THE ULTIMATE QUEST
By Hal Annas
Man has evolved slowly, always
striving toward a nebulous goal
somewhere in his future. Will
he attain it—to regret it?...
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
December 1950
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Striding down the corridor on long thin legs, Art Fillmore mentallyglanced over the news and his wide brow puckered. "Scientists to awakentwentieth century man," the mental beam proclaimed. "Dark age to yielduntold volumes of ignorance."
Fillmore paused before the twelve-foot door, closed his eyes andconcentrated until he had achieved the proper attenuation, then enteredthe office without opening the door. The bald man in the recliningchair dropped his feet from the five-foot-high desk and sat up with astart.
"I wish you wouldn't do that, Art," he said nervously. "You know I'vegot the itch."
"Sorry," Fillmore apologized. "Wasn't thinking. Had my mind on myforthcoming wedding."
"Wedding?" The bald man's narrow mouth dropped open, revealing smallfragile teeth. "Why didn't you tell me? What does she look like?"
"Haven't seen her yet," Fillmore grinned. "Just mental images, andyou know how girls are when they project their own images. But she's amental pippin: seven feet eight or nine with a shape you dream about.Must weigh about eighty-two or three pounds."
"Too fat," the bald man grunted. "I never liked the short and fat type.Have you paid for her yet?"
"Not yet, but I've got the cash and I'll get a discount."
"How much?"
"Dollar sixty-nine less three per cent."
"Good Lord!" The bald man leaned forward, aghast. "For that price shemust be a pippin. Why, you can buy two hundred average women for thatand the market's glutted with them. How old is she?"
"Hundred and nine."
"Oh! That explains it. You're practically getting her right out of thecradle and can teach her whatever you want her to know and see that shedoesn't learn anything else. Has she got any mental quirks?"
Fillmore sighed. "She's almost perfect in that respect. Doesn't have tohave her mind erased but once every six weeks. Nine power intelligencebut she holds it back. That way she doesn't come anywhere near anervous breakdown oftener than once in six weeks."
"Domestic type?"
"Definitely. Regular homebody. Never been out of the solar system.She's the kind that likes a quiet picnic on Mars and will settle forthe moon when Mars is crowded. Besides, she's interested largely inwarts and mice. Studies them all the time. Knows how to grow warts onanybody."
"You're a lucky man, Art. Planned the honeymoon yet?"
"Sure. She's going to Venus while I go in the opposite direction.Haven't decided yet where I'll spend that happy time. On one of theplanets of the nearer stars, I suppose."
"That's perfect," the bald man said approvingly. "My wife made me stayon earth while she went to the moon. That's too close for comfort.After all, you don't have but one real honeymoon, and in my opinionevery man and woman should strive to make it as nearly perfect aspossible. I think the government ought to subsidize that sort of thing.Then the happy couple could put more distance between them. Think whatbliss could be achieved if the man could afford to go the maximumdistance in one direction and send his wife twice that far in theother direction. I mean to say, happiness is next to the ultimate, andif they could be separated so far that no trace of one ever got backto the other—well, just think of it! We would never hear of divorceagain."