Short Stories - Metrognome and other Stories

by Alan Dean Foster

  "Is that God's truth?" Biggers murmured. "Me, I still can't believe in radio."

  It was late afternoon hurrying toward evening when the two cars pulled into the open area before the sprawl­ing Shattuck home. This time it was Mrs. Shattuck who was first out to greet them, wiping dirty hands on the seat of her jeans. They were surely the same ones, Ches­ter reflected, that she'd been wearing days ago, only they'd been washed in the interval.

  "Expected to see you back sooner than this," she said by way of hello.

  "We moved as fast as we could," Goldberg assured her, the touch of frost in her voice nicely matching that in the air.

  "I'll bet you did;" said the younger woman. She turned, roared toward the house. "David! Go find your father. Tell him the eggheads from Houston are back!"

  Chester repressed a smile even as Tut and Calumet winced, while Goldberg grew more superior than before.

  "Hello, Amos," Mrs. Shattuck said to the sheriff.

  He tapped the brim of his hat as he replied. "After­noon, Beth. I'm sorry about this."

  "Damn silly of you. We told these folks to look you up. Now, don't you worry about a thing, Amos. You just do what you have to do."

  "I thought you'd say something like that, Beth."

  She looked impatiently behind her, standing on tiptoe to see over a fence. "Now, where's J.W.‑that tank inlet filter ought to be fixed by now."

  "Is that it?" the sheriff asked Chester, pointing to­ward the barn. His voice was touched with awe.

  The multiple‑faced craft sat as before on the lip of the hayloft, still shining as brightly as before. Its multiple patterns of inlaid lights continued their steady, exotic blinking. Even this far away Chester could hear the faint mechanical beat from within.

  Hmm‑hmm‑hmm . . . buzz‑hmm‑buzz . . . tick! Hmm­hmm‑hmm . . . buzz‑hmm‑buzz . . . tick!

  "Sure is pretty," was the sheriff's first and only com­ment.

  "Ain't it, though?" agreed Beth Shattuck. "Fits in right nice with the rest of the lights." Sarah Goldberg gave her a venomous glare..

  "That J.W.?" asked the sheriff.

  Beth Shattuck turned and looked. "That's him." Her extraordinary voice rent the air again. "Hurry up, dam­mit!"

  Chester recognized the tall, lanky figure of Jesse Shattuck but not the man accompanying him. Both were dressed alike in flannel shirts, dirt‑encrusted jeans, and well‑used work shoes, although those worn by the stranger were not nearly as scuffed and battered as the rancher's. Something else didn't fit. The man's long white sideburns were too neatly clipped, his demeanor different even at a distance. His face was pink instead of earthenware‑red like Shattuck's.

  "Howdy," the rancher said, greeting Chester. He ignored the scientists, nodded once at the sheriff. "Hello, Amos."

  "J.W.," the sheriff murmured. "Who's your friend?"

  "Oh, this is an old acquaintance of the missus, Amos., Mr. Wheaton, meet Sheriff Biggers."

  "I'm pleased," the smaller, softer man said, shakin hands. He had a voice like an off‑tune organ, cracked butt powerful. He shook hands with Chester, stepped back.

  "Would your first name by any chance be Cable?" asked Jean Calumet uncertainly.

  "By any chance I am unable to deny it," the mad replied.

  Chester revised his initial appraisal of the newcomer again. He was not, he decided firmly, a handyman.

  Mentally he removed flannel shirt, dirty pants, a shoes from Wheaton, substituted a slightly loud th hundred‑dollar suit, and combed the white hair. Meanwhile Calumet had turned to speak to Beth Shattuck.

  "How do you and Mr. Wheaton happen to know o another? "

  She smiled magnificently at him. "Cable was my agent's lawyer. Still is, I think."

  " 'Agent'?" echoed the young scientist awkwardly.

  Chester studied the rancher's wife intently, noted flashing black eyes, the elegant ebony mane, and the striking figure.

  "The Story of Joshua, " he said abruptly, "Idyllwild River." She was smiling at him now, a smile he recog­nized fully. That film about sulky racing . . . He snapped his fingers in remembrance.

  "Something Beauty, " he murmured.

  "American Beauty, " she told him, nodding approval. "I quit acting when I turned fourteen, though. J.W. was working for a contractor in California. After the war we came back out here. His country‑mine now." She ges­tured at the spacious ranch house, the sturdy old barn, and the land beyond.

  "It's not Hollywood, thank God."

  "This is all very interesting," broke in Goldberg im­patiently. "While I'm certain we'd all love to listen to the details of Mrs. Shattuck's career, we have something rather more important to deal with."She looked expec­tantly at Biggers.

  "Sheriff?"

  "I know, ma'am, I know." He turned and walked back to the patrol car. When he returned, he had the fancy envelope in one hand. This he opened and handed the contents apologetically but firmly to Shattuck.

  "J.W., this here's an order from the governor direct­ing you to turn that alien satellite, extratres‑" He stopped trying to recite the contents of the note and con­cluded, "Whatever it is, you're supposed to let these folks take it away with them."

  "Let me see that, Jesse," murmured the church‑organ voice of Wheaton. Shattuck handed the paper to the smaller ‑man, watched as he skimmed through the long document.

  Tut and Calumet grew restless as the study continued. Goldberg ignored the proceedings, her gaze fixed on the multisided, radiant object ensconced in the hayloft open­ing.

  Eventually Wheaton looked up, smiled. "This is very interesting, Sheriff, Major Chester. As long as we're ex­changing missives . . ." He reached into the back pocket of his pants and withdrew a thick roll of paper. Opening the roll up, he shook the dry Texas dust from it. Chester counted an impressive number of attached sheets.

  "Let's see what we've got here," Wheaton began as, he flipped one page after another. "This one here is a restraining order forbidding any representative of any agency of the United States government, or any other government, from removing any item whatsoever from the property henceforth called the Shattuck ranch. At­tached is a map of said ranch and copy of the title deed, going back to 1874." Wheaton looked up at Shattuck. "Fine man, your grandfather, Jesse."

  He continued turning pages, mumbling to himself just, low enough so that Chester couldn't decipher his words. "Here," he continued, more lucidly, "is a court order, granting temporary title to the object, or device, said object or device to be referred to in all proceeding henceforth as the 'extraterrestrial artifact,' jointly to Jesse William Shattuck and family. Permission is given for them to do with said extraterrestrial artifact as they please, understanding that they will do all in their power to maintain said artifact in good condition." Again his eyes met Chester's.

  "That means they can turn it over to you if they desire, or they can use it for a doorstop, a conversation piece, or even a Christmas ornament." He returned his attention to new pages.

  "Any objection to the aforementioned order or order shall be submitted for consideration by any individual government agency to the proper legal authorities.' Wheaton handed the sheaf of paper to a thoroughly awed Biggers.

  "You can see there, Sheriff, that all included forms and orders are signed by Justices A. Hammond and G. Lamar of the Supreme Court of the State of Texas. I believe they take precedence even over an executive directive of the governor's.

  "Of course," he added pleasantly, "the governor can always declare a state of emergency and call out the National Guard to come seize my client's property. He is welcome to do so. However‑" He turned to face increasingly nervous Chester. "‑I believe that might result in a touch more publicity than any of us would like."

  "Let's see," he mused speculatively, "the government rides in to steal legally claimed property from its discoverers. We could have some nice posed shots of the Shat­tucks standing on their front porch while Guard troops in helmets and full battle gear stand lined up across from them
, machine guns and bazookas at the ready to deal with this massive threat to the American way of life. That would look impressive, say, on the front page of The Washington Post. What do you think, Major?"

  All eyes focused on Chester, attention he could have done without. Hopefully he looked at Biggers, but the sheriff wanted nothing to do with that ream of legal doc­umentation.

  "As far as I can see, I've been overruled, Major. I'm willin' to do what you think best, though."

  Thanks a whole lot, Chester thought. "I think," he ventured after a brief pause, "we'd better go back to Breckenridge and consider this very carefully."

  Perham Tut made a noise Chester wouldn't have thought was in him. He held his temper in check, man­aging also to ignore the low stream of bitter curses falling from Goldberg's lips. Calumet said nothing. He was eye­ing Wheaton respectfully.

  "We'll be back, of course," Chester added, trying to salvage something from the meeting. Wheaton didn't ap­pear fazed.

  "I expect so. But if you'll excuse us‑" He glanced up at the rancher. "‑we'll have to hurry, Jesse, if we're going to get that new pipe put in before sundown."

  Shattuck nodded. Both men turned and headed for the rear of the house as the disgruntled scientists piled back into the station wagon.

  "What now?" Goldberg wanted to know as they chugged and bumped back toward Breckenridge. "In the papers we don't want anything, or a long court fight, either. "

  "United States of America versus J. W. Shattuck and family," Calumet added: Chester winced at the field day the papers would have with that one. "Uncle Colossus and the Hitlerian physicists against just plain country folks. No, Major, we have to find another way."

  "I'm open to suggestions," admitted Chester tersely.

  It was silent in the car for several minutes. "Washing­ton is still expecting to hear from us," the young chemist continued. "It occurs to me that we have preserved se­crecy very well. No one knows yet that we've actually located the spacecraft."

  Chester started. Calumet was right. Only the five of them‑and Sheriff Biggers‑knew that an alien craft had set down on the planet in one piece.

  "I think it's time, Major, to bring larger forces to bear," Calumet went on briskly. "You'd best notify your General MacGregor and also the Pentagon. I'll want all three of us to speak with NASA headquarters. When more important people realize what we've found and convey it to their superiors, we should be able to persuade these people to give up the craft voluntarily."

  "From what I've seen," Chester mused, "neither Shattuck nor his wife persuades too easily. Who'd you have in mind to try and persuade them?"

  "The President," Calumet said, staring out the front windshield past Chester. "It will take several days for those other people I mentioned to convince him of the urgency of the matter. After he is convinced, I'm sure he'll rush to cooperate with us."

  "What about Wheaton?"

  Calumet frowned. "He's going to be a problem. He's just obstinate and smart enough to make trouble. But the President can be a pretty persuasive man. He might be able to convince even a maverick legal genius like Cable Wheaton that it would be in the best interests of his cli­ents to allow matters to take their natural and inevitable course . . .quietly." He leaned back in the seat.

  "For example, I've always heard that Wheaton aspires to sit on the Supreme Court some day. A President has a lot of options at his command. Who knows what pressures, benign and otherwise, he might bring to bear?"

  What, indeed? wondered a benumbed Chester, feeling way out of his depth and wishing fervently he was back home before the family fireplace with Charlene and the kids.

  Hmm‑hmm‑hmm . . . buzz‑hmm‑buzz . . . tick! sang they yellow blossom out of the galactic vastnesses from itss~ snug perch in the barn loft.

  High above, the moon had commenced its descent, but the stars still shone bright and clear. Several hours re­mained until sunrise. Nothing stirred on the grounds of the ranch.

  On the farm road up from the ranch house a large eighteen‑wheeler slowed and stopped, pulling onto the road shoulder. Its headlights dimmed. Back doors opened, and a ramp slid out. A tight knot of men moved quickly down the ramp, ran forward.

  At the cab of the truck they were joined by a bigger, older man. Plans were discussed in muted voices. Clutching various instruments of a nonscientific na­ture, they began moving, crouched low but still running, toward the ranch house.

  Behind them activity continued as other men within the truck struggled silently to rig a mobile winch and sling in expectation of the others' return.

  As was usual lately, Chester was having a difficult time sleeping. The Korean and Vietnam wars had made light sleepers out of many men. He woke as he found himself reaching across the mattress for the woman who wasn't there.

  Rubbing his eyes, he rolled over and stared at the ceil­ing. Once again unarguably, helplessly awake, he slid his legs to the side and sat up.

  The three scientists, he knew, would be sound asleep in their respective rooms. The budget for this kind of endeavor provided for privacy for all concerned.

  Disgusted with himself, envious of their ability to sleep, and unhappy with the way events had gone the last couple of days, he wrestled his fatigued form into his clothes. A check of his watch showed the wrong side of four A.M.‑an insane hour.

  Down the main street was a twenty‑four‑hour cafe fre­quented by off‑freeway truckers. He filled his pockets with the usual paraphernalia without which a man felt unbalanced: wallet, keys, pocketknife, and small flash­light.

  He would, he decided, have a couple of cups of coffee, stretch them out for as long as possible, read the morning paper from Dallas, and then maybe eat some breakfast.

  Hopefully he could at least prolong things until the sun came up.

  He closed the motel‑room door behind him, not both­ering to lock it. That was one of the advantages of living outside a city. Partway through the motel lot he paused, thinking. This morning his loneliness was particularly strong. A little company would do him good.

  The soft‑spoken companionship of the sergeant was more to his liking that that of the scientists, who would be downright uncommunicative this time of the morning, even Calumet.

  Turning, he walked two units past his own room and knocked on the door of number six. It was possible the sergeant was already awake. Chester had encountered him down at the truck stop several times, often before he arrived himself. He wondered if Pat had as much trouble sleeping as he did. ‑

  There was no response, and he knocked again, louder. One last time. It was just as well, he decided. Pat was probably down at the cafe already and would be glad to see him.

  But when he arrived, a quick search of the small dining area showed no sign of the sergeant. Chester took a seat, thinking perhaps that Pat was in the men's room. Ten minutes of waiting dispelled the likelihood of that.

  Chester was puzzled. No place else in town except the gas station across the street would be open for several hours, and he could see that the sergeant wasn't lingering there, chatting with the sleepy attendant.

  Prompted by something stronger than just curiosity, he left his coffee half‑finished and strolled back to the mo­tel. Further knocks, verging on pounding, produced no response from within number six. The station wagon was still parked in front of the room.

  Had the sergeant gone off on some errand of his own? That seemed unlikely, since he was under strict orders to be available to drive at any time.

  Chester made a decision he regretted in advance. Prob­ably he'd come out looking the fool, he thought as he walked toward the office. There he woke the groggy manager‑owner of the motel and borrowed the duplicate key to room six.

  He opened the room. The sergeant was not in bed. Nor was he in the bathroom, hiding in a closet, or else­where about. Chester checked the bed carefully, noted that it hadn't been slept in.

  "Lookin' for your friend, the big fella?"

  Chester spun, reaching for the pistol at
his hip that wasn't there. It was only the bathrobe‑clad form of the motel manager.

  Chester forced himself to relax, startled at how tense he was. "Yes, of course," he explained.

  "Could have told you 'bout him," the manager de­clared with an sir of superiority. "Heard a noise out back a couple of hours ago . . . don't know exactly when. Didn't look at my clock. I'm used to engines wakin' me up. Get a lot of folks come in the middle of the night.

  "There was this big rig pulled up behind the back rooms. It struck me funny, you know? Because there's no reason for a truck to pull in here. Truckers, they sleep in their cabs and park behind the night station 'cross the street. Never had a one take a room here.

  "I saw a couple of fellas get out. They met somebody else . . . big fells, coulda been your friend. They yakked a minute or two, then all climbed in and drove off to­gether. Didn't see nothin' to make noise about, so I went back to bed."

  "You're sure it was my friend?" Chester asked tightly.

  "Nope. Said it coulda been," the manager replied. "But I am sure of one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "I'm still tired." He turned and walked back toward his office, leaving Chester standing paralyzed with anxi­ety in front of an ominously deserted room number six.

  He whirled finally, ran to the phone, and stopped with one hand about to pick up the receiver. Part of the con­versation he'd had with the sheriff as he'd driven out to the ranch came back to him.

  "They sure like their privacy," Biggers had told him. "They've got a TV, all right, and radio. But they pipe and filter their water out of their tank, and they've got their own generator for power. There are gas lines run­ning all over that part of the county, and J.W. sneaks some of what they need from here and there. No telephone, though. No real contact with the outside world except for the mail."

  No telephone, Chester thought frantically. His hand left the receiver. The three scientists would have to be told eventually, of course. But not now, not yet.

  He picked up the phone, firmly this time, and dialed. There was a pause and a click, and a voice said, "Post operator. May I help you, sir?"