Final Weapon

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  FINAL WEAPON

  BY EVERETT B. COLE

  _Man has developed many a deadly weapon. Today, the weapon most effective in destroying a man's hopes and security is the file folder ... and that was the weapon Morely knew and loved. But there was something more potent to come._

  Illustrated by Leydenfrost

  District Leader Howard Morely leaned back in his seat, to glance down atthe bay. Idly, he allowed his gaze to wander over the expanse of waterbetween the two blunt points of land, then he looked back at theskeletonlike spire which jutted upward from the green hills he had justpassed over. He could remember when that ruin had been a support for oneof the world's great bridges.

  Now, a crumbling symbol of the past, it stubbornly resisted the attacksof the weather, as it had once resisted the far more powerful blasts ofexplosives. Obstinately, it pointed its rusty length skyward, to remindthe observer of bygone conflict--and more.

  Together with the tangled cables, dimly seen in the shoal water, theline of wreckage in the channel, and the weed-covered strip of tornconcrete which led through the hills, it testified to the arrival of theair age. Bridges, highways, and harbors alike had passed their day ofusefulness.

  Not far from the ruined bridge support, Morely could see the huge, wellmaintained intake of one of the chemical extraction plants. He shook hishead at the contrast.

  "That eyesore should be pulled down," he muttered. "Should have beenpulled down long ago. Suggested it in a report, but I suppose it nevergot to the Old Man. He depends on his staff too much. If I had theregion, I'd--"

  He shook his head. He was not the regional director--yet. Some day, theold director would retire. Then, Central Coordination would be examiningthe records of various district leaders, looking for a successor. Then--

  He shrugged and turned his attention to his piloting of the borrowedhelicopter. It was a clumsy machine, and he had to get in to RegionalHeadquarters in time for the morning conference. There would be no senseit getting involved in employee traffic--not if he could avoid it.

  The conference, his informant had told him, would be a little out of theordinary. It seemed that the Old Man had become somewhat irritated bythe excess privileges allowed in a few of the eastern districts. And hewas going to jack everyone up about it. After that would come the usualperiod of reports, and possibly a few special instructions. Some of theleaders would have pet projects to put forward, he knew. They alwaysdid. Morely smiled to himself. He'd have something to come up with, too.

  And this conference might put a crimp in Harwood's style. Morely hadcarefully worded his progress report to make contrast with the type ofreport that he knew would come from District One. George Harwood hadbeen allowing quite a few extra privileges to his people, stating thatit was good for morale. And, during the past couple of months, he'dseemed to be proving his point. Certainly, the production of theemployees from the peninsula had been climbing. Harwood, Morely decidedwould be the most logical person--after himself--for the region when theOld Man retired. In fact, for a time, it had looked as though thedirector of District One was going to be a dangerous rival.

  But this conference would change things. Morely smiled slowly as hethought of possible ways of shading the odds.

  He looked ahead. Commuters were streaming in from the peninsula now, tomake for the factory parking lots. His face tightened a little. Why, hewondered, had the Old Man decided to call the conference at this hour?He could have delayed a little, until commuter traffic was less heavy.He'd been a district leader once. And before that, under the oldgovernment, a field leader. He should know how annoying the employeeclasses could be. And to force his leaders to mingle with commutingemployees in heavy traffic!

  * * * * *

  For that matter, everyone seemed to be conspiring to make thingsuncomfortable today. Those heavy-handed mechanics in the district motorpool, for example. They'd failed him today. His own sleek machine, withits distinctive markings was still being repaired. And he'd been forcedto use this unmarked security patrol heli. The machine wasn't really toobad, of course. It had a superb motor, and it carried identificationlights and siren, which could be used if necessary. But it resembledsome lower-class citizen's family carryall. And, despite itsmodifications, it still handled like one. Morely grimaced and eased thewheel left a little. The helicopter swung in a slow arc.

  Helis were rising from the factory lots, to interlace with incomingships before joining with the great stream headed south. The nightworkers were heading for home. Morely hovered his machine for a moment,to watch the ships jockey for position, sometimes barely avoidingcollisions in the stream of traffic. He watched one ship, which edgedforward, stopped barely in time to avoid being hit, edged forward again,and finally managed to block traffic for a time while its inept driverfooled with the controls and finally got on course.

  "Quarrelsome, brawling fools," he muttered. "Even among themselves, theycan't get along."

  He looked around, noting that the air over the Administrative Group wascomparatively free of traffic. To be sure, he would have to cross thetraffic lines, but he could take the upper lanes, avoiding all butofficial traffic. A guard might challenge, but he could use hisidentifying lights. He wouldn't be halted. He corrected his course alittle, glanced at the altimeter, and put his ship into a climb.

  At length, he eased his ship over the parklike area over AdministrativeSquare and hovered over the parking entry. A light blinked on his dash,to tell him that all the official spaces were occupied. He grunted.

  "Wonder they couldn't leave a clear space in Official. They know I'mcoming in for conference."

  He moved the control wheel, allowing his ship to slide over to ashopping center parking slot, and hovered over the entry, debating. Hecould park here and take the sub-surface to Administrative, or he coulduse the surface lot just outside of the headquarters group. Of course,the director frowned on use of the surface lot, except in emergency. Theunderground lots were designated for all normal parking. Morely thoughtover the problem, ignoring the helis which hovered, waiting for him toclear the center of the landing area. Finally, his hand started for thethrottle. He would settle in the landing slot, let the guards shove hisheli to a space, and avoid any conflict with the director's ordersregarding the surface lot.

  * * * * *

  Suddenly, there was a sputtering roar. Someone had become impatient atthe delay. A small sports heli swept by, impellers reversed, and droppedrapidly toward the entry to the underground parking space. Morely's shiprocked a little in the air blast.

  For an instant, Morely felt a sharp pain which gnawed at the pit of hisstomach. His head was abruptly light, and his hand, apparently of itsown volition, closed over the throttle knob.

  This joy boy was overdue for a lesson.

  Morely measured the distance quickly, judging the instant when the otherpilot would have to repitch his impellers and halt his downward rush. Heallowed his own heavy ship to wallow earthward.

  Scant feet from ground surface, the sportster pilot flicked his pitchcontrol and pulled his throttle out for the brief burst of power whichwould allow him to drop gently to the landing platform.

  Morely grinned savagely as he saw the impellers below him change pitchand start to move faster. He twisted his own impellers to full pitch andpulled out the throttle for a sudden, roaring surge of power, then swungthe control column, jerking his ship up and away. As he steadied hisheli and cut power, he looked down.

  The powerful downblast had completely upset the sportster pilot'scalculations. The small ship, struck by the gale from above, had listedto the right and gone out of
control, grazing one of the heavy splintershutters at the side of the landing slot. The ship lay on its side,amidst the wreckage of its impellers.

  Morely flicked on his warning siren and lights, then feathered his ownimpellers, dropping his ship in free fall. He dropped to the grassy areaby the landing slot, ignoring the other ships which scattered likefrightened chickens, to give him room. At the last instant, he twistedthe impellers to full pitch again, pulled out the throttle for a moment,then slammed the lever to the closed position. His ship touched down onspringy turf, its landing gear settling gently to accept the weight. Aklaxon was sounding, and warning lights flashed from the landing slot,to warn ships away from an attempted landing.

  It would be a long time before the shiny, new sportster would be incondition to sweep into another parking area. And, after paying his fineand taking care of his extra duties, it would be an even longer timebefore the employee-pilot would have much business in the