“Certainly!” cried Gaynor.
“Thank you,” said the Protean, as the man began to concentrate on the more salient features of his native planet.
“I said thank you,” repeated the creature to the expectantly waiting Gaynor. “It’s all over. You didn’t have too much of a mind to explore.”
Gaynor was disappointed—the Gaylen mind-teachers had been a lot more spectacular, and a lot less insulting. “Well,” he asked, “funny as it may seem to you, how do we get back to the place?”
“You know already,” said the Protean. “At least, your colleague does. Why don’t you ask him? Now will you leave?”
“Certainly,” said Gaynor, puzzled but eager. “And all our thanks to you for your kindness.”
“Just being neighborly,” said the Protean. Whereupon it dwindled into a tiny worm-like thing which slipped down an almost imperceptible hole in the ground,
Gaynor looked blankly at Clair, wondering how best to broach the subject of getting back, but, before he could inaugurate a campaign to return the mental marvel to the world of cold realities, the door of the Prototype swung open wide, and Jocelyn Earle stepped out.
“The trip didn’t do you any good,” said Gaynor, inspecting her face. “Whose idea was it?”
“Are you being stern, Pavlik?” she asked, flinging herself into his arms. When they had disentangled she explained, indicating Ionic Intersection who stood smiling in the doorway, “Her idea, really—she couldn’t stomach the idea of turning into a lizard to avoid the nova. She even preferred floating around in space—have you heard about the creeping quivers that space travel gives these sissified Gaylens?— well, she was even willing to face that instead.”
“I felt,” explained Ionic Intersection, “that I have something to live for now, since—well, something to live for. And I find that space travel isn’t fractionally as bad as I’d expected—I almost like it now, in a way.”
As if to punctuate her sentence, Jocelyn emitted a yelp. “Ye gods and little fishes!” she screamed. “Look at the sun!”
The others looked—it was worth looking at. Probably no human had ever seen a sun like that before at closer range than half a thousand parsecs—and lived. Great gouts of flame, and relatively miniature new suns composed of pure, raw, naked energy were spouting from it; rapidly and violently the heat and light from it were increasing, becoming uncomfortable even on this distant planet. It was becoming a nova by cosmic leaps and vast bounds.
“This is no place for us, friends—not while we’ve got what it takes to get away. So let’s go—fast. I wouldn’t put it past our Gaylen pals—with all due respect to you, Ionic Intersection—to have forgotten a decimal point or neglected a surd in their calculations. This planet may be as safe as they claimed—or it may not. I don’t choose to take chances.”
Shooing the ladies along ahead of him, Gaynor gently took Clair’s elbow and walked him into the Prototype. “He’s got a theory,” he explained to the girls, neither of whom had ever seen him that way before. “It gets him at times like these, always. You’ll have to bear with him; it’s just another reason why he shouldn’t marry.”
Once they were all arranged in the Prototype and sufficient stores had been transferred from the Archetype, left to rust or melt on the planet of the Proteans, they took off and hovered in space far away from the wild sun.
“Now,” said Gaynor, “we’ll go home.” So speaking, he took Clair by the arm once more, shaking him gently. “Theory-Protean-idea-home-theory-HOME!” he whispered in the entranced one’s ear, in a sharp crescendo.
Clair came out of it with a start. “Do you know,” he said quickly, “I’ve found the governing principle of our little mishaps and adventures?”
“Yes,” said Gaynor, “I know. The Protean told me. He also told me that you knew how to apply that principle so as to get us home.”
“Oh, yes. Home. Well, in order to get us home, I’ll need your cooperation—all of your cooperation. I’ll have to explain.
“I said a while ago that nothing was liable to hurt us in this universe. Well, nothing is. And the reason is that every stick, stone, proton, and mesotron in this universe is so placed and constructed that we can’t get hurt. Don’t interrupt—it’s true. Listen.
“Let me ask a rhetorical question: How many possible universes are there? Echo answers: Plenty. An infinity of them, in fact. And the funny thing about it is that they all exist. You aren’t going to argue that, are you, Paul? Because everybody knows that, in eternity, everything that is possible happens at least once, and the cosmos is eternal…. I thought you’d see that.
“There being so many universes, and there being no directive influence in the Prototype, there is absolutely no way of knowing, mathematically a provable point, just which universe we’ll land in. But there has to be some determining factor, unless the law of cause-and-effect is meaningless, and all of organized science is phoney from the ground up.
“Well, there is a determining factor. It’s—thought.
“Thought isn’t very powerful, except when applied through such an instrument as the human mind, or rather through such a series of step-up transformers as the mind, the brain, the body, and the machines of humanity. But there are so many possible continua that even the tiny, tiny pressure of our thought-waves is plenty to decide which.
“What did we want before we hit the universe of the Gaylens? I don’t know exactly what was in your minds, but I’ll bet it was:’ food, human companionship, supplies, and SAFETY. And we got all of them.
“So—the rest becomes obvious. To get home: Think of home, all of us, each preferably picking a different and somewhat unusual object to concentrate upon, so as to limit the number of possible universes that fit the description—you, Ionic, will try not to think of anything, because you come from a different universe; then throw in the switch to the protolens—you’re home.”
They had made five false starts, and had spent a full week in one deceptive home-like universe before they’d got the correct combination of factors to insure a happy landing, but this one indubitably was it.
Clair was at the controls—had been for days of searching, and now that they had identified their solar system was driving every fragment of power from the artificial-gravity units.
Jocelyn and Gaynor approached him with long, sad faces. “Well, kiddies?”’
“I love Jocelyn,” said Gaynor unhappily.
“So,” he said, not taking his eyes from the plate which mirrored stars and sun.
“And that’s not the worst of it,” said the girl directly. “I love Pavlik, too. Do you mind?”
“Bless you, my children,” said Clair agreeably. “But don’t you mind?” cried Jocelyn indignantly. “We want to get married.”
“A splendid idea. I’m all for marriage, personally.”
“Good!” said Jocelyn heartily, though a bit puzzled and annoyed. “What you ought to do is to find some nice girl who can cook and sew and marry her.”
“Impossible,” said Clair.
“Why?”
“My wife wouldn’t let me. Ionic Intersection. We were married three days ago.”
“What!” shrieked Jocelyn, and Gaynor cried, “You can’t have been. We’ve been in space!”
“Sure. That’s what made it so easy. You know the old law—the captain of a ship at sea can perform marriages.”
“But— ”
“But nothing. I’m the captain, and I performed the marriage—to me.”
Gaynor reeled and clutched at a railing. “But—but since when are you captain—who appointed you?”
“Ha!” crowed Clair. “Shows how little you know about sea law. It’s just like the case of a derelict—when the regular offficers and crew of a ship are unable to bring her to port—and you were definitely unable so to do anyone who can takes command. That’s the law, and I’m sticking to it. And you’d better not question it—because if you do, I’ll dissolve your marriage.”
“Ou
r marriage! What marriage?” cried Jocelyn, incredulity and delight mingling in her voice.
“The one I performed over you two not five minutes ago. Probably you thought I was whistling through my teeth,” Clair very patiently explained. “Now are there any objections?”
No, there were no objections….
THE EXTRAPOLATED DIMWIT
I.
“I always smoke Valerons,” declared Gaynor. “I have found that for the lift you need when you need it, they have no equal. Unreservedly I recommend them to all dimensional flyers and time-travelers.” He gagged slightly and wiped his mouth. “Was that right?” he asked the ad man.
“Okay,” said Alec Andrews of Dignam and Bailey, promoters. He disconnected the recording apparatus. “Mr. Gaynor,” he declared fervently, “you will hear that every hour, on the hour, over the three major networks. And now … ah …” He took a checkbook from his pocket.
“Fifteen gees,” said Gaynor happily, flipping a bit of paper between his fingers. “This, my pretty, will net you a fishskin evening gown.”
“Yeah,” said Jocelyn. “If I can keep you from buying a few more tons of junk for your ruddy lab.” Gaynor looked uneasy. “Hola, Clair,” he greeted the wilted creature who entered, tripping over a wire. “Hola yourself,” muttered Clair disentangling.
“I got it. All of it.”
Jocelyn, tall, slim, cameolike, and worried, asked him: “Measles?”
“Nope. Differentiator Compass in six phases—just finished it. Creditors on my heels—needed two ounces of radium. Save me, Pavlik! Save your bosom friend!” He turned as a thundering noise indicated either his creditors or a volcano in eruption. “Here they are!” he groaned, diving under a table. Gaynor and his wife hastily arranged themselves before it as the door burst in.
It was a running argument between a plump little brunette and a crowd of men with grim, purposeful faces. “Gentlemen,” she was saying with what dignity she could, “I’ve already told you that my husband has left suddenly for Canada to see his father. How can you ruthlessly desecrate this home with your yammerings for money— ”
“Look, lady,” said a hawk-eyed man. “We sold your husband that equipment in good faith. If he don’t propose to settle for it now, we’re just naturally going to slap a lawsuit on his hide.”
“Hold it,” interjected Gaynor. “Io, what’s the damage?”
The plump woman sighed. “Thirty-five thousand. I told him he didn’t need all that radium, Paul. What do we do now?”
Martyr-like, Gaynor unfolded the adman’s check and endorsed it to cash. Jocelyn, beside him, took a deep breath and snarled wordlessly. “Here’s something on account,” he said, tendering it to the hawk-eyed creditor. “Come around for the rest in a week. Okay with you?”
“Okay, mister,” said the hawk, handing over a receipt. “If your friend was more like you, us entrepreneurs’d have a lot easier time of it.” He bowed out with his allies. Io closed the door and locked it.
“Now, Arthur,” she began dangerously, “come out with your hands up!” She stared coldly as her husband, the distrait Clair, emerged from under the table. “Dearest,” he began meekly.
“Don’t you `dearest’ me,” she spat. “If she weren’t in another dimension and turned into a little leather slug, I’d go home to mother. Now explain youself!”
“Ah—yes,” said Clair. “About that money. I’m sorry you had to turn over that check, Paul. But this thing I’ve finished—absolutely the biggest advance in spaceflight and transplanar navigation since the proto. The perfect check and counter-check on position. It’s like the intention of the compass and sextant was to seamanship and earthly navigation.”
“Well, what is it?” exploded Jocelyn.
“The Six-Phase Differentiator Compass, Jos. You see it here.” He took from his breast pocket a little black thing like a camera or exposure meter. “Allow me to explain:
“This dingus, if I may call it such, is a permanent focus upon whatever it is permanently focused on. It acts like a Geiger counter in that when you approach the thing it was focused on, it ticks or buzzes. And the nearer you get, the louder it buzzes—or ticks. That is the tracer unit. And the other half of the gadget, the really complicated half that took all that radium, is a sort of calculating device. Like a permanent statistical table, but with a difference.
“Inside this case there is a condition of unique stress obtaining under terrific conditions of heat, radiation, bombardment, pressure, torsion, implosion, expansion, everything. And there is in there one little chunk of metal—a cc of lead it happens to be—that is taking all the punishment.
“Geared on to this cc of lead are a number of fairly delicate meters and reaction fingers—one for each dimension in which we navigate, making seven in all. From these meters you get a coordinate reading which will establish your position anywhere in the universe and likewise, if you set the dials for desired coordinates, it works in reverse and you have the processive matricies required. How do you like that?”
“Do you really want to know?” demanded Gaynor.
Clair nodded, eagerly.
“I think it’s the craziest mess of balderdash that’s ever been dreamed up. I don’t see how it can work or why you’ve been wasting your time and my money on it. Straight?”
Clair wilted. “Okay, Paul,” he said. “You’ll see.” He drifted from the room, moping.
“Now where do you suppose he’s going?” asked his wife.
“To get plastered, dear,” replied Jocelyn.
“This,” said Gaynor, “is a helluva way to make a living.” He gestured with distaste at the stage waiting for him, and winced as the thunderous applause beat at his ears.
“Bend over,” said Jocelyn.
“What for?” he demanded, bending, then yelped as his wife gave him a hearty kick in the pants. “Now why— ” he began injuredly .
“Old stage tradition. Good luck. Now go out and give your little lecture. And make it good, because if you don’t, there won’t be any more little lectures and the creditors will descend on poor Ionic Intersection like a pack of wolves for what that louse of a husband she has owes them.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk that way about Clair,” complained Gaynor. “What if he has deserted the girl? Maybe she snores.” He strode out onto the platform briskly and held up his hands to quiet the applause. “Thank you,” he said into the mike. There was no amplification. He gestured wildly to the soundman who was offstage at his panels. “Hook me up, you nincompoop!”
The last word bellowed out over the loudspeakers. Gaynor winced. “Excuse me, friends,” he said, “that was wholly unpremeditated. Anyway, you’re here to see the lantern-slides and hear my commentary. Well—let’s have Number One, Mr. Projectionist.”
A lantern slide flashed onto the screen as the hall darkened. “There you see me and my partner, Art Clair, directly after we received the Nobel Prize. Suffice to say that it took us a week to learn that you can’t drink Akvavit, the national potion of Norway, like water, or even gasoline. The best way to handle the stuff is to place a bowl of it at a distance of fifteen feet and lie down in a padded room where you aren’t likely to hurt yourself when you advance into the spastic stage of an Akvavit jag. Note the bruises on Mr. Clair’s jaw. He thought he was saying ‘Thank you’ in Norwegian. He wasn’t. Next!
“This fetching creature on the screen is Miss Jocelyn Earle, at the time of the picture, a reporter for the Helio. She was given the assignment, one sunshiny day, of investigating the work in progress of those two lovable madcaps, Gaynor and Clair. Fool that she was, she accepted it. She found that the work in progress consisted of a little thing known as the Prototype, whose modest aim was to transmit Art and me to the beginning of the universe. This it did, but with a difference. Jocelyn came too.
“Now you see the Prototype, all forty feet of it. I won’t go into the details of construction and theory; suffice to say that it worked, and you see—get it up, Mr. Projectionist!—a
porthole view of things as they were about eleven skillion years ago, before the planets, before the stars, before, even, the nebulae. By this time, Art and I were desperately in love with Miss Earle. Despite her obvious physical charms, we discovered on that journey that she was a woman of much brain-capacity, besides cooking up the best dish of beans that side of eternity. Next!
“Observe the pixies. I don’t expect you to believe me, but after the Prototype got out into the primordial state before the nebulae, we were chased by, in rapid succession, flying dragons, pixies, and a planet with a mouth. Eggs for the Alimentary Asteroid, as it were.
“Following this unhappy circumstance, we went through some very trying times. The ship drifted for weeks, nearly out of fuel, and almost wholly out of control. Things were in a very sad way until—next!—a greenish sort of glow filled the ship and we found ourselves on the planet of the Gaylens, not much the worse for wear.
“These Gaylens were a charming but absentminded people of a peculiarly lopsided kind of scientific development. They were just about precisely like us, human physically and very nearly so psychologically.
“Comes nova. Mr. Projectionist, will you change that damn slide?” A view of a tropical island flashed onto the screen. “Cut out the horseplay!” Gaynor bawled. The tropical island vanished and a terrific view of a nova sun appeared. “That’s better, thanks.
“These Gaylens changed themselves into little leather slugs to live during the nova. This, Art, Jocelyn, and I couldn’t stand. So they kindly whipped up for us a spaceship—we couldn’t use the Prototype because Jocelyn and a Gaylen girl named Ionic Intersection—the Gaylens name themselves according to their work; this gal had developed something terrific in the way of Ionic Intersections and thus the odd-sounding name for her—had gone off with it by accident—and sent us off to another of their planets. Next!”
A view of sunset over Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, appeared. Gaynor muttered a curse. “Bud, if you want me to climb your crow’s-nest and break your neck, I’ll do it. Let’s have that Protean before I hurt you!” The sunset yielded to an immense whale-like creature glancing coyly out of the corner of its seven eyes. “Okay, Mr. Projectionist, I’ll see you later.
Before the Universe Page 16