by Isaac Asimov
"A very good price," said Arvardan, "but, as I told you, I have no shirts to sell."
"Well…" Creen shrugged. "Expect to stay on Earth quite a while, I suppose?"
"Maybe."
"What's your line of business?"
The archaeologist allowed irritation to rise to the surface. "Look, Mr. Creen, if you don't mind, I'm a little tired and would like to take a nap. Is that all right with you?"
Creen frowned. "What's the matter with you? Don't your kind believe in being civil to people? I'm just asking you a polite question; no need to bite my ear off."
The conversation, hitherto conducted in a low voice, had suddenly amplified itself into a near shout. Hostile expressions turned Arvardan's way, and the archaeologist's lips compressed themselves into a thin line.
He had asked for it, he decided bitterly. He would not have gotten into this mess if he had held aloof from the beginning, if he hadn't felt the necessity of vaunting his damned tolerance and forcing it on people who didn't want it.
He said levelly, "Mr. Creen, I didn't ask you to join me, and I haven't been uncivil. I repeat, I am tired and would like to rest. I think there's nothing unusual in that."
"Listen"-the young man rose from his seat, threw his cigarette away with a violent gesture, and pointed a finger-"you don't have to treat me like I'm a dog or something. You stinking Outsiders come here with your fine talk and standoffishness and think it gives you the right to stamp all over us. We don't have to stand for it, see. If you don't like it here, you can go back where you came from, and it won't take much more of your lip to make me light into you, either. You think I'm afraid of you?"
Arvardan turned his head away and stared stonily out the window.
Creen said no more, but took his original seat once again. There was an excited buzz of conversation round and about the plane which Arvardan ignored. He felt, rather than saw, the sharpened and envenomed glances being cast at him. Until, gradually, it passed, as all things did.
He completed the journey, silent and alone.
The landing at the Chica airport was welcome. Arvardan smiled to himself at the first sight from the air of the "best damned city on Earth," but found it, nevertheless, an immense improvement over the thick, unfriendly atmosphere of the plane.
He supervised the unloading of his luggage and had it transferred into a biwheel cab. At least he would be the only passenger here, so that if he took care not to speak unnecessarily to the driver, he could scarcely get into trouble.
"State House," he told the cabby, and they were off.
Arvardan thus entered Chica for the first time, and he did so on the day that Joseph Schwartz escaped from his room at the Institute for Nuclear Research.
Creen watched Arvardan leave with a bitter half-smile. He took out his little book and studied it closely between puffs at his cigarette. He hadn't gotten much out of the passengers, despite his story about his uncle (which he had used often before to good effect). To be sure, the old guy had complained about a man living past his time and had blamed it on "pull" with the Ancients. That would come under the heading of slander against the Brotherhood. But then the geezer was heading for the Sixty in a month, anyway. No use putting his name down.
But this Outsider, that was different. He surveyed the item with a feeling of pleasure: "Bel Arvardan, Baronn, Sirius Sector-curious about the Sixty-secretive about own affairs-entered Chica by commercial plane 11 A.M. Chica time, 12 October-anti-Terrestrian attitude very marked."
This time maybe he had a real haul. Picking up these little squealers who made incautious remarks was dull work, but things like this made it payoff.
The Brotherhood would have his report before half an hour was up. He made his way leisurely off the field.
8. Convergence At Chica
For the twentieth time Dr. Shekt leafed through his latest volume of research notes, then looked up as Pola entered his office. She frowned as she slipped on her lab coat.
"Now, Father, haven't you eaten yet?"
"Eh? Certainly I have…Oh, what's this?"
"This is lunch. Or it was, once. What you ate must have been breakfast. Now there's no sense in my buying meals and bringing them here if you're not going to eat them. I'm just going to make you go home for them."
"Don't get excited. I'll eat it. I can't interrupt a vital experiment every time you think I ought to eat, you know."
He grew cheerful again over the dessert. "You have no idea," he said, "the kind of man this Schwartz is. Did I ever tell you about his skull sutures?"
"They're primitive. You told me."
"But that's not all. He's got thirty-two teeth: three molars up and down, left and right, counting one false one that must be homemade. At least I've never seen a bridge that has metal prongs hooking it onto adjacent teeth instead of being grafted to the jawbone…But have you ever seen anyone with thirty-two teeth?"
"I don't go about counting people's teeth, Father. What's the right number-twenty-eight?"
"It sure as Space is…I'm still not finished, though. We took an internal analysis yesterday. What do you suppose we found?…Guess!"
"Intestines?"
"Pola, you're being deliberately annoying, but I don't care. You needn't guess; 111 tell you. Schwartz has a vermiform appendix, three and a half inches long, and it's open. Great Galaxy, it's completely unprecedented! I have checked with the Medical School-cautiously, of course-and appendixes are practically never longer than half an inch, and they're never open."
"And just what does that mean?"
"Why, he's a complete throwback, a living fossil." He had risen from his chair and paced the distance to the wall and back with hasty steps. "I tell you what, Pola, I don't think we ought to give Schwartz up. He's too valuable a specimen."
"No, no, Father," said Pola quickly, "you can't do that. You promised that farmer to return Schwartz, and you must for Schwartz's own sake. He's unhappy."
"Unhappy! Why, we're treating him like a rich Outsider."
"What difference does that make? The poor fellow is used to his farm and his people. He's lived there all his life. And now he's had a frightening experience-a painful one, for all I know-and his mind works differently now. He can't be expected to understand. We've got to consider his human rights and return him to his family."
"But, Pola, the cause of science-"
"Oh, slush! What is the cause of science worth to me? What do you suppose the Brotherhood will say when they hear of your unauthorized experiments? Do you think they care about the cause of science? I mean, consider yourself if you don't wish to consider Schwartz. The longer you keep him, the greater the chance of being caught. You send him home tomorrow night, the way you originally planned to, do you hear?…I'll go down and see if Schwartz wants anything before dinner."
But she was back in less than five minutes, face damp and chalky. "Father, he's gone!"
"Who's gone?" he asked, startled.
"Schwartz!" she cried, half in tears. "You must have forgotten to lock the door when you left him."
Shekt was on his feet, throwing a hand out to steady himself. "How long?"
"I don't know. But it can't be very long. When were you last there?"
"Not fifteen minutes. I had just been here a minute or two when you came in."
"Well, then," with sudden decision, "I'll run out. He may simply be wandering about the neighborhood. You stay here. If someone else picks him up, they mustn't connect him with you. Understand?"
Shekt could only nod.
Joseph Schwartz felt no lifting of the heart when he exchanged the confines of his prison hospital for the expanses of the city outside. He did not delude himself to the effect that he had a plan of action. He knew, and knew well, that he was simply improvising.
If any rational impulse guided him (as distinct from mere blind desire to exchange inaction for action of any sort), it was the hope that by chance encounter some facet of life would bring back his wandering memory. That he was an am
nesiac he was now fully convinced.
The first glimpse of the city, however, was disheartening. It was late afternoon and, in the sunlight, Chica was a milky white. The buildings might have been constructed of porcelain, like that farmhouse he had first stumbled upon.
Stirrings deep within told him that cities should be brown and red. And they should be much dirtier. He was sure of that.
He walked slowly. He felt, somehow, that there would be no organized search for him. He knew that, without knowing how he knew. To be sure, in the last few days he had found himself growing increasingly sensitive to "atmosphere," to the "feel" of things about him. It was part of the strangeness in his mind, since-since…
His thought trailed away.
In any case, the "atmosphere" at the hospital prison was one of secrecy; a frightened secrecy, it seemed. So they could not pursue him with loud outcry. He knew that. Now why should he know that? Was this queer activity of his mind part of what went on in cases of amnesia?
He crossed another intersection. Wheeled vehicles were relatively few. Pedestrians were-well, pedestrians. Their clothes were rather laughable: seamless, buttonless, colorful. But then so were his own. He wondered where his old clothes were, then wondered if he had ever really owned such clothes as he remembered. It is very difficult to be sure of anything, once you begin doubting your memory on principle.
But he remembered his wife so clearly; his children. They couldn't be fictions. He stopped in the middle of the walk to regain a composure suddenly lost. Perhaps they were distorted versions of real people, in this so unreal-seeming real life, whom he must find.
People were brushing past him and several muttered unamiably. He moved on. The thought occurred to him, suddenly and forcibly, that he was hungry, or would be soon, and that he had no money.
He looked about. Nothing like a restaurant in sight. Well, how did he know? He couldn't read the signs.
He gazed into each store front he passed…And then he found an interior which consisted in part of small alcoved tables, at one of which two men sat and another at which a single man sat. And the men were eating.
At least that hadn't changed. Men who ate still chewed and swallowed.
He stepped in and, for a moment, stopped in considerable bewilderment. There was no counter, no cooking going on, no signs of any kitchen. It had been his idea to offer to wash the dishes for a meal, but-to whom could he make the offer?
Diffidently, he stepped up to the two diners. He pointed, and said painstakingly, "Food! Where? Please."
They looked up at him, rather startled. One spoke fluently, and quite incomprehensibly, patting a small structure at the wall end of the table. The other joined in, impatiently.
Schwartz's eyes fell. He turned to leave, and there was a hand upon his sleeve- Granz had seen Schwartz while the latter was still only a plump and wistful face at the window.
He said "What's he want?"
Messter, sitting across the little table, with his back to the street, turned, looked, shrugged his shoulders, and said nothing.
Granz said, "He's coming in," and Messter replied, "So what?"
"Nothing. Just mentioning it."
But a few moments later the newcomer, after looking about helplessly, approached and pointed to their beef stew, saying in a queer accent, "Food! Where? Please."
Granz looked up. "Food right here, bud. Just pull up a chair at any table you want and use the Foodomat… Foodomat! Don't you know what a Foodomat is?…Look at the poor jerk, Messter. He's looking at me as if he doesn't understand a word I say. Hey, fella-this thing, see. Just put a coin in and let me eat, will you?"
"Leave him alone," grunted Messter. "He's just a bum, looking for a handout."
"Hey, hold on." Granz seized Schwartz's sleeve as the latter turned to go. He added in an aside to Messter, "Space, let the guy eat. He's probably getting the Sixty soon. It's the least I can do to give him a break…Hey, bud, you got any money?…Well, I'll be damned, he still doesn't understand me. Money, pal, money! This-" And he drew a shining half-credit piece out of his pocket, flipping it so that it sparkled in the air.
"Got any?" he asked.
Slowly Schwartz shook his head.
"Well, then, have this on me!" He replaced the half-credit piece in his pocket and tossed over a considerably smaller coin.
Schwartz held it uncertainly.
"All right. Don't just stand there. Stick it in the Foodomat. This thing here."
Schwartz suddenly found himself understanding. The Foodomat had a series of slits for coins of different sizes and a series of knobs opposite little milky rectangles, the writing upon which he could not read. Schwartz pointed to the food on the table and ran a forefinger up and down the knobs, raising his eyebrows in question.
Messter said in annoyance, " A sandwich isn't good enough for him. We're getting classy bums in this burg nowadays. It doesn't pay to humor them, Granz."
"All right, so I lose point eight five credits. Tomorrow's payday, anyway…Here," he said to Schwartz. He placed coins of his own into the Foodomat and withdrew the wide metal container from the recess in the wall. "Now take it to another table…Nab, keep that tenth piece. Buy yourself a cup of coffee with it."
Schwartz carried the container gingerly to the next table. It had a spoon attached to the side by means of a transparent, filmy material, which broke with a slight pop under the pressure of a fingernail. As it did so, the top of the container parted at a seam and curled back upon itself.
The food, unlike that which he saw the others eating, was cold; but that was a detail. It was only after a minute or so that he realized the food was getting warmer and that the container had grown hot to the touch. He stopped, in alarm, and waited.
The gravy first steamed, then bubbled gently for a moment. It cooled again and Schwartz completed the meal.
Granz and Messter were still there when he left. So was the third man, to whom, throughout, Schwartz had paid no attention.
Nor had Schwartz noticed, at any time since he had left the Institute, the thin, little man who, without seeming to, had managed to remain always within eyeshot.
Bel Arvardan, having showered and changed his clothes, promptly followed his original intention of observing the human animal, subspecies Earth, in its native habitat. The weather was mild, the light breeze refreshing, the village itself-pardon, the city-bright, quiet, and clean.
Not so bad.
Chica first stop, he thought. Largest collection of Earth. men on the planet. Washenn next; local capital. Senloo! Senfran! Bonair!…He had plotted an itinerary all over the western continents (where most of the meager scattering of Earth's population lived) and, allowing two or three days at each, he would be back in Chica just about the time his expeditionary ship was due.
It would be educational.
As afternoon began to decline he stepped into a Foodomat and, as he ate, observed the small drama that played itself out between the two Earthmen who had entered shortly after himself and the plump, elderly man who came in last of all. But his observation was detached and casual, simply not. ing it as an item to set against his unpleasant experience on the jet transport. The two men at the table were obviously air-cab drivers and not wealthy, yet they could be charitable.
The beggar left, and two minutes later Arvardan left as well.
The streets were noticeably fuller, as the workday was approaching its end.
He stepped hastily aside to avoid colliding with a young girl.
"Pardon me," he said.
She was dressed in white, in clothing which bore the stereotyped lines of a uniform. She seemed quite oblivious of the near collision. The anxious look on her face, the sharp turning of her head from side to side, her utter preoccupation, made the situation quite obvious.
He laid a light finger on her shoulder. "May I help you, miss? Are you in trouble?"
She stopped and turned startled eyes upon him. Arvardan found himself judging her age at nineteen to twenty-one, ob
serving carefully her brown hair and dark eyes, her high cheekbones and little chin, her slim waist and graceful carriage. He discovered, suddenly, that the thought of this little female creature being an Earthwoman lent a sort of perverse piquancy to her attractiveness.
But she was still staring, and almost at the moment of speaking she seemed to break down. "Oh, it's no use. Please don't bother about me. It's silly to expect to find someone when you don't have the slightest idea where he could have gone. " She was drooping in discouragement, her eyes wet. Then she straightened and breathed deeply. "Have you seen a plump man about five-four, dressed in green and white, no hat, rather bald?"
Arvardan looked at her in astonishment. "What? Green and white?…Oh, I don't believe this…Look, this man you're referring to-does he speak with difficulty?"
"Yes, yes. Oh yes. You have seen him, then?"
"Not five minutes ago he was in there eating with two men…Here they are…Say, you two." He beckoned them over.
Granz reached them first. "Cab, sir?"
"No, but if you tell the young lady what happened to the man you were eating with, you'll stand to make the fare, anyway."
Granz paused and looked chagrined. "Well, I'd like to help you, but I never saw him before in my life."
Arvardan turned to the girl. "Now look, miss, he can't have gone in the direction you came from or you'd have seen him. And he can't be far away. Suppose we move north a bit. I'll recognize him if I see him."
His offer of help was an impulse, yet Arvardan was not, ordinarily, an impulsive man. He found himself smiling at her.
Granz interrupted suddenly. "What's he done, lady? He hasn't broken any of the Customs, has he?"
"No, no," she replied hastily. "He's only a little sick, that's all."
Messter looked after them as they left. " A little sick?" He shoved his visored cap back upon his head, then pinched balefully at his chin. "How d'ya like that, Granz? A little sick."
His eyes looked askance at the other for a moment.
"What's got into you?" asked Granz uneasily.