by Keith Laumer
***
"Your superiors?" Dan eyed the window; much too far to jump. Maybe he could reach the machine and try a getaway "I hope you're not thinking of leaving suddenly," the beach ball said, following Dan's glance. One of the eighteen fingers touched a six-inch yellow cylinder lying on the desk. "Until the carrier is fueled, I'm afraid it's quite useless. But, to put you in the picture, I'd best introduce myself and explain my mission here. I'm Blote, Trader Fourth Class, in the employ of the Vegan Confederation. My job is to develop new sources of novelty items for the impulse-emporia of the entire Secondary Quadrant."
"But the way Percy and Fiorello came sailing in through the wall! That has to be a time machine they were riding in. Nothing else could just materialize out of thin air like that."
"You seem to have a time-machine fixation, Dan," Blote chided. "You shouldn't assume, just because you people have developed time travel, that everyone has. Now"-Blote's voice sank to a bass whisper-"I'll make a deal with you, Dan. You'll secure a small time machine in good condition for me. And in return-"
"I'm supposed to supply you with a time machine?"
Blote waggled a stubby forefinger at Dan. "I dislike pointing it out, Dan, but you are in a rather awkward position at the moment. Illegal entry, illegal possession of property, trespass-then doubtless some embarrassment exists back at the Snithian residence. I daresay Mr. Kelly would have a warm welcome for you. And, of course, I myself would deal rather harshly with any attempt on your part to take a powder." The Vegan flexed all eighteen fingers, drummed his tentacles under the desk, and rolled one eye, bugging the other at Dan.
"Whereas, on the other hand," Blote's bass voice went on, "you and me got the basis of a sweet deal. You supply the machine, and I fix you up with an abundance of the local medium of exchange. Equitable enough, I should say. What about it, Dan?"
"Ah, let me see," Dan temporized. "Time machine. Time machine-"
"Don't attempt to weasel on me, Dan," Blote rumbled ominously.
"I'd better look in the phone book," Dan suggested.
Silently, Blote produced a dog-eared directory. Dan opened it.
"Time, time. Let's see…" He brightened. "Time, Incorporated; local branch office. Two twenty-one Maple Street."
"A sales center?" Blote inquired. "Or a manufacturing complex?"
"Both," Dan said. "I'll just nip over and-"
"That won't be necessary, Dan," Blote said. "I'll accompany you." He took the directory, studied it.
"Remarkable! A common commodity, openly on sale, and I failed to notice it. Still, a ripe bope-nut can fall from a small tree as well as from a large." He went to his desk, rummaged, came up with a handful of fuel cells. "Now off to gather in the time machine." He took his place in the carrier, patted the seat beside him with a wide hand. "Come, Dan. Get a wiggle on."
***
Hesitantly, Dan moved to the carrier. The bluff was all right up to a point-but the point had just about been reached. He took his seat. Blote moved a lever. The familiar blue glow sprang up. "Kindly direct me, Dan," Blote demanded. "Two twenty-one Maple Street, I believe you said."
"I don't know the town very well," Dan said, "but Maple's over that way."
Blote worked levers. The carrier shot out into a ghostly afternoon sky. Faint outlines of buildings, like faded negatives, spread below. Dan looked around, spotted lettering on a square five-story structure.
"Over there," he said. Blote directed the machine as it swooped smoothly toward the flat roof Dan indicated.
"Better let me take over now," Dan suggested. "I want to be sure to get us to the right place."
"Very well, Dan."
Dan dropped the carrier through the roof, passed down through a dimly seen office. Blote twiddled a small knob. The scene around the cage grew even fainter. "Best we remain unnoticed," he explained.
The cage descended steadily. Dan peered out, searching for identifying landmarks. He leveled off at the second floor, cruised along a barely visible corridor. Blote's eyes rolled, studying the small chambers along both sides of the passage at once.
"Ah, this must be the assembly area," he exclaimed. "I see the machines employ a bar-type construction, not unlike our carriers."
"That's right," Dan said, staring through the haziness. "This is where they do time…" He tugged at a lever suddenly; the machine veered left, flickered through a barred door, came to a halt. Two nebulous figured loomed beside the cage. Dan cut the switch. If he'd guessed wrong The scene fluoresced, pink sparks crackling, then popped into sharp focus. Blote scrambled out, brown eyes swiveling to take in the concrete walls, the barred door and "You!" a hoarse voice bellowed.
"Grab him!" someone yelled.
Blote recoiled, threshing his ambulatory members in a fruitless attempt to regain the carrier as Percy and Fiorello closed in. Dan hauled at a lever. He caught a last glimpse of three struggling, blue-lit figures as the carrier shot away through the cell wall.
***
Dan slumped back against the seat with a sigh. Now that he was in the clear, he would have to decide on his next move-fast. There was no telling what other resources Blote might have. He would have to hide the carrier, then A low growling was coming from somewhere, rising in pitch and volume. Dan sat up, alarmed. This was no time for a malfunction.
The sound rose higher, into a penetrating wail. There was no sign of mechanical trouble. The carrier glided on, swooping now over a nebulous landscape of trees and houses. Dan covered his ears against the deafening shriek, like all the police sirens in town blaring at once. If the carrier stopped it would be a long fall from here. Dan worked the controls, dropping toward the distant earth.
The noise seemed to lessen, descending the scale. Dan slowed, brought the carrier in to the corner of a wide park. He dropped the last few inches and cut the switch.
As the glow died, the siren faded into silence.
Dan stepped from the carrier and looked around. Whatever the noise was, it hadn't attracted any attention from the scattered pedestrians in the park. Perhaps it was some sort of burglar alarm. But if so, why hadn't it gone into action earlier? Dan took a deep breath. Sound or no sound, he would have to get back into the carrier and transfer it to a secluded spot where he could study it at leisure. He stepped back in, reached for the controls There was a sudden chill in the air. The bright surface of the dials before him frosted over. There was a loud pop! like a giant flashbulb exploding. Dan stared from the seat at an iridescent rectangle which hung suspended near the carrier. Its surface rippled, faded to blankness. In a swirl of frosty air, a tall figure dressed in a tight-fitting white uniform stepped through.
Dan gaped at the small round head, the dark-skinned, long-nosed face, the long, muscular arms, the hands, their backs tufted with curly red-brown hair, the strange long-heeled feet in soft boots. A neat pillbox cap with a short visor was strapped low over the deep-set yellowish eyes, which turned in his direction. The wide mouth opened in a smile which showed square yellowish teeth.
"Alors, monsieur," the newcomer said, bending his knees and back in a quick bow. "Vous йtй une indigine, n'est ce pas?"
"No compree," Dan choked out. "Uh… juh no parlay Fransay…"
"My error. This is the Anglic colonial sector, isn't it? Stupid of me. Permit me to introduce myself. I'm Dzhackoon, Field Agent of Class Five, Interdimensional Monitor Service."
"That siren," Dan said. "Was that you?"
Dzhackoon nodded. "For a moment, it appeared you were disinclined to stop. I'm glad you decided to be reasonable."
"What outfit did you say you were with?" Dan asked.
"The Inter-dimensional Monitor Service."
"Inter-what?"
"Dimensional. The word is imprecise, of course, but it's the best our language coder can do, using the Anglic vocabulary."
"What do you want with me?"
***
Dzhackoon smiled reprovingly. "You know the penalty for operation of an unauthorized reversed-phase vehicle
in Interdicted territory. I'm afraid you'll have to come along with me to Headquarters."
"Wait a minute! You mean you're arresting me?"
"That's a harsh term, but I suppose it amounts to that."
"Look here, uh-Dzhackoon. I just wandered in off the street. I don't know anything about Interdicts and reversed-whoozis vehicles. Just let me out of here."
Dzhackoon shook his head. "I'm afraid you'll have to tell it to the Inspector." He smiled amiably, gestured toward the shimmering rectangle through which he had arrived. From the edge, it was completely invisible. It looked, Dan thought, like a hole snipped in reality. He glanced at Dzhackoon. If he stepped in fast and threw a left to the head and followed up with a right to the short ribs "I'm armed, of course," the Agent said apologetically.
"Okay," Dan sighed. "But I'm going under protest."
"Don't be nervous," Dzhackoon said cheerfully. "Just step through quickly."
Dan edged up to the glimmering surface. He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and took a step. There was a momentary sensation of searing heat…
His eyes flew open. He was in a long, narrow room with walls finished in bright green tile. Hot yellow light flooded down from the high ceiling. Along the wall, a series of cubicles were arranged. Tall, white-uniformed creatures moved briskly about. Nearby stood a group of short, immensely burly individuals in yellow. Lounging against the wall at the far end of the room, Dan glimpsed a round-shouldered figure in red, with great bushes of hair fringing a bright blue face. An arm even longer than Dzhackoon's wielded a toothpick on a row of great white fangs.
"This way," Dzhackoon said. Dan followed him to a cubicle, curious eyes following him. A creature indistinguishable from the Field Agent except for a twist of red braid on each wrist looked up from a desk.
"I've picked up that reversed-phase violator, Ghunt," Dzhackoon said. "Anglic Sector, Locus C 922A4."
Ghunt rose. "Let me see; Anglic Sector… Oh, yes." He extended a hand. Dan took it gingerly; it was a strange hand-hot, dry and coarse-skinned, like a dog's paw. He pumped it twice and let it go.
"Wonderfully expressive," Ghunt said. "Empty hand, no weapon. The implied savagery…" He eyed Dan curiously.
"Remarkable. I've studied your branch, of course, but I've never had the pleasure of actually seeing one of you chaps before. That skin; amazing. Ah… may I look at your hands?"
Dan extended a hand. The other took it in bony fingers, studied it, turned it over, examined the nails. Stepping closer, he peered at Dan's eyes and hair.
"Would you mind opening your mouth, please?" Dan complied. Ghunt clucked, eyeing the teeth. He walked around Dan, murmuring his wonderment.
"Uh… pardon my asking," Dan said, "but are you what-uh-people are going to look like in the future?"
"Eh?" the round yellowish eyes blinked; the wide mouth curved in a grin. "I doubt that very much, old chap." He chuckled. "Can't undo half a million years of divergent evolution, you know."
***
"You mean you're from the past?" Dan croaked.
"The past? I'm afraid I don't follow you."
"You don't mean-we're all going to die out and monkeys are going to take over?" Dan blurted.
"Monkeys? Let me see. I've heard of them. Some sort of small primate, like a miniature Anthropos. You have them at home, do you? Fascinating!" He shook his head regretfully. "I certainly wish regulations allowed me to pay your sector a visit."
"But you are time travelers," Dan insisted.
"Time travelers?" Ghunt laughed aloud.
"An exploded theory," Dzhackoon said. "Superstition."
"Then how did you get to the park from here?"
"A simple focused portal. Merely a matter of elementary stressed-field mechanics."
"That doesn't tell me much," Dan said. "Where am I? Who are you?"
"Explanations are in order, of course," Ghunt said. "Have a chair. Now, if I remember correctly, in your locus, there are only a few species of Anthropos extant-"
"Just the one," Dzhackoon put in. "These fellows look fragile, but oh, brother!"
"Oh yes; I recall. This was the locus where the hairless variant systemically hunted down other varieties." He clucked at Dan reprovingly. "Don't you find it lonely?"
"Of course, there are a couple of rather curious retarded forms there," Dzhackoon said. "Actual living fossils; sub-intellectual Anthropos. There's one called the gorilla, and the chimpanzee, the orangutan, the gibbon-and, of course, a whole spectrum of the miniature forms."
"I suppose that when the ferocious mutation established its supremacy, the others retreated to the less competitive ecological niches and expanded at that level," Ghunt mused. "Pity. I assume the gorilla and the others are degenerate forms?"
"Possibly."
"Excuse me," Dan said. "But about that explanation…"
"Oh, sorry. Well, to begin with, Dzhackoon and I are-ah-Australopithecines, I believe your term is. We're one of the many varieties of Anthropos native to normal loci. The workers in yellow, whom you may have noticed, are akin to your extinct Neanderthals. Then there are the Pekin derivatives-the blue-faced chaps-and the Rhodesians-"
"What are these loci you keep talking about? And how can cavemen still be alive?"
Ghunt's eyes wandered past Dan. He jumped to his feet. "Ah, good day, Inspector!" Dan turned. A grizzled Australopithecine with a tangle of red braid at collar and wrists stared at him glumly.
"Harrumph!" the Inspector said. "Albinism and alopecia. Not catching, I hope?"
"A genetic deficiency, Excellency," Dzhackoon said. "This is a Homo sapiens, a naturally bald form from a rather curious locus."
"Sapiens? Sapiens? Now, that seems to ring a bell." The oldster blinked at Dan. "You're not-" He waggled fingers in instinctive digital-mnemonic stimulus. Abruptly he stiffened. "Why, this is one of those fratricidal deviants!" He backed off. "He should be under restraint, Ghunt! Constable! Get a strong-arm squad in here! This creature is dangerous!"
***
"Inspector. I'm sure-" Ghunt started.
"That's an order!" the Inspector barked. He switched to an incomprehensible language, bellowed more commands. Several of the thick-set Neanderthal types appeared, moving in to seize Dan's arms. He looked around at chinless, wide-mouthed brown faces with incongruous blue eyes and lank blond hair.
"What's this all about?" he demanded. "I want a lawyer!"
"Never mind that!" the Inspector shouted. "I know how to deal with miscreants of your stripe!" He stared distastefully at Dan. "Hairless! Putty-colored! Revolting! Planning more mayhem, are you? Preparing to branch out into the civilized loci to wipe out all competitive life, is that it?"
"I brought him here, Inspector," Dzhackoon put in. "It was a routine traffic violation."
"I'll decide what's routine here! Now, Sapiens! What fiendish scheme have you up your sleeve, eh?"
"Daniel Slane, civilian, Social Security number 456-7329-988," Dan said.
"Eh?"
"Name, rank, and serial number," Dan explained. "I'm not answering any other questions."
"This means penal relocation, Sapiens! Unlawful departure from native locus, willful obstruction of justice-"
"You forgot being born without permission, and unauthorized breathing."
"Insolence!" the Inspector snarled. "I'm warning you, Sapiens, it's in my power to make things miserable for you. Now, how did you induce Agent Dzhackoon to bring you here?"
"Well, a good fairy came and gave me three wishes-"
"Take him away," the Inspector screeched. "Sector 97; an unoccupied locus."
"Unoccupied? That seems pretty extreme, doesn't it?" one of the guards commented, wrinkling his heavily ridged brow.
"Unoccupied! If it bothers you, perhaps I can arrange for you to join him there!"
The Neanderthaloid guard yawned widely, showing white teeth. He nodded to Dan, motioned him ahead. "Don't mind Spoghodo," he said loudly. "He's getting old."
"Sorry about all this," a voice
hissed near Dan's ear. Dzhackoon-Ghunt, he couldn't say which-leaned near. "I'm afraid you'll have to go along to the penal area, but I'll try to straighten things out later."
Back in the concourse, Dan's guard escorted him past cubicles where busy IDMS agents reported to harassed seniors, through an archway into a room lined with narrow gray panels. It looked like a gym locker room.
"Ninety-seven," the guard said. He went to a wall chart, studied the fine print with the aid of a blunt, hairy finger, then set a dial on the wall. "Here we go," he said. He pushed a button beside one of the lockers. Its surface clouded and became iridescent.
"Just step through fast. Happy landings."
"Thanks." Dan ducked his head and pushed through the opening in a puff of frost.
3
He was standing on a steep hillside, looking down across a sweep of meadows to a plain far below. There were clumps of trees, and a river. In the distance a herd of animals grazed among low shrubbery. No road wound along the valley floor; no boats dotted the river; no village nestled at its bend. The far hills were innocent of trails, fences, houses, the rectangles of plowed acres. There were no contrails in the wide blue sky. No vagrant aroma of exhaust fumes, no mutter of internal combustion, no tin cans, no pop bottles In short, no people.
Dan turned. The portal still shimmered faintly in the bright air. He thrust his head through, found himself staring into the locker room. The yellow-clad Neanderthaloid glanced at him.
"Say," Dan said, ignoring the sensation of a hot wire around his neck, "can't we talk this thing over?"
"Better get your head out of there before it shuts down," the guard said cheerfully. "Otherwise-ssskkkttt!"
"What about some reading matter? And look, I get these head colds. Does the temperature drop here at night? Any dangerous animals? What do I eat?"