“That big thing is a Protean, the highest form of life in that or any other universe, I suspect. They live a completely mental existence, and their only wish is not to be bothered by Outsiders. And as such we qualified, for theirs was the planet on which we landed. Anyway they did us a favor—or rather, this particular Protean did—by finding Jocelyn, Ionic Intersection, and the Prototype for us, dragging them back from some Godforsaken corner of creation.
Then he sped us on our merry way with the blessings of his tribe on our heads and the heartfelt wish that we’d come back no more.
“Once out in space and time in the Prototype, we had yet to find our way home. And that, to make a long story short, was by intellectual means. By a kind of mental discipline we were able to preselect our landing place and time. Anyway, my friend Clair had somewhere forgotten that he was madly in love with Miss Earle and had gone overboard for Miss Intersection, a pretty brunette, it turns out. Next!
“Here you see a wedding group. Being captain of the ship, I was empowered to perform marriages, of course. So it was a double wedding. Miss Earle is now Mrs. Gaynor, and Miss Intersection is now Mrs. Clair, much to her regret. Next!
“A scenic shot of our welcoming committee, including the mayor and other notables. Art is holding the key to the city. We tried to hock it, later. No go.”
The screen went blank and the house lights on. “To complete the story,” said Gaynor gently, “I need only add that two weeks ago Art Clair vanished with the look of liquor in his eyes and has not been seen since. Thank you one and all.” He bowed himself from the stage to thunderous applause.
“Nice work,” said Jocelyn. “A few more like that and maybe we’ll be able to pay off.” Ionic Intersection bustled up. “Jos,” she said worriedly, extending a note, “what does this say? I think it’s from Art. He’s been home then gone to the lab. He left the note home, but when I got to the lab he was gone. Everything was messed up.”
Gaynor took the note. “Lemme see.” He whistled as he read. “Io, your husband’s done a very rash thing. Listen:
Dear kids:
In spite of your unflattering opinions I still have reason to suspect that I know more than a little science in my field. In proof whereof I submit that you will find the Six-Phase Integrated Analyser—I like that better than Differential Compass—in my desk drawer. To make a long story short, I’ve hopped off in Proto, Jr., the little experimental one-man ship.
And I’m going to get myself thoroughly lost in time, space, and dimensions—as much so as is humanly possible. I don’t want to be able to get back of my own free will. This, chums, is so you will just have to find me—and to find me you’ll have to use the much-derided Analyser. Okay?
Love.
Art.
Gaynor stared about him. “That dope,” he said to the world at large. “How do you like that?”
Ionic Intersection was weeping softly. “What are we going to do?” she asked.
“Just wait around, dear,” said Jocelyn. “He’ll probably come back with a wild tale or two. Right, Paul?”
“Wrong,” said her husband incisively. “He meant what he said. We’d better outfit the Prototype for an extended journey. The Proto Jr. doesn’t hold enough air, water, and food for more than a few days. And I hope he won’t be late. This is what comes of forming an alliance with a ringtailed baboon.”
“Don’t you say that about my husband!” objected Io. “He just wants to show that his tracer works.”
“Yeah. And if it doesn’t, I’ll be minus a partner and you’ll be minus a husband. Come on; we’re off!”
II.
The Prototype loomed on the colossal floor of the lab like a big silver fish, slick with oil. Gaynor shuddered. “That baboon— ” he muttered incontinently.
“Okay, kids, we’re ready for the happy journey. Pile in.” He inspected the tracing compass and held it to his ear. “Just barely sounding,” he mused worriedly. “It’s below the estimated level of perception. I suspect that our mutual friend has kept his promise and is very lost indeed.”
He climbed into the ship and sealed the rubber-lipped bulkhead. “Anteros, here we come,” he sighed, flinging down the lever of the protolens. There was a soft, slipping moment of transition that they could all recognize so well, and then through the port blinked countless stars in strange configurations. “Now,” said Gaynor, “where do you suppose we are?”
“Looks normal,” said Jocelyn. “But the constellations are all out of whack, of course. What do we do now?”
Her husband put the tracer to his ear. “The very faintest kind of buzzing. This isn’t the time, space, or plane of perception we want. But we’d better look around, anyway.” He shot the Prototype at a sun. “We’ll level out the curve of trajectory about a million miles from the troposphere,” he explained, twiddling with the controls, “and ride on energy. Like a switchback. Only—” the twiddling had become desperate—“we don’t seem to be able to level out. In fact, we’re about to plunge into that sun!”
“Awk!” gulped Jocelyn. “What’ll it be like?”
“Instant annihilation after a brief moment of intense discomfort,” replied her husband, abandoning the controls and leaning back in the bucket seat. “Kiss me, sweet.”
Jocelyn kissed him clingingly as they drove into the terrible, blazing surface of the sun. Then she looked at him coldly. “Well, when do we die?”
He looked baffled. “A few seconds ago. A glance will show you that we are in the center of a very big star and are even now emerging without any damage to the ship or to us. I submit that the star is cold. And why that should be, I’m damned if I know.”
“Yew brat!” snapped a sharp, bitter voice. “Will yew git ter tarnation gone out of my universe or dew I have ter kick ye out?”
“Who’s that?” asked Jocelyn.
“Davy Canter, thet’s who!” snapped back the irritable voice. “This is my universe and I ain’t hankerin’ after intruders. Ef’n yew-all want ter see me face ter face, I’m on the seventh planet of thet sun yew jest ran through. And ef’n yer comin’, come and ef’n yer gittin’, git!”
“Sounds like an invitation,” said Gaynor mildly. “Shall we call?” He selected the seventh planet and roared over its surface. The one huge continent that made it up was covered with ruins—and the most godawful ruins that anyone had ever seen anywhere. Periods and styles of architecture were jumbled close together; a Norman tower mouldering chock-by-jowl with a dilapidated super-city of shining concrete and glass met their eyes. Fascinated, they stared, as much at the scene as at the figure of the black-bearded hillbilly, complete with shotgun, standing atop a tower.
“Yew head north,” came the voice. “Jest land in a clear bit o’ land and I’ll be there.”
“Okay,” said Gaynor helplessly. He landed the ship and opened the port. The wild-eyed backwoodsman confronted him, shotgun raised. “I’m Davy Canter,” said the woodsman through his disheveled whiskers. “An’ I dont see why folks cain’t leave folks alone when they wants ter be alone. Whut do ye want in my universe?”
“Sorry, Mr. Canter,” said Gaynor diplomatically. “I’m Paul Gaynor.”
The backwoodsman stared at him in glee and cackled cheerfully. “Yew must be the fella that Billikin was always a-cussin’ up n’ daown,” he said. “I’m right pleased ter meet up with yew.” He extended his hand and solemnly they shook. Gaynor introduced the ladies and invited Canter in for a smoke and chat.
“Thank ye kindly,” said the backwoodsman, who seemed to be warming up to them. “I reckon ye’re wondering how come I got myself a universe all my own, hey?”
“Indeed we are,” said Jocelyn. “It looks like a good trick.”
“I’ll begin at the beginnin’,” said Canter comfortably. “I was known as the hermit of Razorback Crag back in West Virginia when this here Billikin, who said as haow he wuz a scientist feller, come to my place. He said he’d be gone in a little while ef’n I let him have the run o’ the cabin n
’ creek, and fust of all, he works up a batch o’ corn likker thet gits me jest warm with admiration—so I let him stay. All the time he was a-cussin Gaynor and Clair fer fakers and cheats, talkin’ like a tetched man.
“He sets him up a lot of machinery on top of the Crag with storage batteries and things and finally says to me: ‘Davy,’ he says, ‘I’m agoin’ to fix them two fakers, Gaynor n’ Clair. I’m agoin’ to build a universe all my own. An’ so help me ef’n they ever come traipsin’ into it, I’m jes’ nacherally agoin’ ter shoot them dead fer trespassin’.’ Then he pulls a switch an falls doawn daid. I guess it wuz heart failure or somethin’; he wuz as old as the hills. I looks him over ‘n’ takes a little swig o’ thet corn—‘n’ then I reckon as haow I must have fell agin’ another switch because I foun’ myself afloatin’ in space. So I sez to myself, I wish as haow I wuz on solid graound, and by ganny, I am! Then I sez to myself, I wish they wuz a sun up thar in the sky, and by ganny there is!
“So I bin here two or three years, I reckon, and, fuddlin’ araound, buildin’ cities and reducin’ them agin, puttin’ stars in the sky an’ takin’ them out when I get tired o’ them. It’s a sort o’ lonely life, Mister Gaynor, an’ ladies, but I wuz a hermit before Billikin came an’ I guess he just sort of expanded my career, you might say.”
“Extraordinary!” breathed Jocelyn.
“Thank yew, ma’am,” said the hermit, staring at her with unconcealed curiosity. “An’ naow, seein’ ez haow I’ve told yew-all my story, mebbe yew can be atellin’ me yours?”
“Nothing very much to it, Mr. Canter,” said Gaynor. “This other egg, Clair, that Billikin was cursing up and down along with me, got himself lost in a universe of his own, I suspect. Only where it is, we don’t know, and he hasn’t got air and water enough to last him more than a couple of days. And, unfortunately, his universe probably isn’t as convenient as yours, what with providing him with whatever he wishes for.”
“Sho is a pity,” mused Davy, shaking his head wisely. “Mebbe yew’d better push off, seem’ as haow yer friend’s stuck. But befo’ yo-all git, ah’d mightly like fo’ yew ter sample maw corn. Would yew be interested? Ah bin wishin’ thet kind thet Billikin cooked up for me fust of all—sho’ is fine likker, mister.”
“Indeed, I would like some,” said Gaynor, interrupting Jocelyn. They exchanged murderous glances. Davy cackled and produced a jug and glasses from his vest pocket. “Try this,” he offered, pouring three and one with the authentic backwoods overhand spill.
“Thanks,” said Gaynor gulping. “Awk!” he shrilled a second later. “Water!”
Davy was undisturbed. He waved his hand in a vague sweep and there was a firehose in it, whose tube snaked far back into the tumbled horizon. He played the terrific blast upon Gaynor, drenching him thoroughly. “Thet enough?” he asked, vanishing the hose.
Gaynor looked at him without words, wringing out his tie.
“Thanks,” said Jocelyn, grinning. She set down her glass untasted, and promptly it vanished. “But now we really must be going.”
“Well—seem’ ez ye must, ye must,” said the hermit. “But it wuz sort of nice fer ye ter drop in on a lonely old man.”
“Davy!” shrilled a voice. The voyagers looked through the door. A sweet, round young thing in brightly checked gingham was coming through the forest. “There yew air!” she snapped angrily, shaking her impossibly blond hair. “Consortin’ with disreputable people, yew varmint!”
“Aw, Daisy Belle,” said Davy wearily. He passed his hand at her and she disappeared. “Funny thing,” he said, looking redly sidewise at the voyagers. “Thet there phantasm jest won’t stay a-vanished.”
“Lonely old man,” sneered Jocelyn. “Hah!” She flung the ship into high, slamming the door after the hermit of Razorback Crag.
III.
“Your clothes dried yet, honey?” called Ionic Intersection.
“Lay off the honey,” warned Jocelyn, her eyes on the port. “You got yourself a man, even if you did lose him. How about it, Paul?”
“All dry,” announced Gaynor, emerging in a suit that needed pressing. “Where are we?”
“By Clair’s scale, about halfway from Earth to infinity. And the tracer’s making noises like a dowager who’s been eating radishes. Listen to the unmannerly creation.”
Gaynor put his ear to the sounding-plate of the little plastic box. “Right,” he stated grimly, “we’re in the neighborhood.”
“How about landing?” asked Jocelyn.
Gaynor flipped a coin. “We land. This two-header never fails me; pulls us out of Nowhere into the Wherever.”
His wife juggled briefly with the controls. Stars flashed again from the port. The counter’s ticking swelled to a roar that filled the cabin. “Emphatic device!” yelled Gaynor through the din. He turned a screw on the case and shut off the counter action. “This is it, I expect.”
“It?” Jocelyn dazedly inspected the planet they were nearing. “Give me a look at that thing.”
“What’s the matter with it? Or maybe you mean that city?”
“Exactly,” she assured him, raising her hand to blot out the sight. “It’s—awfully—big, wouldn’t you say?”
“Few thousand feet high,” commented Gaynor airily.. “What’s the odds?” He took over the controls and landed the ship.
“Ahg!” muttered Jocelyn to lo. “That extrovert—landing us in the principal square with cars zipping past. Not that I’d mind if the cars were a little smaller than zeppelins. But does he care for my peace of mind? Not that worm. Did I tell you what he did one night last week? There I was …”
“Look!” yelled Gaynor hastily, turning a little red. “See those ginks? Fifty feet high if they’re an inch. What do you suppose they want?”
“I wouldn’t even care to guess. Try the counter.”
Gaynor turned on the little thing. For the briefest moment it thundered, then went dead. “Blown out,” muttered Gaynor. “Either that, or— ” He tinkered with it. “Nope,” he announced finally, a bead of sweat coming out on his brow. “It’s in commission.”
“Then why,” asked Ionic Intersection plaintively, “doesn’t it sound?”
“I know, teacher,” said Jocelyn. “It’s fulfilled its whole function. It has counted faithfully and well as long as the object on which it was focused—that is to say, your husband’s ship, more particularly, the protolens of that ship, obtained. It is now no longer functioning for the direct reason that the lens is no longer in existence. It was completely destroyed a few seconds ago—when the counter stopped sounding.”
“But the ship won’t run without the lens! And the lens is mounted in solid quartz. How could they destroy the lens without destroying the ship?”
“They couldn’t,” stated Gaynor succinctly. “Keep calm, kid. If I know your husband, he’s not in that ship. With his ship-rat instinct, he deserted it long ago. The pertinacious Pavlik won’t fail you just yet. Meanwhile, dry your eyes—we have company. Give a look—out there.” Gaynor stared through the port, glassy-eyed. “Giants,” he continued strainedly. “Lots of them. Let’s get out of here!” He kicked over the booster-pedal and very nearly started the drive-engines—but not before one of the giants had laid a two-ton finger on the ship and grasped it firmly between thumb and forefinger.
“No use busting gears against that thing.” Gaynor cut off the motor and relaxed. “Any suggestions, babes?”
“Not one” said Jocelyn. “They seem to be talking—at least, the sky is clear; can’t be thunder.”
“Whu—what’s that?” quavered Io, pointing. The port was completely filled by a colossal jellylike mass that heaved convulsively. The blackish center seemed to be a hole of some kind through which they could look and see a dim cavern shot through with a strata of metallic matter, and honeycombed in its far rear with a curiously regular pattern of hexacombs. “Is it alive?”
“That,” said Gaynor gently, “is an eye. And not at all an unusual one—just a big one.
It’s what yours would look like under a microscope. For God’s sake, keep calm.”
The eye withdrew and the Prototype clanged hideously with the din of a thousand bells as some colossal sledge crashed against their shell. “That,” said Jocelyn as she picked herself from the floor, “could be the inevitable attempt to establish communication with the little creatures so unexpectedly arriving. She lifted a wrench. “They answer, thus.” She rained blows on the shell of the ship until their ears rang.
“That’s enough,” said her husband removing the wrench from her hands. “Now that you’ve succeeded in denting the hull all out of its streamlines. But maybe it did some good.” They could hear the conversation thundering resumed; colossal feet stamped about the ship as it seemed to be surveyed from all angles.
“Awk!” shrilled Io as the Prototype lurched violently. Like peas in a bladder, they were shaken into the stern.
“Io,” said Jocelyn sharply. “Would you mind—” she gestured the rest.
“Sorry,” replied the brunette, arranging her clothes. “Anyway, your poor dear husband seems to be out.” Jocelyn gave her a hard look. “I can take care of him,” she retorted, climbing the steeply sloping floor, toward the water tank.
“Jocelyn,” complained Gaynor reproachfully, “that wasn’t fair—hitting me when I wasn’t looking.”
“I didn’t,” said his wife, busily changing the cold compress. “Your fifty-foot friends seem to be taking us for a ride in one of their Fallen Arch Sixes. You’ve just come to after an interval of about three hours. They keep looking in, and I think they’re making dirty jokes.” A titanic bellow of laughter rang through the ship. “See what I mean?”
“I don’t see the joke,” said Gaynor absently, holding his head. “What’s Io doing?”
Before the Universe Page 17