His wish for a weapon came back, stronger than before. The very fact that he had seen no one set his nerves on edge even more than the sight of a known enemy would have done.
He was suddenly no longer interested in his surroundings. He felt trapped in this strange, silent room. He could see a light shining through a door at the far end of the room-perhaps it was a way out. He walked toward it, trying to keep his footsteps as silent as possible as he moved.
The door had a pane of translucent glass in it, and there were more of the unreadable characters on it. He wished fervently that he could decipher them; they might tell him where he was.
Carefully, he grasped the handle of the door, twisted it, and pulled. And, careful as he had been, the door swung inward with surprising rapidity. It was a great deal thinner and lighter than he had supposed.
He looked down at it, wondering if there were any way the door could be locked. There was a tiny vertical slit set in a small metal panel in the door, but it was much too tiny to be a keyhole. Still—
It didn't matter. If necessary, he could smash the glass to get through the door. He stepped out into what was obviously a hallway beyond the door.
* * * *
The hallway stretched away to either side, lined with doors similar to the one he had just come through. How did a man get out of this place, anyway? The door behind him was pressing against his hand with a patient insistence, as though it wanted to close itself. He almost let it close, but, at the last second, he changed his mind.
Better the devil we know than the devil we don't, he thought to himself.
He went back into the office and looked around for something to prop the door open. He found a small, beautifully formed porcelain dish on one of the desks, picked it up, and went back to the door. The dish held the door open an inch or so. That was good enough. If someone locked the door, he could still smash in the glass if he wanted to, but the absence of the dish when he returned would tell him that he was not alone in this mysterious place.
He started down the hallway to his right, checking the doors as he went. They were all locked. He knew that he could break into any of them, but he had a feeling that he would find no exit through any of them. They all looked as though they concealed more of the big rooms.
None of them had any lights behind them. Only the one door that he had come through showed the telltale glow from the other side. Why?
He had the terrible feeling that he had been drawn across time to this place for a purpose, and yet he could think of no rational reason for believing so.
He stopped as another memory came back. He remembered being in the stone-walled dungeon, with its smelly straw beds, lit only by the faint shaft of sunlight that came from the barred window high overhead.
Contarini, the short, wiry little Italian who was in the next cell, looked at him through the narrow opening. “I still think it can be done, my friend. It is the mind and the mind alone that sees the flow of time. The body experiences, but does not see. Only the soul is capable of knowing eternity."
Broom outranked the little Italian, but prison can make brothers of all men. “You think it's possible then, to get out of a place like this, simply by thinking about it?"
Contarini nodded. “Why not? Did not the saints do so? And what was that? Contemplation of the Eternal, my comrade; contemplation of the Eternal."
Broom held back a grin. “Then why, my Venetian friend, have you not left this place long since?"
"I try,” Contarini had said simply, “but I cannot do it. You wish to know why? It is because I am afraid."
"Afraid?” Broom raised an eyebrow. He had seen Contarini on the battlefield, dealing death in hand-to-hand combat, and the Italian hadn't impressed him as a coward.
"Yes,” said the Venetian. “Afraid. Oh, I am not afraid of men. I fight. Some day, I may die-will die. This does not frighten me, death. I am not afraid of what men may do to me.” He stopped and frowned. “But, of this, I have a great fear. Only a saint can handle such things, and I am no saint."
"I hope, my dear Contarini,” Broom said dryly, “that you are not under the impression that I am a saint."
"No, perhaps not,” Contarini said. “Perhaps not. But you are braver than I. I am not afraid of any man living. But you are afraid of neither the living nor the dead, nor of man nor devil-which is a great deal more than I can say for myself. Besides, there is the blood of kings in your veins. And has not a king protection that even a man of noble blood such as myself does not have? I think so.
"Oh, I have no doubt that you could do it, if you but would. And then, perhaps, when you are free, you would free me-for teaching you all I know to accomplish this. My fear holds me chained here, but you have no chains of fear."
Broom had thought that over for a moment, then grinned. “All right, my friend; I'll try it. What's your first lesson?"
The memory faded from Broom's mind. Had he really moved through some segment of Eternity to reach this ... this place? Had he—
He felt a chill run through him. What was he doing here? How could he have taken it all so calmly. Afraid of man or devil, no-but this was neither. He had to get back. The utter alienness of this bright, shining, lifeless wonderland was too much for him.
Instinctively, he turned and ran back toward the room he had left. If he got back to the place where he had appeared in this world, perhaps-somehow-some force would return him to where he belonged.
* * * *
The door was as he had left it, the porcelain dish still in place. He scooped up the dish in one big hand and ran on into the room, letting the door shut itself behind him. He ran on, through the large room with its many tables, into the brightly lighted room beyond.
He stopped. What could he do now? He tried to remember the things that the Italian had told him to do, and he could not for the life of him remember them. His memory still had gaps in it-gaps he did not know were there because he had not yet probed for them. He closed his eyes in concentration, trying to bring back a memory that would not come.
He did not hear the intruder until the man's voice echoed in the room.
Broom's eyes opened, and instantly every muscle and nerve in his hard-trained body tensed for action. There was a man standing in the doorway of the office.
He was not a particularly impressive man, in spite of the queer cut of his clothes. He was not as tall as Broom, and he looked soft and overfed. His paunch protruded roundly from the open front of the short coat, and there was a fleshiness about his face that betrayed too much good living.
And he looked even more frightened than Broom had been a few minutes before.
He was saying something in a language that Broom did not understand, and the tenseness in his voice betrayed his fear. Broom relaxed. He had nothing to fear from this little man.
"I won't hurt you,” Broom said. “I had no intention of intruding on your property, but all I ask is help."
The little man was blinking and backing away, as though he were going to turn and bolt at any moment.
Broom laughed. “You have nothing to fear from me, little man. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Richard Broom, known as—” He stopped, and his eyes widened. Total memory flooded over him as he realized fully who he was and where he belonged.
And the fear hit him again in a raging flood, sweeping over his mind and blotting it out. Again, the darkness came.
* * * *
This time, the blackness faded quickly. There was a face, a worried face, looking at him through an aperture in the stone wall. The surroundings were so familiar, that the bits of memory which had been scattered again during the passage through centuries of time came back more quickly and settled back into their accustomed pattern more easily.
The face was that of the Italian, Contarini. He was looking both worried and disappointed.
"You were not gone long, my lord king,” he said. “But you were gone. Of that there can be no doubt. Why did you return?"
Richard Br
oom sat up on his palette of straw. The scene in the strange building already seemed dreamlike, but the fear was still there. “I couldn't remember,” he said softly. “I couldn't remember who I was nor why I had gone to that ... that place. And when I remembered, I came back."
Contarini nodded sadly. “It is as I have heard. The memory ties one too strongly to the past-to one's own time. One must return as soon as the mind had adjusted. I am sorry, my friend; I had hoped we could escape. But now it appears that we must wait until our ransoms are paid. And I much fear that mine will never be paid."
"Nor mine,” said the big man dully. “My faithful Blondin found me, but he may not have returned to London. And even if he has, my brother John may be reluctant to raise the money."
"What? Would England hesitate to ransom the brave king who has fought so gallantly in the Holy Crusades? Never! You will be free, my friend."
But Richard Plantagenet just stared at the little dish that he still held in his hand, the fear still in his heart. Men would still call him “Lion-hearted,” but he knew that he would never again deserve the title.
* * * *
And, nearly eight centuries away in time and thousands of miles away in space, a Mr. Edward Jasperson was speaking hurriedly into the telephone that stood by the electric typewriter on his desk.
"That's right, Officer; Suite 8601, Empire State Building. I was working late, and I left the lights on in my office when I went out to get a cup of coffee. When I came back, he was here-a big, bearded man, wearing a thing that looked like a monk's robe made out of gunny sack. What? No, I locked the door when I left. What? Well, the only thing that's missing as far as I can tell is a ceramic ash tray from one of the desks; he was holding that in his hand when I saw him. What? Oh. Where did he go?” Mr. Jasperson paused in his rush of words. “Well, I must have gotten a little dizzy-I was pretty shocked, you know. To be honest, I didn't see where he went. I must have fainted.
"But I think you can pick him up if you hurry. With that getup on, he can't get very far away. All right. Thank you, Officer."
He cradled the phone, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed at his damp forehead. He was a very frightened little man, but he knew he'd get over it by morning.
Through Time and Space with Benedict Breadfruit—Special Key to # 8
[Publisher's Note: The very fact that Benedict Breadfruit was unable to think of a name for the Hoogaht's Temple of Love on the top floor under the eves is in itself a significant clue that the author expects the reader to be able to solve the puzzle of which science fiction writer's name the pun would involve. When one remembers that the dimunative of Randall is Randy, the answer becomes clear.]
WITH NO STRINGS ATTATCHED
The United States Submarine Ambitious Brill slid smoothly into her berth in the Brooklyn Navy Yard after far too many weeks at sea, as far as her crew were concerned. After all the necessary preliminaries had been waded through, the majority of that happy crew went ashore to enjoy a well-earned and long-anticipated leave in the depths of the brick-and-glass canyons of Gomorrah-on-the-Hudson.
The trip had been uneventful, in so far as nothing really dangerous or exciting had happened. Nothing, indeed, that could even be called out-of-the-way-except that there was more brass aboard than usual, and that the entire trip had been made underwater with the exception of one surfacing for a careful position check, in order to make sure that the ship's instruments gave the same position as the stars gave. They had. All was well.
That is not to say that the crew of the Ambitious Brill were entirely satisfied in their own minds about certain questions that had been puzzling them. They weren't. But they knew better than to ask questions, even among themselves. And they said nothing whatever when they got ashore. But even the novices among submarine crews know that while the nuclear-powered subs like George Washington, Patrick Henry, or Benjamin Franklin are perfectly capable of circumnavigating the globe without coming up for air, such performances are decidedly rare in a presumably Diesel-electric vessel such as the U.S.S. Ambitious Brill. And those few members of the crew who had seen what went on in the battery room were the most secretive and the most puzzled of all. They, and they alone, knew that some of the cells of the big battery that drove the ship's electric motors had been removed to make room for a big, steel-clad box hardly bigger than a foot locker, and that the rest of the battery hadn't been used at all.
With no one aboard but the duty watch, and no one in the battery room at all, Captain Dean Lacey felt no compunction whatever in saying, as he gazed at the steel-clad, sealed box: “What a battery!"
The vessel's captain, Lieutenant Commander Newton Wayne, looked up from the box into the Pentagon representative's face. “Yes, sir, it is.” His voice sounded as though his brain were trying to catch up with it and hadn't quite succeeded. “This certainly puts us well ahead of the Russians."
Captain Lacey returned the look. “How right you are, commander. This means we can convert every ship in the Navy in a tenth the time we had figured."
Then they both looked at the third man, a civilian.
He nodded complacently. “And at a tenth the cost, gentlemen,” he said mildly. “North American Carbide & Metals can produce these units cheaply, and at a rate that will enable us to convert every ship in the Navy within the year."
Captain Lacey shot a glance at Lieutenant Commander Wayne. “All this is strictly Top Secret you understand."
"Yes, sir; I understand,” said Wayne.
"Very well.” He looked back at the civilian. “Are we ready, Mr. Thorn?"
"Anytime you are, captain,” the civilian said.
"Fine. You have your instructions, commander. Carry on."
"Aye, aye, sir,” said Lieutenant Commander Wayne.
* * * *
A little less than an hour later, Captain Lacey and Mr. Thorn were in the dining room of one of the most exclusive clubs in New York. Most clubs in New York are labeled as “exclusive” because they exclude certain people who do not measure up to their standards of wealth. A man who makes less than, say, one hundred thousand dollars a year would not even qualify for scrutiny by the Executive Committee. There is one club in Manhattan which reaches what is probably close to the limit on that kind of exclusiveness: Members must be white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant Americans who can trace their ancestry as white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant Americans back at least as far as the American Revolution without exception, and who are worth at least ten millions, and who can show that the fortune came into the family at least four generations back. No others need apply. It is said that this club is not a very congenial one because the two members hate each other.
The club in which Lacey and Thorn ate their dinner is not of that sort. It is composed of military and naval officers and certain civilian career men in the United States Government. These men are professionals. Not one of them would ever resign from government service. They are dedicated, heart, body, and soul to the United States of America. The life, public and private, of every man Jack of them is an open book to every other member. Of the three living men who have held-and the one who at present holds-the title of President of the United States, only one was a member of the club before he held that high office.
As an exclusive club, they rank well above England's House of Peers and just a shade below the College of Cardinals of the Roman Catholic Church.
Captain Lacey was a member. Mr. Richard Thorn was not, but he was among those few who qualify to be invited as guests. The carefully guarded precincts of the club were among the very few in which these two men could talk openly and at ease.
After the duck came the brandy, both men having declined dessert. And over the brandy-that ultra-rare Five Star Hennessy which is procurable only by certain people and is believed by many not to exist at all-Captain Lacey finally asked the question that had been bothering him for so long.
"Thorn,” he said, “three months ago that battery didn't exist. I know it and you know it. Who was
the genius who invented it?"
Thorn smiled, and there was a subtle wryness in the smile. “Genius is the word, I suppose. Now that the contracts with the Navy have been signed, I can give you the straight story. But you're wrong in saying that the thing didn't exist three months ago. It did. We just didn't know about it, that's all."
Lacey raised his bushy, iron-gray eyebrows. “Oh? And how did it come to the attention of North American Carbide & Metals?"
Thorn puffed out his cheeks and blew out his breath softly before he began talking, as though he were composing his beginning sentences in his mind. Then he said: “The first I heard about it was four months ago. Considering what's happened since then, it seems a lot longer.” He inhaled deeply from his brandy snifter before continuing. “As head of the development labs for NAC&M, I was asked to take part as a witness to a demonstration that had been arranged through some of the other officers of the company. It was to take place out on Salt Lake Flats, where—"
* * * *
It was to take place out on Salt Lake Flats, where there was no chance of hanky-panky. Richard Thorn-who held a Ph.D. from one of the finest technological colleges in the East, but who preferred to be addressed as “Mister"-was in a bad mood. He had flown all the way out to Salt Lake City after being given only a few hours notice, and then had been bundled into a jeep furnished by the local sales office of NAC&M and scooted off to the blinding gray-white glare of the Salt Flats. It was hot and it was much too sunshiny for Thorn. But he had made the arrangements for the test himself, so he couldn't argue or complain too loudly. He could only complain mildly to himself that the business office of the company, which had made the final arrangements, had, in his opinion, been a little too much in a hurry to get the thing over with. Thorn himself felt that the test could have at least waited until the weather cooled off. The only consolation he had was that, out here, the humidity was so low that he could stay fairly comfortable in spite of the heat as long as there was plenty of drinking water. He had made sure to bring plenty.
The Randall Garrett Omnibus: Eleven SF Classics Page 31