Untouched by Human Hands

by Robert Sheckley

  Looking at them, Masrin couldn’t decide if they were forerunners of Indians, or a separate sub-race which didn’t survive. He wondered if they thought he was an enemy, or a garden-variety evil spirit.

  Masrin darted forward, shoved two of them aside, and grabbed his suitcase. He ran back, circling the little hill, and stopped.

  He was still in the past.

  Where in chaos was that hole in time, Masrin wondered, not noticing the strangeness of his oath. The savages were coming after him now, starting around the little hill. Masrin almost had the answer, then lost it as an arrow sped past him. He sprinted, trying to keep the hill between himself and the Indians. His long legs pumped, and a club bounced behind him.

  Where was that hole in time? What if it had moved? Perspiration poured from his face as he ran. A club grazed his arm, and he twisted around the side of the hill, looking wildly for shelter.

  He met three squat savages, coming after him.

  Masrin fell to the ground as they swung their clubs, and they tripped over his body. Others were coming now, and he jumped to his feet.

  Up! The thought struck him suddenly, cutting through his fear. Up!

  He charged the hill, certain that he would never reach the top alive.

  And he was back in the boarding house, still holding the suitcase.

  “Are you hurt, darling?” Kay put her arms around him. “What happened?”

  Masrin had only one rational thought. He couldn’t remember any prehistoric tribe that carved their clubs as elaborately as these savages. It was almost a unique art form, and he wished he could get one of the clubs to a museum.

  Then he looked at the mauve walls wildly, expecting to see the savages come bounding out of them. Or perhaps there were little men in his suitcase. He fought for control. The thinking portion of his mind told him not to be alarmed; flaws in time were possible, and he had become wedged, impacted in one. Everything else followed logically. All he had to do—

  But another part of his mind wasn’t interested in logic. It had been staring blankly at the impossibility of the whole thing, uninfluenced by any rational arguments. That part knew an impossibility when it saw one, and said so.

  Masrin screamed and fainted.

  TO: CENTER

  Office 41

  ATTN: Asst. Controller Miglese

  FROM: Contractor Carienomen

  SUB J: ATTALA Metagalaxy

  Dear Sir:

  I consider your attitude unfair. True, I have utilized some new ideas in my approach to this particular metagalaxy. I have allowed myself the latitude of artistry, never thinking I would be beset by the howls of a static, reactionary CENTER.

  Believe me, I am as interested as you in our great job—that of suppressing the fundamental chaos. But in doing this, we must not sacrifice our values.

  Enclosed is a statement of defense concerning my use of the red shift, and another statement of the advantages gained by using a small percentage of unstable atoms for lighting and energy purposes.

  As to the time-flaw, that was merely a small error in duration-flow, and has nothing to do with the fabric of space, which is, I assure you, of first-rate quality.

  There is, as you pointed out, an individual impacted in the flaw, which makes the job of repair slightly more difficult. I have been in contact with him, indirectly of course, and have succeeded in giving him a limited understanding of his role.

  If he doesn’t disturb the flaw too much by time-traveling, I should be able to sew it up with little difficulty. I don’t know if this procedure is possible, though. My rapport with him is quite shaky, and he seems to have a number of strong influences around him, counseling him to move.

  I could perform an extraction of course, and ultimately I may have to do just that. For that matter, if the thing gets out of hand I may be forced to extract the entire planet. I hope not, since that would necessitate clearing that entire portion of space, where there are also local observers. This, in turn, might necessitate rebuilding an entire galaxy.

  However, I hope to have the problem settled by the time I next communicate with you.

  The warp in the metagalactic center was caused by some workmen leaving a disposal unit open. It has been closed.

  The phenomena such as walking mountains, et cetera, are being handled in the usual way. Payment is still due on my work.

  Respectfully,

  Carienomen

  Enclosed:

  1 statement, 5541 pages, Red Shift

  1 statement, 7689 pages, Unstable Atoms

  TO: Construction Headquarters

  334132, Extension 12

  ATTN: Contractor Carienomen

  FROM: Asst. Controller Miglese

  SUBJ: ATTALA Metagalaxy

  Carienomen:

  You will be paid after you can show me a logical, decently constructed job. I’ll read your statements when and if I have time. Take care of the flaw-impaction before it tears a hole in the fabric of space.

  Miglese

  Masrin recovered his nerve in half an hour. Kay put a compress on a purple bruise on his arm. Masrin started pacing the room. Once again, he was in complete possession of his faculties. Ideas started to come.

  “The past is down,” he said, half to Kay, half to himself.

  “I don’t mean really ‘down’; but when I move in that apparent direction, I step through the hole in time. It’s a case of shifted conjoined dimensionality.”

  “What does that mean?” Kay asked, staring wide-eyed at her husband.

  “Just take my word for it,” Masrin said, “I can’t go down.” He couldn’t explain it to her any better. There weren’t words to fit the concepts.

  “Can you go up?” Kay asked, completely confused.

  “I don’t know. I suppose, if I went up, I’d go into the future.”

  “Oh, I can’t stand it,” Kay said. “What’s wrong with you? How will you get out of here? How will you get down that haunted staircase?”

  “Are you people still there?” Mr. Harf’s voice croaked from outside. Masrin walked over and opened the door.

  “I think we’re going to stay for a while,” he said to the landlord.

  “You’re not,” Harf said. “I’ve already rented this room again.” Happy Boy Harf was small and bony, with a narrow skull and lips as thin as a spider’s thread. He stalked into the room, looking around for signs of damage to his property. One of Mr. Harf’s little idiosyncrasies was his belief that the nicest people were capable of the worst crimes.

  “When are the people coming?” Masrin asked.

  “This afternoon. And I want you out before they get here.”

  “Couldn’t we make some arrangement?” Masrin asked. The impossibility of the situation struck him. He couldn’t go downstairs. If Harf forced him out, he would have to go to prehistoric New York, where he was sure his return was eagerly awaited.

  And there was the over-all problem of paradox!

  “I’m sick,” Kay said in a stifled little voice. “I can’t leave yet.”

  “What are you sick from? I’ll call an ambulance if you’re sick,” Harf said, looking suspiciously around the room for any signs of bubonic plague.

  “I’d gladly pay you double the rent if you’d let us stay a little longer,” Masrin said.

  Harf scratched his head, and stared at Masrin. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, and said, “Where’s the money?”

  Masrin realized that he had about ten dollars left, and his train tickets. He and Kay were going to ask for an advance as soon as they reached the college.

  “Broke,” Harf said. “I thought you had a job at some school?”

  “He does,” Kay said staunchly.

  “Then why don’t you go there and get out of my place?” Harf asked.

  The Masrins were silent. Harf glared at them.

  “Very suspicious. Get out before noon, or I’ll call a cop.”

  “Hold it,” Masrin said. “We’ve paid the rent for today. The room’s o
urs until twelve midnight.”

  Harf stared at them. He wiped his nose again, thoughtfully.

  “Don’t try staying one minute over,” he said, stamping out of the room.

  As soon as Harf was gone, Kay hurried over and closed the door. “Honey,” she said, “why don’t you call up some scientists here in New York and tell them what’s happened? I’m sure they’d arrange something, until . . . how long will we have to stay here?”

  “Until the flaw’s repaired,” Masrin said. “But we can’t tell anyone; especially, we can’t tell any scientists.”

  “Why not?” Kay asked.

  “Look, the important thing, as I told you, is to avoid a paradox. That means I have to keep my hands off the past, and the future. Right?”

  “If you say so,” Kay said.

  “We call in a team of scientists, and what happens? Naturally, they’re skeptical. They want to see me do it. So I do it. Immediately, they bring in a few of their colleagues. They watch me disappear. Understand, all this time there’s no proof that I’ve gone into the past. All they know is, if I walk downstairs, I disappear.

  “Photographers are called in, to make sure I’m not hypnotizing the scientists. Then they demand proof. They want me to bring back a scalp, or one of those carved clubs. The newspapers get hold of it. It’s inevitable that somewhere along the line I produce a paradox. And do you know what happens then?”

  “No, and you don’t either.”

  “I do,” Masrin said firmly. “Once a paradox is caused, the agent—the man who caused it—me—disappears. For good. And it goes down in the books as another unsolved mystery. That way, the paradox is resolved in its easiest way—by getting rid of the paradoxical element.”

  “If you think you’re in danger, then of course we won’t call in any scientists,” Kay said. “Although I wish I knew what you were driving at. I don’t understand anything you’ve said.” She went to the window and looked out. There was New York, and beyond it, somewhere, was Iowa, where they should be going. She looked at her watch. They had already missed the train.

  “Phone the college,” Masrin said. “Tell them I’ll be delayed a few days.”

  “Will it be a few days?” Kay asked. “How will you ever get out?”

  “Oh, the hole in time isn’t permanent,” Masrin said confidently. “It’ll heal—if I don’t go sticking myself in it.”

  “But we can only stay here until midnight. What happens then?”

  “I don’t know,” Masrin said. “We can only hope it’ll be fixed by then.”

  TO: CENTER

  Office 41

  ATTN: Asst. Controller Miglese

  FROM: Contractor Carienomen

  SUBJ: MORSTT Metagalaxy

  Dear Sir:

  Herein, enclosed, is my bid for work on the new metagalaxy in the region coded MORSTT. If you have heard any discussions in art circles recently, I think that you will see that my use of unstable atoms in ATTALA Metagalaxy has been proclaimed “the first great advance in creative engineering since the invention of variable time-flow.” See the enclosed reviews.

  My artistry has stirred many favorable comments.

  Most of the inconsistencies—natural inconsistencies, let me remind you—in ATTALA Metagalaxy have been corrected. I am still working with the man impacted in the time flaw. He is proving quite co-operative; at least, as cooperative as he can be, with the various influences around him.

  To date, I have coalesced the edges of the flaw, and am allowing them to harden. I hope the individual remains immobile, since I really don’t like to extract anyone or anything. After all, each person, each planet, each star system, no matter how minute, has an integral part in my metagalactic scheme.

  Artistically, at any rate.

  Your inspection is welcomed again. Please note the galactic configurations around the metagalactic center. They are a dream of beauty you will wish to carry with you always.

  Please consider my bid for the MORSTT Metagalaxy project in light of my past achievements.

  Payment is still due on ATTALA Metagalaxy.

  Respectfully,

  Carienomen

  Enclosed:

  I bid, for MORSTT Metagalaxy project

  3 critical reviews, ATTALA Metagalaxy

  “It’s eleven forty-five, honey,” Kay said nervously. “Do you think we could go now?”

  “Let’s wait a few minutes longer,” Masrin said. He could hear Harf prowling around on the landing, waiting eagerly for the dot of twelve.

  Masrin watched the seconds tick by on his watch.

  At five minutes to twelve, he decided that he might as well find out. If the hole wasn’t fixed by now, another five minutes wouldn’t do it.

  He placed the suitcase on the dresser, and moved a chair next to it.

  “What are you doing?” Kay asked.

  “I don’t feel like trying those stairs at night,” Masrin said. “It’s bad enough playing with those pre-Indians in the daylight. I’m going to try going up, instead.” His wife gave him an under-the-eyelids now-I-know-you’re-cracking look.

  “It’s not the stairs that does it,” Masrin told her again. “It’s the act of going up or down. The critical distance seems to be about five feet. This will do just as well.”

  Kay stood nervously, clenching and unclenching both hands, as Masrin climbed on the chair and put one foot on the dresser. Then the other, and he stood up.

  “I think it’s all right,” he said, teetering a little. “I’m going to try it a little higher.”

  He climbed on the suitcase.

  And disappeared.

  It was day, and he was in a city. But the city didn’t look like New York. It was breathtakingly beautiful—so beautiful that Masrin didn’t dare breathe, for fear of disturbing its fragile loveliness.

  It was a place of delicate, wispy towers and buildings.

  And people. But what people, Masrin thought, letting out his breath with a sigh.

  The people were blue-skinned. The light was green, coming from a green-tinged sun.

  Masrin drew in a breath of air, and strangled. He gasped again, and started to lose his balance. There was no air in the place! At least, no air he could breathe. He felt for a step behind him, and then tumbled down—

  To land, choking and writhing, on the floor of his room.

  After a few moments he could breathe again. He heard Harf pounding on the door. Masrin staggered to his feet, and tried to think of something. He knew Harf; the man was probably certain by now that Masrin headed the Mafia. He would call a cop if they didn’t leave. And that would ultimately result in—

  “Listen,” he said to Kay, “I’ve got another idea.” His throat was burning from the atmosphere of the future. However, he told himself, there was no reason why he should be surprised. He had made quite a jump forward. The composition of the Earth’s atmosphere must have changed, gradually, and the people had adapted to it. But it was a poison for him.

  “There are two possibilities now,” he said to Kay. “One, that under the prehistoric layer is another, earlier layer. Two, that the prehistoric layer is only a temporary discontinuity. That under it, is present New York again. Follow me?”

  “No.”

  “I’m going to try going under the prehistoric layer. It might get me down to the ground floor. Certainly, it can’t be any worse.” Kay considered the logic of going some thousands of years into the past in order to walk ten feet, but didn’t say anything.

  Masrin opened the door and went out to the stairs, followed by Kay. “Wish me luck,” he said.

  “Luck, nothing,” Mr. Harf said, on the landing. “Just get out of here.”

  Masrin plunged down the stairs.

  It was still morning in prehistoric New York, and the savages were still waiting for him. Masrin estimated that only about half an hour had gone by here. He didn’t have time to wonder why.

  He had caught them by surprise, and was twenty yards away before they saw him. They followed,
and Masrin looked for a depression. He had to go down five feet, in order to get out.

  He found a shelving of the land, and jumped down.

  He was in water. Not just on the surface, but under. The pressure was tremendous, and Masrin could not see sunlight above him.

  He must have gone through to a time when this section was under the Atlantic.

  Masrin kicked furiously, eardrums bursting. He started to rise toward the surface, and—

  He was back on the plain, dripping wet.

  This time, the savages had had enough. They looked at him, materialized in front of them, gave a shriek of horror, and bolted.

  This water sprite was too strong for them.

  Wearily, Masrin walked back to the hill, climbed it, and was back in the brownstone.

  Kay was staring at him, and Harf’s jaw was hanging slack. Masrin grinned weakly.

  “Mr. Harf,” he said, “will you come into my room? There’s something I want to tell you.”

  TO: CENTER

  Office 41 ATTN:

  Asst. Controller Miglese

  FROM: Contractor Carienomen

  SUBJ: MORSTT Metagalaxy

  My Dear Sir:

  I cannot understand your reply to my bid for the job of constructing MORSTT Metagalaxy. Moreover, I do not think that obscenity has any place in a business letter.

  If you have taken the trouble to inspect my latest work in ATTALA, you will see that it is, take it all for all, a beautiful job, and one that will go a long way toward holding back the fundamental chaos.

  The only detail left to attend to is the matter of the impacted man. I fear I shall have to extract.

  The flaw was hardening nicely, when he blundered into it again, tearing it worse than ever. No paradox as yet, but I can see one coming.

  Unless he can control his immediate environment, and do it at once, I shall take the necessary step. Paradox is not allowed.

  I consider it my duty to ask you to reconsider my bid for the MORSTT Metagalaxy project.

  And I trust you will excuse me for bringing this oversight to your attention, but payment is still due.