Another shadow rose from among the shrubs; not that of a man, but of something out of the Mesozoic. The human shadow tossed a package to the reptilian shadow just as the museum’s watchman appeared in the doorway and shouted:
“Hey, you!”
The human shadow ran like the wind, while the reptilian shadow faded into the bushes. The watchman yelled again, blew on a police whistle, and ran after the human shadow, but gave up, puffing, after a while. The quarry had disappeared.
“Be goddamned,” muttered the watchman. “Gotta get the cops on this one. Let’s see, who came in late this afternoon, just before closing?
There was that little Italian-looking girl, and that red-haired professor, and that big football-type guy . . .”
###
Frank Hodiak found his roommate packing his few simple belongings, and asked:
“Where you going?”
“I am gettink retty to leave for the Christmas vacation,” said Hithafea. “I got permission to leafe a few tays aheat of the rest.” He shut his small suitcase with a snap and said: “Goot-pye, Frank. It is nice to have known you.”
“Good-bye? Are you going right now?”
“Yes.”
“You sound if you weren’t coming back!”
“Perhaps. Some tay. Sahacikhthasèf, as we say on Osiris.”
Hodiak said: “Say, what’s that funny-looking package you put in your—”
But before he finished, Hithafea was gone.
###
When the next pledge meeting was called, Hithafea, hitherto the outstanding eager-beaver among the pledges, was absent. They called the dormitory and got in touch with Frank Hodiak, who said that Hithafea had shoved off hours previously.
The other curious fact was that John Fitzgerald had his right wrist bandaged. When the brothers asked him why, he said: “Damn’f I know. I just found myself in my room with a cut on my wrist, and no idea how it got there.”
The meeting was well under way and the paddles were descending when the doorbell rang. Two men came in: one of the campus cops and a regular municipal policeman.
The former said: “Is John Fitzgerald here?”
“Yeah,” said Fitzgerald. “I’m him.”
“Get your hat and coat and come with us.”
“Whaffor?”
“We wanna ask you a few questions about the disappearance of an exhibit from the museum.”
“I don’t know anything about it. Run along and peddle your papers.”
That was the wrong line to take, because the city cop brought out a piece of paper with a lot of fancy printing on it and said: “Okay, here’s a warrant. You’re pinched. Come—” and he took Fitzgerald by the arm.
Fitzgerald cut loose with a swing that ended, splush, on the cop’s face, so that the policeman fell down on his back and lay there, moving a little and moaning. The other brothers got excited and seized both cops and threw them out the front door and bumpety-bump down the stone steps of the fraternity house. Then they went back to their pledge meeting.
In five minutes four radio patrol cars stopped in front of the frat house and a dozen cops rushed in.
The brothers, so belligerent a few minutes before, got out of the way at the sight of the clubs and blackjacks. Hands reached out of blue-clad sleeves towards Fitzgerald. He hit another cop and knocked him down, and then the hands fastened onto all his limbs and held him fast. When he persisted in struggling, a cop hit him on the head with a blackjack and he stopped.
When he came to and calmed down, on the way to the police station, he asked: “What the hell is this all about? I tell you, I never stole nothing from a museum in my whole life!”
“Oh yes you did,” said a cop. “It was the false teeth of one of them things from another planet. O’Riley, I think they call it. You was seen going into the museum around closing time, and you left your fingerprints all over the glass case when you busted it. Boy, this time we’ll sure throw the book at you! Damn college kids, think they’re better than other folks . . .”
###
Next day, Herbert Lengyel got a letter:
Dear Herb:
When you read this I shall be en route to Osiris with the teeth of Chief Inspector Ficèsaqha, one of our greatest heroes. I managed to get a berth on a ship leaving for Pluto, whence I shall proceed to my own system on an Osirian interstellar liner.
When Fitzgerald suggested I steal the teeth, the temptation to recover this relic, originally stolen by de Câmara, was irresistible. Not being an experienced burglar, I hypnotized Fitzgerald into doing the deed for me. Thus I killed three birds with one stone, as you Earthmen say. I got the teeth; I got even with Fitzgerald for his insults; and I got him in Dutch to give you a clear field with Miss Holm.
I tell you this so you can save him from being expelled, as I do not think he deserves so harsh a penalty. I also gave you the Osirian hypnosis to remove some of your inhibitions, so you shall be able to handle your end of the project.
I regret not having finished my course at Atlantic and not being finally initiated into Iota Gamma Omicron. However, my people will honor me for this deed, as we admire the refined sentiments.
Fraternally,
Hithafea
Lengyel put the letter away and looked at himself in the mirror. He now understood why he had felt so light, daring, and self-confident the last few hours. Not like his old self at all. He grinned, brushed back his hair, and started for the house phone to call Alice.
###
“So, chentlemen,” said Hithafea, “now you unterstant why I have decidet to sign your agreement as it stants. I shall perhaps be criticized for giffink in to you too easily. But you see, I am soft-heartet apout your planet. I have been on many planets, and nowhere have I peen taken in and mate to feel at home as I was py the Iota Gamma Omicron fraternity, many years ago.”
The ambassador began to gather up his papers. “Have you a memorantum of this meetink for me to initial? Goot.” Hithafea signed, using his claw for a pen. “Then we can have a formal signink next week, eh? With cameras and speeches? Some tay if you feel like erecting a monument to the founders of the Interplanetary Council, you might erect it to Mr. Herbert Lengyel.”
Evans said: “Sir, I’m told you Osirians like our Earthly alcoholic drinks. Would you care to step down to the Federation bar . . .”
“I am so sorry, not this time. Next time, yes. Now I must catch an airplane to Baltimore, U.S.A.”
“What are you doing there?” said Chagas.
“Why, Atlantic University is giving me an honorary degree. How I shall balance one of those funny hats with the tassel on my crest I do not yet know. But that was another reason I agreet to your terms. You see, we are a sentimental race. What is the matter with Mr. Wu? He looks sick.”
Chagas said: “He has been watching his lifelong philosophy crumble to bits, that is all. Come, we will see you to your aircraft.”
As Wu pulled himself together and rose with the rest, Evans grinned wryly at him, saying: “After we’ve dropped the ambassador, I think I’ll make it a champagne cocktail!”
A.D. 104-2128
Summer Wear
Cato Chapman and Celia Zorn, the model, were waiting for the Moon ship to take off from Mohave Spaceport. Chapman, a brisk young man who sometimes reminded people of a chipmunk, said to his young cousin, Mahoney: “If you can take enough time off from your precious paint, Ed, keep an eye on Miss Nettie. Don’t want to come back in twenty-two years and find she’s forgotten us.”
“Sure,” said Mahoney. “I like the old dame. She buys our paint. Tough customer, though, isn’t she?”
Celia Zorn said: “I think ‘formidable’ is the word. But see to it she doesn’t get some perfectly bizarre idea and go broke.”
“Like selling summer clothes to critters that don’t wear none and don’t need ’em?” said Mahoney. “If she gets any crazier ones than that . . .”
Chapman punched his cousin’s arm with friendly violence. “Not so nuts, E
d. Osirians go in for fads and fashions, and they’re the only civilized extra-terrestrials with a real capitalistic system; less socialized even than that of the U.S.”
Mahoney said: “What do I do if she does go loco?”
“I don’t know,” said Chapman, “but I’d hate to come back and find there wasn’t any Greenfarb’s of Hollywood . . .”
“All passengers! Todos passageiros!” bellowed the loudspeaker.
Chapman and Miss Zorn shook hands with Mahoney and walked up the ramp. Mahoney yelled after them: “Behave yourselves! Or if you can’t . . .”
Chapman thought that if he had misbehavior in mind, he wouldn’t pick a girl two inches taller than he. He forebore to say so, though, since he wanted to keep on friendly terms with Celia even if she did not appeal to the romantic side of his nature.
Seven hours later they alighted at Tycho station for the usual wrestle with red tape before boarding the Camões for Osiris, otherwise Procyon XIV. The passenger fiscal said: “You have a berth reserved for your trunk, senhor?”
“That’s right,” said Chapman.
“I do not understand. Contains this trunk a live creature?”
“Not at all. It is my sample trunk.”
“Samples of what?”
“Clothes. I am the sales agent for Greenfarb’s of Hollywood, summer wear, and Miss Greenfarb insists I sleep with that damned trunk until I’ve done my business.”
The fiscal shrugged. “It is no business of mine, if your employer wishes to pay a couple of thousand dollars extra. There is another passenger on the Camões with a sample trunk like yours; he is in clothing too. Excuse me please . . .”
Seeing that the next man in line was fidgeting, Chapman walked away, checking his tickets and passport.
“Yours okay?” he asked Celia.
“Yes. Wasn’t that ticket agent simply divine, Cato? I love these tall dark Latin types.”
“Keep your mind on business,” growled Chapman. As he was small and sandy, her remarks stung his amour-propre. Moreover he knew enough of her weaknesses to become apprehensive when she began to talk in that vein. He added: “Seems we’ve got a rival aboard.”
“What? How perfectly horrid! Who is he?”
“Dunno yet, but the fiscal said some guy has another sample trunk full of clothes.”
“Oh.” Celia’s face took on that lugubrious expression. “One of the big Parisian cout—”
“Sh! We’ll know soon enough. It’s not him, anyhow.” Chapman jerked his head towards an Osirian who stalked past on birdlike legs, carrying a suitcase. The Osirian (or Sha’akhfa, to give him his proper name) looked like a dinosaur seven feet tall: one of the little ones that ran around on their hind legs with a tail sticking out behind to balance. The creature’s scaly hide was decorated with an elaborate painted pattern in many colors.
“Excuse me, pleass,” said this being in a barely intelligible accent, “put what iss the correct moon time?”
Chapman told the Osirian (a male from his wattle) who set his wrist-watch and asked: “Are you too koink py the Camões?”
“Yes,” said Chapman.
“So am I. Let uss introtuce ourselfs. I am Businessman-second-rank Fiasakhe.”
Chapman introduced himself and the model and asked: “I wonder you don’t wait for an Osirian ship, Mr. Fiasakhe?”
“I would, sir, but an urchent message from home . . . I came in with that cultural mission, you know, that iss to prepare the way for the export of the designs of Osirian arts and crafts . . .”
Celia said: “I should think you’d find one of our ships frightfully uncomfortable.”
“I do! Always I am bumping my head on torframes or catching my tail in tors! Put then . . .” The creature managed a shrug with his negligible shoulders.
###
The steward showed Chapman his cabin and said: “Where shall we put this trunk you have a passenger ticket for, Senhor?”
“Middle bunk,” said Chapman, picking up the printed passenger list from the tiny dresser. He read:
Barros, M.C, Rio de Janeiro.
Bergerat, J.-J.M., Paris.
Chapman, C.H., Hollywood.
Chisholm, W.J., Minneapolis.
Fiasakhe, 3*, Cefef Aqh, Osiris.
Kamimura, A., Kobe.
Kichik*, Dzidzigä, Thoth.
Mpande, S., Molopololi, Bechuanaland.
Popovich, I.I., Sofia.
Savinkov, A.P., Paris.
Sz, T.-E., Tientsin.
Varga, M., Szolnok, Hungary.
Zorn, C.E., Hollywood.
A footnote told him that the names with asterisks were those of extra-terrestrials . . .
“Cato!” said Celia’s voice outside.
“Come in, Cee.”
The tall dark girl did so. “I’m in with Senhora Barros and Anya Savinkov. Anya is a model for Tomaselli’s of Paris!”
“Ah,” said Chapman. “Say who her boss was?”
“No, I’ve only just met her. She’s the redhead.”
“Hm. Our rival must be this Bergerat. I seem to remember that guy: the agent for Tomaselli’s at the New York fair three years ago. A tall dark type, the kind you slobber over—”
“I do not! The nerve of you—”
“Okay, consider it unsaid. A slick operator, as I remember; pulled some fast ones on the New York department stores.”
She looked at the list. “Fiasakhe we know. This Kichik must be an e.t. from Thoth. What are they like?”
“Monkey-rats, they sometimes call them; about a meter high, with seven fingers on each hand.”
“How perfectly horrid!”
“They’re harmless.”
The door opened again and the steward ushered in a black man who turned out to be S. Mpande. After introductions Chapman said: “How about giving me to top bunk, Mr. Mpande? I’m better fitted for climbing into it.”
Mpande patted his paunch and chuckled. “Right-o, old chap.”
“See you later, Cee,” said Chapman.
After the first few high-g hours following takeoff, Chapman got up from his bunk and went out to explore. On the opposite side of the narrow curving corridor, a little way around the circumference of the nose of the ship, was a door behind which, according to the legend in the Brazilo-Portuguese of the spaceways, lay the passengers’ heavy baggage. The door was closed by a simple cylinder lock—locked.
Following the corridor back in the other direction, Chapman came to the tiny saloon with its two little tables. Around one a game of sunburst was already under way among three human passengers and the Thothian, whose many fingers flipped the cards with ominous dexterity.
A tall dark young man unfolded himself and came over to extend a hand ornamented with a large and gaudy ring: “ ’Ello, Meester Shapman! Remembair me from the New York Fair?”
“Hello, Jean-Jacques,” said Chapman. “On your way to Osiris to drum up business?”
“Well, yes, maybe. I suspect that you and I, we are after the same thing.”
“Got a line of summer wear?”
“Pour le sport, that is it. This is droll, no? What is this about keeping your sample trunk in your cabin?”
Chapman grinned. “Thought some sharp operator like you might be along, so . . .”
“I see, ha-ha. Me, I think Captain Almeida’s locks will keep unwanted ones away. And I can imagine more amusing things to keep in my cabin than a trunk.”
“No doubt,” said Chapman. “But as there are only three females aboard . . .”
“Exactement. When the number does not come out even, the results are sometimes of the most amusing. Unless you count Kichik, who is neither one thing nor the other.”
“Both,” squeaked the Thothian. “Don’t you envy me? Three spades.”
It was hard to get Celia aside for private conversation because of the lack of space. He met the other passengers, including Bergerat’s luscious redhead, who seemed a nice straightforward girl. At least she didn’t tower over him as Celia did.
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Since Mpande turned out to be a sunburst enthusiast, Chapman finally got a moment with his model in his cabin. He said: “I’m going to get a look at that trunk of Bergerat’s.”
“How, if it’s locked up?”
“Didn’t you know I once worked for a locksmith?”
“Now, look, Cato, don’t start something like that again. You remember what happened to you in the case of that Argentine polo player . . .”
“You leave this to me! I didn’t say I was going to do anything to his trunk, did I?”
“No, but I know you—”
“And I know Jean-Jacques; the only way to treat that no goodnik is to beat him to the punch.”
“I think he’s perfectly nice!”
“Ha ha. You’ll see.”
Chapman went back down the corridor and studied the baggage-room door. Then he took life easy until chance introduced him to Zuloaga, the chief engineer of the Camões.
“Could I have a look around?” he asked after the amenities.
“I much regret, but it is a strict rule of the Viagens Interplanetarias that no passengers are allowed in the power compartments.”
“Then how about the machine shop? I couldn’t do any harm there.”
Zuloaga wagged a forefinger. “Oh, you Americanos do Norte all want to get your hands greasy as soon as you come aboard. It must give you a feeling of virility, pois não? But come, you shall see our little shop.”
In the shop Chapman cultivated the acquaintance of Chief Machinist Gustafson. Zuloaga left them puttering among the tools. When Chapman departed a quarter-hour later, he took with him a lump of beeswax and a length of wire which he had slipped into his pockets unseen.
The Continent Makers and Other Tales of the Viagens Page 3