Groff Conklin (ed)

by Five Odd

  Barney had smiled reassuringly, leaning back in his chair. "Well, indirecdy, sir, as the pictures indicate, we might say it was your interest in fishing. You see, I happened to notice you on Mallorca last month ..."

  By itself, the chance encounter on the island had seemed only moderately interesting. Barney was sitting behind the wheel of an ancient automobile, near a private home in which a business negotiation of some consequence was being conducted. The business under discussion happened to be Barney's but it would have been inexpedient for him to attend the meeting in person. Waiting for his associates to wind up the matter, he was passing time by studying an old man who was fishing from a small boat offshore, a hundred yards or so below the road. After a while the old fellow brought the boat in, appeared a few minutes later along the empty lane carrying his tackle and an apparently empty gunnysack, and trudged unheedingly past the automobile and its occupant. As he went by, Barney had a sudden sense of recognition. Then, in a flash, his mind jumped back twelve years.

  Dr. Oliver B. McAllen. Twelve years ago the name had been an important one in McAllen's field; then it was not so much forgotten as deliberately buried. Working under government contract at one of the big universities, McAllen had been suddenly and quietly retired. Barney, who had a financial interest in one of the contracts, had made inquiries; he was likely to be out of money if McAllen had been taken from the job. Eventually he was informed, in strict confidence, that Dr. McAllen had flipped. Under the delusion of having made a discovery of tremendous importance, he had persuaded the authorities to arrange a demonstration. When the demonstration ended in complete failure, McAllen angrily accused some of his most eminent colleagues of having sabotaged his invention, and withdrew from the university. To protect the once great scientist's name, the matter was being hushed up.

  So Mallorca was where the addled old physicist had elected to end his days—not a bad choice either, Barney had thought, gazing after the retreating figure. Pleasant island in a beautiful sea—he remembered having heard about McAllen's passion for angling.

  A day later, the Mallorca business profitably concluded, Barney flew back to Los Angeles. That evening he entertained a pair of tanned and shapely ladies whose idea of high fun was to drink all night and go deep-sea fishing at dawn. Barney shuddered inwardly at the latter notion, but promised to see the sporting characters to the Sweetwater Beach Municipal Pier in time to catch a party boat, and did so. One of the girls, he noticed not without satisfaction—he had become a little tired of the two before morning—appeared to turn a delicate green as she settled herself into the gently swaying half-day boat beside the wharf. Barney waved them an amiable farewell and was about to go when he noticed a plump old man sitting in the stern of the boat among other anglers, rigging up his tackle. Barney checked sharply, and blinked. He was looking at Oliver B. McAllen again.

  It was almost a minute before he felt sure of it this time. Not that it was impossible for McAllen to be sitting in that boat, but it did seem extremely unlikely. McAllen didn't look in the least like a man who could afford to commute by air between the Mediterranean and California. And Barney felt something else trouble him obscurely as he stared down at the old scientist; a notion of some kind was stirring about in the back corridors of his mind, but refused to be drawn to view just then.

  He grew aware of what it was while he watched the party boat head out to sea a few minutes later, smiled at what seemed an impossibly fanciful concoction of his unconscious, and started towards the pier's parking lot. But when he had reached his car, climbed in, turned on the ignition, and lit a cigarette, the notion was still with him and Barney was no longer smiling. Fanciful it was, extremely so. Impossible, in the strict sense, it was not The longer he played it around, the more he began to wonder whether his notion mightn't hold water after all. If there was anything to it he had run into one of the biggest deals in history.

  Later Barney realized he would still have let the matter drop there if it hadn't been for other things, having nothing to do with Dr. McAllen. He was between operations at present His time wasn't occupied. Furthermore he'd been aware lately that ordinary operations had begun to feel flat The kick of putting over a deal, even on some other hard, bright character of his own class, unaccountably was fading.

  Barney Chard was somewhat frightened because the operator game was the only one he'd ever found interesting; the other role of well-heeled playboy wasn't much more than a manner of killing time. At thirty-seven he was realizing that he was bored with life. He didn't like the prospect

  Now here was something which might again provide him with some genuine excitement It could simply be his imagination working overtime, but it wasn't going to do any harm to find out Mind humming with pleased though still highly skeptical speculations, Barney went back to the boat station and mqnired when the party boat was due to return.

  He was waiting for it, well out of sight, as it came chugging up to the wharf some hours later. He had never had anything to do directly with Dr. McAllen, so the old man wouldn't recognize him. But he didn't want to be spotted by bis two amazons who might feel refreshed enough by now to be ready for another tour of the town.

  He needn't have worried. The ladies barely made it to the top of the stairs; they phoned for a cab and were presently whisked away. Dr. McAllen meanwhile also had made a telephone call, and settled down not far from Barney to wait A small gray car, five or six years old but of polished and well-tended appearance, trundled presently up the pier, came into the turnaround at the boat station, and stopped. A thin Negro, with hair as white as the doctor's, held the door open for McAllen. The car moved unhurriedly off with them.

  The automobile's license number produced^ Dr. McAllen's California address for Bamey a short while later. The physicist lived in Sweetwater Beach, fifteen minutes' drive from the pier, in an old Spanish type house back in the hills. The chauffeur's name was John Emanuel Fredericks; he had been working for McAllen for an unknown length of time. No one else lived there.

  Barney didn't bother with further details about the Sweetwater Beach establishment at the moment The agencies he usually employed to dig up background information were reasonably trustworthy, but he wanted to attract no more attention than was necessary to his interest in Dr. McAllen.

  That evening he took a plane to New York.

  Physicist Frank Elby was a few years older than Bamey, an acquaintance since their university days. Elby was ambitious, capable, slightly dishonest; on occasion he provided

  Barney with contraband information for which he was generously paid.

  Over lunch Barney broached a business matter which would be financially rewarding to both of them, and should not burden Elby*s conscience unduly. Elby reflected, and agreed. The talk became more general. Presently Barney remarked, "Ran into an old acquaintance of ours the other day. Remember Dr. McAllen?"

  "Oliver B. McAllen? Naturally. Haven't heard about him in years. What's he doing?"

  Barney said he had only seen the old man, hadn't spoken to him. But he was sure it was McAllen.

  "Where was this?" Elby asked.

  "Sweetwater Beach.Small town down the Coast."

  Elby nodded. "It must have been McAllen. That's where he had his home."

  "He was looking hale and hearty. They didn't actually institutionalize him at the time of his retirement, did they?"

  "Oh, no. No reason for it. Except on the one subject of that cockeyed invention of his, he behaved perfectly normally. Besides he would have hired a lawyer and fought any such move. He had plenty of money. And nobody wanted publicity. McAllen was a pretty likeable old boy."

  "The university never considered taking him back?"

  Elby laughed. "Well, hardly! After all, man—a matter transmitter!"

  Barney felt an almost electric thrill of pleasure. Right on the nose, Brother Chard! Right on the nose.

  He smiled. "Was that what it was supposed to be? I never was told all the details."

  Elby said tha
t for the few who were informed of the details it had been a seven-day circus. McAllen's reputation was such that more people, particularly on his staff, had been ready to believe him than were ready to admit it later. "When he'd left—you know, he never even bothered to take that transmitter' along—die thing was taken apart and checked over as carefully as if somebody thought it might still suddenly start working. But h was an absolute Goldberg, of course. The old man had simply gone off his rocker."

  "Hadn't there been any indication of it before?"

  "Not that I know of. Except that he'd been dropping hints about his gadget for several months before he showed it to anyone," Elby said indifferently. The talk turned to other things.

  The rest was routine, not difficult to carry out A small cottage on Mallorca, near the waterfront was found to be in McAllen's name. McAllen's liquid assets were established to have dwindled to something less than those of John Emanuel Fredericks, who patronized the same local bank as his employer. There had been frequent withdrawals of large, irregular sums throughout the past years. The withdrawals were not explained by McAllen's frugal personal habits; even his fishing excursions showed an obvious concern for expense. The retention of the Mediterranean retreat modest though it was, must have a reason beyond simple self-indulgence.

  Barney arranged for the rental of a bungalow in the outskirts of Sweetwater Beach, which lay uphill from the old house in which McAllen and Fredericks lived, and provided a good view of the residence and its street entry. He didn't go near the place himself. Operatives of a Los Angeles detective agency went on constant watch in the bungalow, with orders to photograph the two old men in the other house and any visitors at every appearance, and to record the exact times the pictures were taken. At the end of each day the photographs were delivered to an address from where they promptly reached Barney's hands.

  A European agency was independently covering the Mallorca cottage in the same manner.

  Nearly four weeks passed before Barney obtained the exact results tie wanted. He called off the watch at both points, and next day came up the walk to McAllen's home and rang the doorbell. John Fredericks appeared, studied Barney's card and Barney with an air of mild disapproval, and informed him that Dr. McAllen did not receive visitors.

  "So I've been told," Bamey acknowledged pleasantly. "Please be so good as to give the doctor this."

  Fredericks' white eyebrows lifted by the barest trifle as he looked at the sealed envelope Barney was holding out After a moment's hesitation he took it, instructed Bamey to wait and closed the door firmly.

  Listening to Fredericks' footsteps receding into the house, Barney lit a cigarette, and was pleased to find that his hands were as steady as if he had been on the most ordinary of calls. The envelope contained two sets of photographs, dated and indicating the time of day. The date was the same for both sets; the recorded time showed the pictures had been taken within fifteen minutes of one another. The central subject in each case was Dr. McAllen, sometimes accompanied by Fredericks. One set of photographs had been obtained on Mallorca, the other in Sweetwater Beach at McAllen's house.

  Barring rocket assists, the two old men had been documented as the fastest moving human beings in all of history.

  Several minutes passed before Fredericks reappeared. With a face which was now completely without expression, he invited Bamey to enter, and conducted him to McAllen's study. The scientist had the photographs spread out on a desk before him. He gestured at them.

  "Just what—if anything—is this supposed to mean, sir?" he demanded in an unsteady voice.

  Barney hesitated, aware that Fredericks had remained in the hall just beyond the study. But Fredericks obviously was in McAllen's confidence. His eavesdropping could do no harm.

  "It means this, doctor—" Barney began, amiably enough; and he proceeded to tell McAllen precisely what the photographs meant McAllen broke in protestingly two or three times, then let Barney conclude his account of the steps he had taken to verify his farfetched hunch on the pier without further comment After a few minutes Barney heard Fredericks' steps moving away, and then a door closing softly somewhere, and he shifted his position a trifle so that his right side was now toward the hall door. The little revolver was in the right-hand coat pocket. Even then Bamey had no real concern that McAllen or Fredericks would attempt to resort to violence; but when people are acutely disturbed— and McAllen at least was—almost anything can happen.

  When Bamey finished, McAllen stared down at the photographs again, shook his head, and looked over at Bamey.

  "If you don't mind," he said, blinking behind his glasses, "I should like to think about this for a minute or two."

  "Of course, doctor," Bamey said politely. McAllen settled back in the chair, removed his glasses and half closed his eyes. Barney let his gaze rove. The furnishings of the house were what he had expected—well-tended, old, declining here and there to downright shabby. The only reasonably new piece in the study was a radio-phonograph. The walls of the study and of the section of a living room he could see through a small archway were lined with crammed bookshelves. At the far end of the living room was a curious collection of clocks in various types and sizes, mainly antiques, but also some old metallic pieces with modernistic faces. Vacancies in the rows indicated Fredericks might have begun to dispose

  discreetly of the more valuable items on his employer's behalf.

  McAllen cleared his throat finally, opened his eyes, and settled the spectacles back on his nose.

  "Mr. Chard," he inquired, "have you had scientific training?"

  "No."

  "Then," said McAllen, "the question remains of what your interest in the matter is. Perhaps you'd like to explain just why you put yourself to such considerable expense to intrude on my personal affairs—"

  Bamey hesitated perceptibly. "Doctor," he said, "there is something tantalizing about an enigma. I'm fortunate in having financial means to gratify my curiosity when it's excited to the extent it was here."

  McAllen nodded. "I can understand curiosity. Was that your only motive?"

  Barney gave him his most disarming grin. "Frankly no. I've mentioned I'm a businessman—"

  "AhI" McAllen said, frowning.

  "Dont misunderstand me. One of my first thoughts admittedly was that here were millions waiting to be picked up. But the investigation soon made a number of things clear to me."

  "What were they?"

  "Essentially, that you had so sound a reason for keeping your invention a secret that to do it you were willing to ruin yourself financially, and to efface yourself as a human being and as a scientist."

  "I dent feel," McAllen observed mildly, "that I really have effaced myself, either as a human being or as a scientist"

  "No, but as far as the public was concerned you did both."

  McAllen smiled briefly. That strategem was very effective —until now. Very well, Mr. Chard. You understand clearly that under no circumstances would I agree to the commercialization of... well, of my matter transmitter?"

  Barney nodded. "Of course."

  "And you're still interested?"

  "Very much so."

  McAllen was silent a lew seconds, biting reflectively at his lower lip. "Very well," be said again. "You were speaking of my predilection for fishing. Perhaps you'd care to accompany me on a brief fishing trip?"

  "Now?" Barney asked.

  CONE FISH1NQ | 133

  "Yes, now. I believe you understand what I mean ... I see you do. Then, if you'll excuse me for a few minutes—"

  Barney couldn't have said exactly, what he expected to be shown. His imaginings had run in the direction of a camouflaged vault beneath McAllen's house—some massively-trailed place with machinery that powered the matter transmitter purring along the walls . . . and perhaps something in the style of a plastic diving bell as the specific instrument of transportation.

  The actual experience was quite different McAllen returned shortly, having changed into the familiar outd
oor clothing—apparently he had been literal about going on a fishing trip. Barney accompanied the old physicist into the living room, and watched him open a small but very sturdy wall safe. Immediately behind the safe door, an instrument panel had been bmlt in the opening.

  Peering over the spectacles, McAllen made careful adjustments on two sets of small dials, and closed and locked the safe again.

  "Now, if you'll follow me, Mr. Chard—" He crossed the room to a door, opened it and went out Barney followed him into a small room with rustic furnishings and painted wooden walls. There was a single, heavily curtained window; the room was rather dim.

  "Well," McAllen announced, "here we are."

  It took a moment for that to sink in. Then, his scalp prickling eerily, Barney realized he was standing farther from the wall than he had thought He looked around, and discovered there was no door behind him now, either open or closed.

  He managed a shaky grin. "So that's how your matter transmitter works I"

  "Well," McAllen said thoughtfuny, "of course it isn't really a matter transmitter. I call it the McAllen Tube. Even an educated layman must realize that one can't simply disassemble a living body at one point, reassemble ft at another, and expect life to resume. And there are other considerations—"

  "Where are we?" Bamey asked. "On Mallorca?"

  "No. We havent left the continent—just the state. Look out the window and see for yourself."

  McAllen turned to a built-in closet and Barney drew back the window hangings. Outside was a grassy slope, uncut and

  yellowed by the summer sun. The slope dropped sharply to a quiet lakefront framed by dark pines. There was no one in sight, but a small wooden dock ran out into the lake. At the far end of the dock an old rowboat lay tethered. And—quite obviously—it was no longer the middle of a bright afternoon; the air was beginning to dim, to shift towards evening.

  Barney turned to find McAllen's mild, speculative eyes on him, and saw the old man had put a tackle box and fishing rod on the table.