paperbacks and magazines going back for decades. Fortunately, Bill could read a novel in under two hours; otherwise, he'd never get anything else done. Occasionally he'd push a book on Frank; he knew what Diacono would enjoy.
But the story he'd wanted Frank to read in the old Galaxy was not the kind Diacono liked, and Van Wyk must have known it. It was good—excellent, actually—but Diacono had more than once voiced a distaste for downers. And "The Year of the Jackpot" was definitely a downer—characters you cared about, a powerful concept, very well written, but a terrible ending.
The basic story premise was that lots of things in the world go in cycles, like weather and insects and diseases and violence, just for starters. The human craziness cycle had been important in the story. And when you got a lot of cycles peaking together, according to the story, they somehow reinforced each other so that they peaked higher than usual. In "The Year of the Jackpot," a whole lot of cycles all peaked at once, including the sunspot cycle, and then the sun went nova.
That was bad enough, but what was worst about the story—what bothered Diacono most—was the hero's premise that some cycles, at least, had no antecedent cause, but were a cause unto themselves. People explained such cycles, gave what they thought of as reasons, but the explanations seemed to be baloney, because if you attacked the supposed causes, the effects happened anyway.
Diacono was a jock, but he also had an IQ of 138, a lot of human sensitivity, and he was rational, so that last premise bothered him. It bothered him even after he reminded himself that it was just a story, the product of one man's imagination. And it still bothered him twelve hours after he'd finished reading it.
Because it bothered him so much, he might have resented Bill's getting him to read it, except that he knew Van Wyk: they were close friends. Bill wouldn't have asked him to read it just to annoy him. There was something behind the request that he'd probably find out about tonight.
The story's hero, Potiphar Breen, resembled Bill Van Wyk in one respect: Both were mathematicians specializing in statistical analysis. Bill Van Wyk had the kind of "home" computer that few college professors could afford. He'd come into an inheritance that allowed him to send his kids to Cal Tech and Oberlin. Playing with his computer had become an even bigger hobby for Van Wyk now than reading science fiction.
There was probably a connection, Frank decided, between Bill's interest in statistical analysis and his asking him to read the old Heinlein story.
Diacono shook the matter off and opened the folder on the Cedar City High School football team, in Utah. There were a couple of seniors there who looked like they could make it in the Big Sky Conference.
It was a beautiful January night in Flagstaff, Arizona. As Diacono got out of his pickup in front of Van Wyk's, he could see the towering triangle of Agassiz Peak glowing white in the moonlight, maybe five straight-line miles north and a mile higher than where he stood. A brisk winter wind made him shiver, and he thought of Humphrey Peak, screened from sight by the intervening Agassiz. If a person tried to spend tonight on top of Humphrey, he thought, he could the without the help of any unfriendly Indian god. It was cold enough here in town, a mile lower at 7,000 feet.
Bill Van Wyk answered the door chime. "Hey, Franco, come on in!" he said. He closed the door behind Diacono and helped him off with his jacket. "What'll you have to warm up on? The usual?" Bill asked as he hung the jacket in the entryway closet.
"Sounds good to me." Part of Diacono's attention was still on the mountain as they walked into the living room, where a couple was sitting.
"Do you guys know one another?" Van Wyk asked.
The man got off the sofa. "I don't believe so," he said. "I'm Dr. Justin R. Pingree, and this is my wife, Ursula."
Diacono wrapped his hand around Pingree's. Then Ursula extended hers, limp and moist. The thought occurred to him that an "Ursula" should be big, bold, and blonde, but this one was none of the three. Small and darkish, she came across as withdrawn. The wine glass beside her was empty. She wouldn't say much, he thought, but Pingree would probably talk freely and arrogantly. Flagstaff, Arizona was a relaxed, informal town, characterized as much by its huge sawmill and log yards as by its university. Faculty seldom introduced themselves as "doctor" there, certainly not in a casual domestic situation.
"I'm Frank Diacono," Frank answered. He plucked Simple Simon the Silly Savage from the room's largest chair and sat down, transferring the big Siamese cat to his lap. Simon wasn't having laps just then, and jumped down to disappear into the hallway.
"And what do you do, Mr.—what's your name again?" said Pingree.
"Diacono. Frank Diacono. I'm the defensive coordinator for the football team."
"I'd guessed something of the sort," Pingree said, "from your appearance. I'm associate professor of sociology. I'm afraid I'm not significantly informed on football." He sounded distinctly sniffy when he said it.
"Interesting," Frank said, and left it there.
Pingree looked guardedly at him through thick glasses. "Interesting? In what respect?"
"You're not interested in football, and I'm not interested in sociology."
Ordinarily, Frank Diacono was a mild man not given to antagonisms. He hadn't been even during his years as a linebacker in the National Football League. Violent, yes, but rarely antagonistic. He decided he might make an exception in Pingree's case.
"I didn't say I wasn't interested in football," Pingree enunciated. "I said I was not significantly informed on football."
"Sorry," Frank replied. "I didn't mean to put words in your mouth. I assumed that someone who was interested would be at least somewhat informed." He changed the subject. "Just what do you do in sociology?"
Van Wyk had come back into the room with a heavy glass containing Frank's drink. He'd overheard the conversation with Pingree and was eyeing Frank quizzically.
Smirk, you bastard, thought Diacono. Inviting me over with a turkey like this. From somewhere the thought occurred to him, however unreasonable, that Pingree's presence too might have something to do with "The Year of the Jackpot."
Van Wyk gave Frank his drink and sat down, ignoring Ursula Pingree's empty glass, and took over the conversation as if to avoid a Pingree lecture.
"I'm glad you wanted the usual, Frank," he said. "Justin thinks poorly of people who drink strange mixtures, but with you and I both drinking them, he'll have someone besides me to analyze. His Ph.D. is in sociology but his bachelor's and master's were in psych." He turned to Pingree and gestured at Frank's drink. "Aberdeen screwdriver," he said.
Pingree looked a bit uncertainly at Van Wyk. "And what is an Aberdeen screwdriver?"
"Scotch and orange juice." Van Wyk held up his own glass. "This is a Harlan County screwdriver. Kentucky whiskey and orange juice. I also serve Havana screwdrivers, if you'd like to try one—orange juice with rum."
Pingree was looking at his host with a carefully neutral expression, and Diacono realized the man had little if any sense of humor. Behind those thick lenses he was trying to figure out what significance might be hidden in Van Wyk's joking.
"Sharon says to tell you we'll eat in five minutes," Van Wyk went on.
Diacono glanced at Ursula Pingree. She sat somewhat birdlike, but blank, showing no hint of interest and little awareness of what was said. The times he'd come here with Candace, she'd gone into the kitchen to help Sharon, or at least to keep her company. Even declining with cancer, Candace had shown much more life than Ursula.
"Five minutes?" he said. "I guess I can hold out for five minutes." He changed the subject. "Your Heinlein story's out in my pickup. I forgot to bring it in."
Van Wyk nodded. "How about you, Justin? Did you read it?"
"Yes. Very interesting, although some of the xeroxing was faint."
"Interesting how?" Van Wyk asked. "What did you find interesting about it?"
"Well, clearly the author is not only an abysmal pessimist, but also regards mankind as a single psyche, in the Jungian sense. The single psyche—mankind in the story—has a death wish, and all the individual humans on earth must then perform in a manner contributive to that death wish, regardless of what their own individual purposes might be. The author carries it to ridiculous extremes, of course, as one might expect of a science fiction writer."
Frank could hardly believe the man had said it. My god! he thought, the ass actually thinks that a novelist necessarily believes what he writes!
"How about you, Frank?" Bill said. "What did you think of it?"
"I think Heinlein woke up one morning and decided to write a pessimistic story for a change, just to show people he could do it." Diacono glanced at Pingree, then turned back to Van Wyk. "Then he shifted the high-powered Heinlein creative mind into gear and wrote 'Jackpot.' What do you think?"
Sharon Van Wyk stood in the door. "I think," she said, "that you should all come into the dining room and sit down. Except Bill, who is herewith appointed to help serve the guests."
The food was excellent; Frank always found it so at the Van Wyks'. Ursula Pingree quickly finished her second (or third?) glass of wine, which seemed a little much for her. At any rate, Frank, sitting on her left, felt her hand on his leg, groping. Frank's fingers were very strong. Hiding his surprise, he reached across his lap with his left hand and snapped the back of her hand with a strong fillip by his index finger. She withdrew her hand promptly.
Shortly, Bill refilled the woman's glass. When they were done with dessert, they all went into the living room.
"Bill," Diacono said, "when are you going to tell us why you wanted Dr. Pingree and me to read 'Jackpot?' "
"Hmm. Right now is a good time, I guess." Van Wyk paused, looking inward as if for the proper place to start. "I read 'Year of the Jackpot' myself for the first time when I was twelve years old, and never forgot it. And not too long after that I read Asimov's Foundation trilogy. I was already interested in math; between them, they got me interested in statistical analysis, so I majored in math at Michigan State and took my Ph.D. in statistics at Duke.
"Like Potiphar Breen in the story, I compile data on various obscure and not so obscure fields, activities, and phenomena. It doesn't take that much time, with my computer and all the data sources I can access with it.
"Then, of course, I analyze it, and synthesize and test various indexes." Van Wyk wasn't smiling now. "And basically, what I've been running into the last couple of years is a lot like what the fictional Potiphar was running into in 'Jackpot.' "
Frank and Pingree were both staring at Van Wyk; Frank wasn't entirely sure his friend was serious. Frank looked at Sharon Van Wyk then, and she seemed as serious as her husband; he decided that Bill wasn't putting them on.
"Just a moment," said Pingree. "Are you predicting that the sun is going to blow up and kill us all?"
"I suppose that's an outside possibility," Van Wyk replied. "But what's a lot more likely is that the human race will blow itself up without celestial help."
For some reason, Diacono's eyes shifted to Ursula Pingree. For the first time, she showed an interest in something said—a furtive, frightened interest. Then she became aware of his eyes and quickly turned to her latest drink.
"Let me show you," Van Wyk went on, and getting up, led the other two men down the hall to his study. Ursula didn't follow. Sharon, presumably out of courtesy to Ursula, stayed behind, too. She was undoubtedly familiar with what they were going to see anyway.
Frank knew little about statistical analysis, and wondered if Pingree knew any more than he did. Bill sat down at the computer keyboard and began to touch keys. He didn't try to explain what came up on the CRT; the long chart that unfurled from the buzzing printer was what he showed them.
Heinlein revisited! Diacono thought, as Van Wyk explained the symbols and curves. TV and radio and politicians had displayed and stressed the bad, the ugly, and the calamitous for as long as Diacono could remember—the garish, the grotesque, the "newsworthy." The closest such people came to an objective overview were generalities phrased to support their own prejudices.
What Bill had here looked like the missing overview.
"Actually," he was saying, "there are some interesting differences between what I've got here and what Heinlein created for 'Jackpot.' For example, the cycles are pretty irregular, most of them. But it looks to me as if now, at least, they're responding to some exterior influence, some master factor I don't know about." He pointed. "The cycles are definitely beginning to coincide, getting in phase. And they're either reinforcing each other or they're responding independently to an increase in the master factor.
"For several years, things were definitely improving, you know. Not just economically; crime statistics were going down, for one thing, and while there still were plenty of loonies—well-publicized, of course—even the insanity statistics were falling.
"Then, about three years ago, there was a reversal in some of them, with others following not too far behind." His finger moved over the last year's curves. "And the rate of deterioration has been accelerating."
"Well," Diacono said, "and a merry Christmas to you, too."
"William," said Pingree, "I wouldn't be concerned about it."
"Why?" asked Van Wyk, turning to the sociologist. "Why wouldn't you be concerned about it?"
"Because," Pingree replied, "statistical analyses of unconstrained human activities are subject to too many factors and assumptions—for example, nonrepresentative samples and the dependence of what are assumed to be independent variables. In statistical analysis, if one cannot rationalize the results, they are probably an artifact."
Diacono grunted. "Following that reasoning, if gases are coming out of the sewer, and they really smell bad, and people are passing out around you and falling on the ground, it doesn't mean anything until you've got a chemical analysis of the fumes."
Pingree looked resentfully at Diacono, but if he intended to say anything, it was forestalled by the harsh sound of vomiting from down the hall. Pingree turned irritatedly in that direction. "I was afraid of that," he said drily. "My wife has overindulged."
They followed him to the living room, where Ursula was on her hands and knees. Sharon was emerging grimly from the kitchen with a roll of paper towels. Pingree pulled his wife to her feet without speaking to her and wiped her face roughly with one of the towels. He didn't even let her go to the bathroom to wash her face and mouth, simply excused himself and her, put her coat over her sagging shoulders, and rushed her out of the house.
"And a happy new year to you and yours," Diacono said after them when the door had closed. Bill and Sharon were still cleaning the carpet with towels. "Can I help you guys?" he asked. "Or would you prefer me to leave?"
"Stay," said Sharon. "I'd like to salvage the rest of the evening, and I've got some fresh coffee started." She got up and put out a hand to Bill. "Give me your towels; this is good enough for now. I'll spray with deodorizer if I need to, and shampoo it in the morning."
She went into the kitchen. The two men sat down.
"So why the seminar on the screwed-up state of the world?" Frank asked. "I presume it's the whole world, judging from the news lately." A major revolt in the Turkmen S.S.R., ruthlessly put down by the Red Army; intensified terrorism in Northern Ireland; a Shiite jihad in the Middle East; and the renewal of old secessionist movements, complete with bombs, in Scotland and Quebec—those were some of what Diacono had in mind. They fitted the trends of Van Wyk's mostly American data.
Van Wyk nodded glumly. "Basically it's hard to know something like that and not tell at least a few people. And when that Methodist preacher from San Diego deliberately crashed his plane into the stadium crowd at the Chargers-Bengals playoff game last month, to punish them for breaking the sabbath..." He shrugged and spread his hands. "Besides, I know it sounds dumb, but I guess I hoped one of you would say something helpful."
"Such as?"
Van Wyk shook his head. "I don't know. Pingree's a sociologist. I suppose I hoped he'd say something like, 'Oh, yes, G.S. Heartburn analyzed this in a recent Journal of Sociology. It should reverse within one to three months, and things will improve rapidly thereafter.' "
"That's about as likely as a Baptist getting elected Pope," Diacono replied, "and if he had, I wouldn't believe him. Coaching is more of a science than sociology is. You're way ahead of people like Pingree, and you're an amateur." He fixed his friend with his eyes. "So now the other part of my question: Why did you include me in?"
Unexpectedly, ruefully, Van Wyk grinned. "Damned if I know. Maybe because you're my friend. Anyhow, it seemed like the right thing to do. Still does. I'm a mathematician, not a scientist; it's all right for me to act on intuition."
Diacono nodded thoughtfully as Sharon returned and sat down by her husband. "Insanity is insanity," Frank said. "Try to find the logic in insanity and it'll suck you right in. I don't know if that's apropos of anything, or where it came from," he added, "but it sounds profound as hell."
He looked at Sharon. "And speaking of crazy, I like you guys, even your old man. If you'll let me sleep in your spare room tonight, I'd like to sit here and talk for a while, and drink too much to drive home. I promise not to puke on your carpet, and I may even tell you what happened to me last summer on Humphrey Peak."