He relaxed on the couch and siphoned a double martini.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmured after a while. “Whew! I guess. Vanning must have been the only guy who ever reached into the middle of next week and—killed himself! I think I’ll get tight.”
And he did.
The World is Mine
“Let me in!” shrilled the rabbity little creature outside the window. “Let me in! The world is mine!” Gallegher automatically rolled off his couch, reeling under the not unexpected gravity-pull of a colossal hangover, and gazed about in a bleary fashion. His laboratory, gloomy in gray morning light, swam into visibility around him. Two dynamos, decorated with tinsel, seemed to stare at him as though resentful of their festive garments. Why tinsel? Probably the result of those Tom-and-Jerries, Gallegher thought wanly. He must have decided that last night was Christmas Eve.
Brooding on the thought, he was recalled to himself by a repetition of the squeaky cry that had awakened him. Gallagher turned carefully, holding his head between steadying palms. A face, small, furry and fantastic, was regarding him steadfastly through the plexoglas of the nearest window.
It was not the sort of face to see after a drinking bout. The ears were huge, round and furry, the eyes enormous, and a pink button of a nose shivered and twitched. Again the creature cried:
“Let me in! I gotta conquer the world!”
“What now?” Gallagher said under his breath, as he went to the door and opened it. The back yard was empty save for three remarkable animals that now stood in a row facing him, their furry white bodies fat and pushy as pillows. Three pink noses twitched. Three pairs of golden eyes watched Gallegher steadily. Three pairs of dumpy legs moved in unison as the creatures scuttled over the threshold, nearly upsetting Gallegher as they rushed past.
That was that. Gallegher went hurriedly to his liquor organ, mixed a quick one, and siphoned it down. He felt a little better—not much. The three guests were sitting or standing in a row, as usual, watching him unblinkingly.
Gallagher sat down on the couch. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“We’re Lybblas,” said the foremost.
“Ah.” Gallegher thought for a moment. “What are Lybblas?”
“Us,” the Lybblas said.
It seemed to be a deadlock, broken when a shapeless bundle of blankets in one corner stirred and exposed a nutbrown, withered face, seamed with far too many wrinkles. A man emerged, thin, ancient and bright-eyed. “Well, stupid,” he said, “so you let ’em in, eh?”
Gallegher thought back. The old fellow, of course, was his grandfather, in Manhattan for a visit from his Maine farm. Last night—Hm-m-m. What happened last night? Dimly he recalled Grandpa boasting about his capacity for liquor, and the inevitable result: a contest. Grandpa had won. But what else had happened?
He inquired.
“Don’t you know?” Grandpa said.
“I never know,” Gallagher told him wearily. “That’s how I invent things. I get tight and work ’em out. Never know how, exactly. I invent by ear.”
“I know,” Grandpa nodded. “That’s just what you did. See that?” He pointed to a corner, where stood a tall, enigmatic machine Gallegher did not recognize. It buzzed quietly to itself.
“Oh? What is it?”
“You made it. Yourself. Last night.”
“I did, huh? Why?”
“How should I know?” Grandpa scowled. “ You started fiddling with gadgets and set the thing up. Then you said it was a time machine. Then you turned it on. Focused it into the back yard, for safety’s sake. We went out to watch, and those three little guys popped out of empty air. We came back—in a hurry, I recall. Where’s a drink?”
The Lybblas began to dance up and down impatiently. “It was cold out there last night,” one of them said reproachfully. “You should have let us in. The world is ours.”
Gallegher’s long, horselike face grew longer. “So. Well, if I built a time machine—though I don’t remember a thing about it—you must have come out of some different time, right?”
“Sure,” one of the Lybblas agreed. “Five hundred years or so.”
“You’re not—human? I mean—we’re not going to evolve into you?”
“No,” said the fattest Lybbla complacently, “it would take thousands of years for you to evolve into the dominant species. We’re from Mars.”
“Mars—the future. Oh. You—talk English.”
“There are Earth people on Mars in our day. Why not? We read English, talk the lingo, know everything.”
Gallegher muttered under his breath. “And you’re the dominant species on Mars?”
“Well, not exactly,” a Lybbla hesitated. “Not all Mars.”
“Not even half of Mars,” said another. “Just Koordy Valley,” the third announced. “But Koordy Valley is the center of the universe. Very highly civilized. We have books. About Earth and so on. We’re going to conquer Earth, by the way.”
“Are you?” Gallagher said blankly.
“Yes. We couldn’t in our own time, you know, because Earth people wouldn’t let us, but now it’ll be easy. You’ll all be our slaves,” the Lybbla said happily. He was about eleven inches tall.
“You got any weapons?” Grandpa asked. “We don’t need ’em. We’re clever. We know everything. Our memories are capacious as anything. We can build disintegrator guns, heat rays, spaceships—”
“No, we can’t,” another Lybbla countered. “We haven’t any fingers.” That was true. They had furry mittens, fairly useless, Gallegher thought.
“Well,” said the first Lybbla, “we’ll get Earth people to build us some weapons.”
Grandpa downed a shot of whiskey and shuddered. “Do these things happen all the time around here?” he wanted to know. “I’d heard you were a big shot scientist, but I figured scientists made atom-smashers and stuff like that. What good’s a time machine?”
“It brought us,” a Lybbla said. “Oh, happy day for Earth.”
“That,” Gallegher told him, “is a matter of opinion. Before you get around to sending an ultimatum to Washington, would you care for a spot of refreshment? A saucer of milk or something?”
“We’re not animals!” the fattest Lybbla said. “We drink out of cups, we do.” Gallegher brought three cups, heated some milk, and poured. After a brief hesitation, he put the cups on the floor. The tables were all far too high for the small creatures. The Lybblas, piping “Thank you,” politely, seized the cups between their hind feet and began to lap up the milk with long pink tongues.
“Good,” one said.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” cautioned the fattest Lybbla, who seemed to be the leader.
Gallegher relaxed on the couch and looked at Grandpa. “This time machine business—” he said. “I can’t remember a thing about it. We’ll have to send the Lybblas back home. It’ll take me a while to work out the method. Sometimes I think I drink too much.”
“Perish the thought,” Grandpa said. “When I was your age, I didn’t need a time machine to materialize little fellers a foot high. Corn likker did it,” he added, smacking withered lips. “ You work too hard, that’s what it is.”
“Well—” Gallegher said helplessly. “I can’t help it. What was my idea in building the thing, anyhow?”
“Dunno. You kept talking about killing your own grandfather or something. Or foretelling the future. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it myself.”
“Wait a minute. I remember—vaguely. The old time-traveling paradox. Killing your own grandfather—”
“I picked up an ax handle when you started in on that,” Grandpa said. “Not quite ready to cash in my chips yet, young fellow.” He cackled. “I can remember the gasoline age—but I’m still pretty spry.”
“What happened then?”
“The little guys came through the machine or whatever it was. You said you hadn’t adjusted it right, so you fixed it.”
“I wonder what I had in mind,” Gallegher pondered.
The Lybblas had finished their milk. “We’re through,” said the fat one. “Now we’ll conquer the world. Where’ll we begin?”
Gallegher shrugged, “I fear I can’t advise you, gentlemen. I’ve never had the inclination myself. Wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to go about it.”
“First we destroy the big cities,” said the smallest Lybbla excitedly, “then we capture pretty girls and hold them for ransom or something. Then everybody’s scared and we win.”
“How do you figure that out?” Gallegher asked.
“It’s in the books. That’s how it’s always done. We know. We’ll be tyrants and beat everybody. I want some more milk, please.”
“So do I,” said two other piping little voices.
Grinning, Gallegher served. “You don’t seem much surprised by finding yourselves here.”
“That’s in the books, too.” Lap-lap.
“You mean—this?” Gallegher’s eyebrows went up.
“Oh, no. But all about time-traveling. All the novels in our era are about science and things. We read lots. There isn’t much else to do in the Valley,” the Lybbla ended, a bit sadly.
“Is that all you read?”
“No, we read everything. Technical books on science as well as novels. How disintegrators are made and so on. We’ll tell you how to make weapons for us.”
“Thanks. That sort of literature is open to the public?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“I should think it would be dangerous.”
“So should I,” the fat Lybbla said thoughtfully, “but it isn’t somehow.”
Gallegher pondered. “Could you tell me how to make a heat ray, for example?”
“Yes,” was the excited reply, “and then we’d destroy the big cities and capture—”
“I know. Pretty girls and hold them for ransom. Why?”
“We know what’s what,” a Lybbla said shrewdly. “We read books, we do.” He spilled his cup, looked at the puddle of milk, and let his ears droop disconsolately.
The other two Lybblas hastily patted him on the back. “Don’t cry,” the biggest one urged.
“I gotta,” the Lybbla said. “It’s in the books.”
“You have it backward. You don’t cry over spilt milk.”
“Do. Will,” said the recalcitrant Lybbla, and began to weep.
Gallegher brought him more milk. “About this heat ray,” he said. “Just how—”
“Simple,” the fat Lybbla said, and explained.
It was simple. Grandpa didn’t get it, of course, but he watched interestedly as Gallegher went to work. Within half an hour the job was completed. It was a heat ray, too. It burned a hole through a closet door.
“Whew!” Gallegher breathed, watching smoke rise from the charred wood. “That’s something!” He examined the small metal cylinder in his hand.
“It kills people, too,” the fat Lybbla murmured. “Like the man in the back yard.”
“Yes, it—What? The man in—”
“The back yard. We sat on him for a while, but he got cold after a bit. There’s a hole burned through his chest.”
“You did it,” Gallegher accused, gulping.
“No. He came out of time, too, I expect. There was a heat-ray hole in him.”
“Who…who was he?”
“Never saw him before in my life,” the fat Lybbla said, losing interest. “I want more milk.” He leaped to the bench top and peered through the window at the towers of Manhattan’s skyline. “Wheeee! The world is ours!”
The doorbell sang. Gallegher, a little pale, said, “Grandpa, see what it is. Send him away in any case. Probably a bill collector. They’re used to being turned away. Oh, Lord! I’ve never committed a murder before—”
“I have,” Grandpa murmured, departing. He did not clarify the statement.
Gallegher went into the back yard, accompanied by the scuttling small figures of the Lybblas. The worst had happened. In the middle of the rose garden lay a dead body. It was the corpse of a man, bearded and ancient, quite bald, and wearing garments made, apparently, of flexible, tinted cellophane. Through his tunic and chest was the distinctive hole burned by a heatray projector.
“He looks familiar, somehow,” Gallegher decided. “Dunno why. Was he dead when he came out of time?”
“Dead but warm,” one of the Lybblas said. “That was nice.”
Gallegher repressed a shudder. Horrid little creatures. However, they must be harmless, or they wouldn’t have been allowed access to dangerous information in their own time-era. Gallegher was far less troubled by the Lybblas than by the presence of the corpse. Grandpa’s protesting voice came to his ears.
The Lybblas scurried under convenient bushes and disappeared as three men entered the back yard, escorting Grandpa. Gallegher, at sight of blue uniforms and brass buttons, dropped the heat-ray projector into a garden bed and surreptitiously kicked dirt over it. He assumed what he hoped was an ingratiating smile.
“Hello, boys. I was just going to notify Headquarters. Somebody dropped a dead man in my yard.”
Two of the newcomers were officers, Gallegher saw, burly, distrustful and keeneyed. The third was a small, dapper man with gray blond hair plastered close to his narrow skull, and a pencil-thin mustache. He looked rather like a fox.
He was wearing an Honorary Badge—which meant little or much, depending on the individual.
“Couldn’t keep ’em out,” Grandpa said. “You’re in for it now, young fellow.”
“He’s joking,” Gallegher told the officers. “Honest, I was just going to—”
“Save it. What’s your name?”
Gallegher said it was Gallegher. “Uh-huh.” The officer knelt to examine the body. He blew out his breath sharply. “Wh-ew! What did you do to him?”
“Nothing. When I came out this morning, here he was. Maybe he fell out of a window up there somewhere,” Gallegher pointed up vaguely to overshadowing skyscrapers.
“He didn’t. Not a bone broken. Looks like you stabbed him with a red-hot poker,” the officer remarked. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know. Never saw him before. Who told you—”
“Never leave bodies in plain sight, Mr. Gallegher. Somebody in a penthouse—like up there—might see it and vise Headquarters.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.”
“We’ll find out who killed the guy,” the officer said sardonically. “Don’t worry about that. And we’ll find out who he is. Unless you want to talk now and save yourself trouble.”
“Circumstantial evidence—”
“Save it.” The air was patted with a large palm. “I’ll vise the boys to come down with the coroner. Where’s the visor?”
“Show him, Grandpa,” Gallegher said wearily. The dapper blond man took a step forward. His voice was crisp with authority.
“Groarty, take a look around the house while Banister’s televising. I’ll stay here with Mr. Gallegher.”
“O.K., Mr. Cantrell.” The officers departed with Grandpa.
Cantrell said, “Excuse me,” and came forward swiftly. He dug slim fingers into the dirt at Gallegher’s feet and brought up the heat-ray tube. Smiling slightly, Cantrell examined the projector.
Gallegher’s heart nosedived. “Wonder where that came from?” he gulped, in a frantic attempt at deception.
“You put it there,” Cantrell told him. “I saw you do it. Luckily the officers didn’t. I think I’ll keep it.” He slipped the small tube into his pocket. “Exhibit A. That’s a damn peculiar wound in your corpse—”
“It’s not my corpse!”
“It’s in your yard. I’m interested in weapons, Mr. Gallegher. What sort of gadget is this?”
“Uh—just a flashlight.”
Cantrell took it out and aimed it at Gallegher. “I see. If I press this button—”
“It’s a heat ray,” Gall
egher said quickly, ducking. “For goodness sake, be careful!”
“Hm-m-m. You made it?”
“I…yes.”
“And you killed this man with it?”
“No!”
“I suggest,” Cantrell said, repocketing the tube, “that you keep your mouth shut about this. Once the police get their hands on the weapon, your goose will be cooked. As it is, no known gun can make a wound like that. Proof will be difficult. For some reason, I believe you didn’t kill the man, Mr. Gallegher. I don’t know why. Perhaps because of your reputation. You’re known to be eccentric, but you’re also known to be a pretty good inventor.”
“Thanks,” Gallegher said. “But…the heat ray’s mine.”
“Want me to mark it Exhibit A?”
“It’s yours.”
“Fine,” Cantrell said, grinning. “I’ll see what I can do for you.”
He couldn’t do much, as it proved. Almost anyone could wangle an Honorary Badge, but political pull didn’t necessarily mean a police in. The machinery of the law, once started, couldn’t easily be stopped. Luckily the rights of the individual were sacrosanct in this day and age, but that was chiefly because of the development of communication. A criminal simply couldn’t make a getaway. They told Gallegher not to leave Manhattan, secure in the knowledge that if he tried, the televisor system would quickly lay him by the heels. It wasn’t even necessary to set guards. Gallegher’s three-dimensional photo was already on file at the transportation centers of Manhattan, so that if he tried to book passage on a streetliner or a sea-sled, he could be recognized instantly and sent home with a scolding.
The baffled coroner had superintended the removal of the body to the morgue. The police and Cantrell had departed. Grandpa, the three Lybblas, and Gallegher sat in the laboratory and looked dazedly at one another.
“Time machine,” Gallegher said, pressing buttons on his liquor organ. “Bah! Why do I do these things?”
“They can’t prove you’re guilty,” Grandpa suggested.
“Trials cost money. If I don’t get a good lawyer, I’m sunk.”
Robots Have No Tails Page 4