"But I hoped …"
"Hope is for suckers! And suckers don't win." I tossed the empty
Scotch bottle in the wasteall and grabbed her hand. "C'mon, sister, let's hustle." And we hustled.
* * *
To Chicago.
You guessed it. To Nate Oliver's lab.
He was fitting a tiny nearhair moustache to a plastolife cinema replica of Errol Flynn when we broke in on him.
"Hold it," he said tensely. "Three hairs to go."
We waited while he finished the job. Then, dusting his fat pink hands, he turned to face us. He stared at me, jowls wobbing.
"Hi, Nate."
"My goodness, Sam! What's happened to you? You've — you've aged."
"I'm seventy-one," I admitted. "Men get old."
His plump tongue scrubbed at his dry lips. He kept staring. "Do you — have some kind of — terrible disease?"
And he backed away a step.
I grinned. "Naw. I'm working the Umani caper from another universe. This is the third you I've dealt with on the case."
His cheeks puffed. "The third me?"
I nodded. "First I dealt with you in an earlier universe. In that one you tried to send me back home. In my world you time-snapped me out of some big trouble. Now I've come to see you again in this world. That's three yous all told."
Oliver digested this info, then blinked at Nicole. "And who is this young lady?"
"Her name is Nicole. They killed her in the universe you sent me to. The first you, I mean. See, you overshot me on that trip and I landed in …" He was looking a little green around the gills so I cooled my story. "Forget it, Nate. Just take my word I need help."
Oliver's face had fat beads of sweat all over it like raindrops on a window. "How — can I help you?"
"They've got the Sam you know, the one you thought I was. And they're going to kill him."
"And he's wet," Nicole cut in. "The poor thing needs a diaper change."
"How can a man in his thirties need a diaper change?" Nate wanted to know.
"He's just a brat now," I said. "We all got fouled up with an age machine. It got out of hand, kind of, and reduced Sam to a six-month-old baby. Now they've got the machine and him with it."
"Who are they?"
"Three goons I killed back in my universe, except they're alive in this one."
Oliver slipped onto a stool, looking dazed.
"Here's the way it is," I said. "With me being over seventy the way I am I'm just not in shape to go hiking after those goonies."
"Granted," said Oliver. "But what has your physical condition to do with me?"
"You're my ace in the hole," I told him. "I'll bet you have some kind of universe transporter in your lab, right?"
"Wrong," he said with a wag of his wattles. "Closest thing is a rather balky time machine I'm fiddling with at present."
"That's bad news," I said to Nicole. "If he could have moved me into just one more universe I could go get myself and bring me here and send myself after me. But now that idea is shot."
"Not really," said Nicole, looking wise. Beautiful and wise. She turned to Oliver. "You said you have a time machine. Just how efficient is it?"
He shrugged his puffy shoulders. "It won't project beyond a few weeks either way, past or future. I think there's a kink in it somewhere."
Nicole smiled brightly. "But that's long enough. We'll send Sam back in time — to last week — and we'll have him pick up your Sam before we turned him into a baby. Then we'll bring that adult Sam back here and send him after his future baby self!"
I scratched my cheek. "Sounds like a good plan," I agreed. "We can always send the other Sam back later — to his own week. Yeah, I think you've got it, Nicky!"
And I gave her a smack. She was a smart dame all right.
"You've never called me Nicky before," she said softly.
Oliver wasn't happy. "You shouldn't really go, really you shouldn't."
"Why not?"
"You could disarrange the structure of our present by going into our past. I get a jumpy feeling in the pit of my tummy just thinking about all that disarranged structure."
"Nuts!" I growled. "Forget your tummy and just get me into last week."
"You're a headstrong old man, Sam," Nate declared. "Headstrong old men have been the root-cause of mankind's darkest hours."
I said nuts again to that, and we walked into Nate's lab to have a go with his time machine.
It was spooky looking — a rickrack of bolts and hinged panels and glowing coils and plastic doohickies.
"Are you sure this thing will do the job?" I asked.
Nate spread his fat-palmed hands in the air helplessly. "One does one's best. I am sure it will transfer your physical body into last week. Beyond that, I'm not sure of anything."
"How about the return trip?" I said. "Can you get me and the other Sam back here okay?"
"My range is quite limited as to time pickups," he said. "But if you appear with him at the exact spot at which you are deposited and adhere to my schedule I don't think there'll be any problems."
"What's your schedule?"
"My machine works within certain set time phases. I will drop you at one time phase and pick you up at another. They can't be missed or we lose you."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you must not only appear on the same spot at which you exit but within a precise phase to be picked up. Didn't I just say that?" He was sweating again.
"I mean, how long will I have?"
Oliver said he'd need to check some data. He waddled away.
"I'm beginning to think my idea isn't worth the risk," Nicole said. She nibbled at a thumbnail.
"Don't bite your nails," I said. "Hate to see a woman biting her nails."
"Well, I'm nervous. Nate seems so — so uncertain of what he's sending you into."
"He's sending me into last week. I'll take care of the rest. We need another me to get myself back and that's that."
"All right," Nicole sighed. "But I insist on going with you this trip.
When you went after Esma you left me behind and I got into trouble."
I didn't like the setup. Still, the idea made sense. I needed to keep tabs on her. "Oke. You go with me."
She gave me a smile.
Oliver padded back waving a fistful of papers. "I have it all worked out mathematically," he said. "Time of departure, time of pickup, exit and re-entry — all phased out for you, Sam."
"For us," I corrected. "The girl goes with me."
Oliver nodded with a wobble of double chins. "Two are as easy to transport as one," he declared. "But the young lady's presence is required at this end."
Nicole looked startled. "Why?"
"To get us back. You see, my dear, I must go with Sam in order to make certain of the proper return-phase coordinates. They are vital to our success in re-entry. He could never manage it without me. We need you at this end."
"I see," she nodded. "Whatever's best."
"Good!" breathed Nate. "You'll have no difficulty in picking us up after I give you a few simple instructions."
He filled her in on the details while I prowled the lab, poking at test tubes and coiled wires. I was tense. Things were becoming too damn complex to suit me with all these alternate universes and dimensions to juggle. But I couldn't think of a better plan at the moment for getting Sammy back.
Nate said he was ready, and we sat down on two red bell-shaped seats within the body of the time machine.
Nicole leaned in to kiss me goodbye. "See you soon, lover."
"Yeah," I snapped, a little embarrassed. "Just don't get kidnapped or hypnotized while we're away."
She grinned, stepping back. Nate gave her some orders having to do with coordinates and junk.
"Better close your eyes, Sam," said Oliver. "Saves you from vertigo."
I did.
Nicole activated the time machine — and away we went into what I hoped was the middle of last week.
Twenty-Four
It was black. Deep black night. So dark I could see nothing. Yet I felt solid ground under me.
"Did we make it?" I asked.
"In a manner of speaking" Oliver replied.
"Better check our coordinates," I said.
"That's not necessary. We are in the proper time phase. I have no doubt that this is the middle of last week in terms of the week we left. But there is a problem I had not anticipated."
"What's that?" I asked.
"I'm all feathery," said Oliver. "And I have a beak and wings."
I gulped. My arms and hands were gone! I had just what Oliver had."What the hell's happened?"
"The exit phase of our trip worked fine," said Oliver. "It was the entry phase that malfunctioned, as it were."
"What does that mean?"
"Simply that everything was hunky-dory when we left next week. It was when we got here into last week that my machine kinked up."
"And turned us into birds?"
"Not birds, exactly. From what I can determine we are fishbirds, or Zubus. And we are on Pluto."
"But that's where I hunted Zubu eggs when the cop-mice brainwashed me."
"We will now, no doubt, be laying our own," said Oliver. His voice had a rather hollow tone, due to his having to talk through his beak.
"How can we do what we came here to do if we're a couple of Zububirds?"
"The Zubu is not, strictly speaking, a bird — although it looks like one. It has fishy components."
I ruffled my neck feathers."I don't give a damn about any of that crap! I'm a seventy-one-year-old-private detective from another universe stuck in the middle of last week inside the featherbrained body of a dumb bird who's really a fish and I —"
"Not really a fish," explained Oliver. "As I have attempted to point out to you —"
"All right," I said calmly. "Can we get back to Nicole?"
"At the proper pickup time," said Nate. "I don't think our being Zubus will affect the pickup. But that's at least two Earth-days away. We have plenty of time to hire your other self and transport him back with us, as planned."
"Who's going to listen to a big dumb featherheaded fishbird?"
"Oh, I'm sure you'll be able to explain things to Sam when we find him."
"And just how do we get from Pluto to Mars?"
"The way all other creatures of or universe do it, of course. We take a rocket."
I was upset with Nate's cool acceptance of our condition. He actually didn't seem to mind being a Zubu. But I let that pass. "Rockets cost," I told him. "And we don't have any credits to pay for a trip. And aren't we supposed to stay right here on Pluto and lay eggs and hide them?"
"You seem determined to approach our situation from a pessimistic viewpoint," scolded Oliver. He paddled back and forth in front of me on his flat web feet, wings thoughtfully folded behind his back.
The black was thinning — or else I was becoming accustomed to it. At least I could see the landscape around us. No egg-hunting robots seemed to be in the area, which was a distinct relief. They'd be expecting us to bury some eggs for them to hunt and I didn't feel like getting into that whole depressing cycle if it could possibly be avoided.
Oliver was right. I was feeling very pessimistic about the whole case. I was a long way from Dr. Umani and Esma back in my own universe and there was no telling what had happened to them by now.
F. could have murdered them both and destroyed the lab. Which could mean the end of the solar system.
"We'll never get aboard a Mars rocket," I said dejectedly, pecking at an interesting pebble on the ground. The pebble looked tasty so I swallowed it.
Being inside a fishbird was frustrating. Not that I was an unattractive Zubu; my feathers were neat and well oiled and my beak was long and graceful. It was losing my hands and arms that bugged me. Now I could see why Umani got so annoyed being inside a giraffe head.
Which reminded me of the old Venusian saying: unless you wear the rags of a Gork you cannot truly savor the soup of poverty.
"Why so negative?" Oliver asked. "We are intelligent individuals. We shall simply outsmart the rather slow-witted robot Zubu-keepers and stow our feathered bodies away on board a Mars rocket. With the proper team spirit we shall be successful. Have a little more faith in yourself, Sam."
"I'd have more faith in a loaded .38 right now," I said.
"Wit is a weapon far superior to a loaded gun," intoned Oliver through his beak.
I raised a wing. "Shhhh!" I said softly. "Here comes a night robot."
He clanked resolutely toward us, a big square iron fellow with blinking red bulb eyes and shiny brass arms.
"Hey, hey, hey," he said metallically, "you two Zubus shouldn't be out here in the middle of the dark talking. You should either be asleep with your beaks nestled in your downy feathers or you should be secretly burying your eggs. Which will it be?"
"Uh — we'll go to sleep," I told the blinking robot. "We've no eggs to bury."
"My feathered friend is correct," said Nate. "Sleep it will be."
The robot put his brass hands on his hips. "I'm waiting," he said.
I folded my thin stalk legs and flopped down. Then, taking my cue from what the robot had said, I bent my neck into a kind of S shape and buried my beak inside my under-wing feathers. It was suffocating and my beak tickled. I felt like sneezing.
Oliver was doing the same bit, folding down next to me.
"Sleep tight you two," said the robot, and he clanked heavily away, his red eyes fading in the darkness.
"Is he gone?" asked Oliver, who was afraid to lift his beak to find out.
"Yeah," I said, sneezing. "He's gone."
"Then let's sneak. Keep your beak down and sneak softly away."
We did that.
Reaching the edge of the Zubu grounds we encountered a robot gate guard.
"Now what?" I whispered.
"Get ready to waddle when I give the word," said Nate.
He scooped up a pebble in his beak and tossed it into the guard-shack.
"Hah! The slow-witted fool is going inside to see what caused the noise," said Nate. "Now — waddle!"
When it has to, a Zubu can cover a lot of fast ground. I'd heard that it could waddle up to fifty miles an hour, Earthspeed, which is fast waddling any way you cut it.
Waddling furiously, web feet pumping, we were out the gate and down the road before the robot left his guardshack.
"You know this terrain better than I do," panted Oliver as he waddled briskly beside me. "You've worked the area. How far to the rocketport?"
"About seven Earth miles from this point," I said.
"We'll easily make it before daylight."
"How the hell do you know what time it is here on Pluto?" I asked him.
"By mentally checking one time phase against another." He paused in the road. "When does the next rocket leave for Bubble City?"
"One leaves every sixth Pluto period," I said.
"Then all we do is find out a good place to secrete ourselves until the next launch. Then we sneak craftily abroad with the baggage and sneak off again when we hit Bubble City."
"You make it sound dirt simple."
"It is. Just wait and see if it isn't."
* * *
It was. Easy. No one expected two feathery Zubus to smuggle themselves from Pluto to Mars so we had no problems. Besides, we were very crafty about the whole thing.
In Bubble City we did a fast waddle out to my office, Sam's office, and found me there behind the desk working a stack of case papers.
"Hello, Sam," I said.
"Hi there, Sam," Nate said.
Sam looked up and scowled. Here were two ragtag Zubus with ruffled feathers and bloodshot eyes standing in front of his desk. I knew he hated Zubu eggs (all the Sams did) and figured that Zubus were something less than stupid.
"Don't judge us by our appearance," warned Oliver. "We've had scant sleep and have been subjected to much bouncing and tossing amid the baggage of two plane
ts."
"Right," I put in. "And, in fact, we are not Zubus at all."
Sam arched an eyebrow. "Then who are you?"
Nate spread his wings. "I'm Nathan Oliver, your inventor friend from Chicago, and this — well, this is you, Sam, from another universe. At the moment we are forced to wear these bodies due to a scientific maladjustment in my time machine."
I came in behind Nate, talking fast to convince Sam we were legit."Once we take you back to next week, where we started from, we'll be ourselves again." I dipped my beak into my chestfeathers and nibbled at an itch, then declared. "I'll be seventy-one next week."
"Happy birthday," Sam said coldly. "Now — will you two batty birds kindly get your tails out of my office. I'm busy."
Oliver gave me a sad look from his bloodshot left eye. "He doesn't believe us."
I paddled forward to face Sam. "Look, I know this is all a little tough to swallow but stick with me until I fill you in on the whole story. You won't regret it."
"What's in it for me?"
"A chance to earn some heavy gelt and a chance to save the System."
Sam pushed his stack of papers to one side and tented this hands on the desk. "Okay, bird, I'm listening."
"He really isn't a bird," Oliver said. "Not in a strict sense. The Zubu is actually a fascinating combination of —"
"Will you can that crap!" I snapped. "I've got to convince Sam we're on the level and you're not helping."
"Sorry," mumbled Oliver, scuffing a webfoot against the office floor. "You go ahead. I'll keep my beak shut."
"Good!" I turned back to Sam and was about to begin my explanation when I was seized with an overwhelming urge. I tried to resist but the urge got stronger by the second. "First, before I continue, I'm afraid I am going to have to lay an egg." I told Sam. "That's just the way it is."
"Okay, but lay it fast."
"Egg-laying is not a matter of speed," I informed him. "A Zubu lays when the urge is upon him. As soon as my urge builds to its completion my egg will be laid."
"How long?"
I raised my beak. "Can't say."
We all waited. Sam rocked back in his chair, tapping the desktop nervously with an index finger. Nate watched me, frankly curious, since he'd probably be laying an egg of his own before we left the office.
Space For Hire (Seven For Space) Page 12