Time and Again

by Clifford D. Simak

  For they are worse than the disinherited. They are not the has-beens, they are the never-weres.

  They were not born of woman but of the laboratory. Their mother is a bin of chemicals and their father the ingenuity and technology of the normal race.

  Android: An artificial human. A human made in the laboratory out of Man's own deep knowledge of chemicals and atomic and molecular structure and the strange reaction that is known as life.

  Human in all but two respects—the mark upon the forehead and the inability to reproduce biologically.

  Artificial humans to help the real humans, the biological humans, carry the load of galactic empire, to make the thin line of humanity the thicker. But kept in their place. Oh, yes, most definitely kept in their right place.

  The corridor was empty, and Sutton, his bare feet slapping on the floor, followed the android.

  The door before which they stopped said:

  THOMAS H. DAVIS

  (Human)

  Operations Chief

  "In there," the android said.

  Sutton walked in and the man behind the desk looked up and gulped.

  "I'm a human," Sutton told him. "I may not look it, but I am."

  The man jerked his thumb toward a chair. "Sit down," he said.

  Sutton sat.

  "Why didn't you answer our signals?" Davis asked.

  "My set was broken," Sutton told him.

  "Your ship has no identity."

  "The rains washed it off," said Sutton, "and I had no paint."

  "Rain doesn't wash off paint."

  "Not Earth rain," said Sutton. "Where I was, it does."

  "Your motors?" asked Davis. "We could pick up nothing from them."

  "They weren't working," Sutton told him.

  Davis' Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Weren't working. How did you navigate?"

  "With energy," said Sutton.

  "Energy…" Davis choked.

  Sutton stared at him icily.

  "Anything else?" he asked.

  Davis was confused. The red tape had gotten tangled. The answers were all wrong. He fiddled with a pencil.

  "Just the usual things, I guess." He drew a pad of forms before him.

  "Name?"

  "Asher Sutton."

  "Origin of fli…Say, wait a minute! Asher Sutton!"

  Davis flung the pencil on the pad, pushed away the pad.

  "That's right."

  "Why didn't you tell me that at first?"

  "I didn't have a chance."

  Davis was flustered.

  "If I had known…" he said.

  "It's the beard," said Sutton.

  "My father talked about you often. Jim Davis. Maybe you remember him."

  Sutton shook his head.

  "Great friend of your father's. That is…they knew one another."

  "How is my father?" asked Sutton.

  "Great," said Davis, enthusiastically. "Keeping well. Getting along in years, but standing up…"

  "My father and mother," Sutton told him, coldly, "died fifty years ago. In the Argus pandemic."

  He heaved himself to his feet, faced Davis squarely.

  "If you're through," he said, "I'd like to go to my hotel. They'll find some room for me."

  "Certainly, Mr. Sutton, certainly. Which hotel?"

  "The Orion Arms."

  Davis reached into a drawer, took out a directory, flipped the pages, ran a shaking finger down a column.

  "Cherry 26-3489," he said. "The teleport is over there."

  He pointed to a booth set flush into the wall.

  "Thanks," said Sutton.

  "About your father, Mr. Sutton…"

  "I know," said Sutton. "I'm glad you tipped me off."

  He swung around and walked to the teleport. Before he closed the door, he looked back.

  Davis was on the visaphone, talking rapidly.

  III

  TWENTY YEARS had not changed the Orion Arms.

  To Sutton, stepping out of the teleport, it looked the same as the day he had walked away. A little shabbier and slightly more on the fuddy-duddy side…but it was home, the quiet whisper of hushed activity, the dowdy furnishings, the finger-to-the-lip, tiptoe atmosphere, the stressed respectability that he had remembered and dreamed about in the long years of alienness.

  The life-mural along the wall was the same as ever. A little faded with long running, but the self-same one that Sutton had remembered. The same goatish Pan still chased, after twenty years, the same terror-stricken maiden across the self-same hills and dales. And the same rabbit hopped from behind a bush and watched the chase with all his customary boredom, chewing his everlasting cud of clover.

  The self-adjusting furniture, bought at a time when the management had considered throwing the hostelry open to the alien trade, had been out-of-date twenty years ago. But it still was there. It had been repainted, in soft, genteel pastels, its self-adjustment features still confined to human forms.

  The spongy floor covering had lost some of its sponginess and the Cetian cactus must have died at last, for a pot of frankly Terrestrial geraniums now occupied its place.

  The clerk snapped off the visaphone and turned back to the room.

  "Good morning, Mr. Sutton," he said, in his cultured android voice.

  Then he added, almost as an afterthought, "We've been wondering when you would show up."

  "Twenty years," said Sutton, dryly, "is long-time wondering."

  "We've kept your old suite for you," said the clerk. "We knew that you would want it. Mary has kept it cleaned and ready for you ever since you left."

  "That was nice of you, Ferdinand."

  "You've hardly changed at all," said Ferdinand. "The beard is all. I knew you the second that I turned around and saw you."

  "The beard and clothes," said Sutton. "The clothes are pretty bad."

  "I don't suppose," said Ferdinand, "you have luggage, Mr. Sutton."

  "No luggage."

  "Breakfast, then, perhaps. We still are serving breakfast."

  Sutton hesitated, suddenly aware that he was hungry. And he wondered for a moment how food would strike his stomach.

  "I could find a screen," said Ferdinand.

  Sutton shook his head. "No. I better get cleaned up and shaved. Send me up some breakfast and a change of clothes."

  "Scrambled eggs, perhaps. You always liked scrambled eggs for breakfast."

  "That sounds all right," said Sutton.

  He turned slowly from the desk and walked to the elevator. He was about to close the door when a voice called:

  "Just a moment, please."

  The girl was running across the lobby…rangy and copper-haired. She slid into the elevator, pressed her back against the wall.

  "Thanks very much," she said. "Thanks so much for waiting."

  Her skin, Sutton saw, was. magnolia-white and her eyes were granite-colored with shadows deep within them.

  He closed the door softly.

  "I was glad to wait," he said.

  Her lips twitched just a little and he said, "I don't like shoes. They cramp one's feet too much."

  He pressed the button savagely and the elevator sprang upward. The lights ticked off the floors.

  Sutton stopped the cage. "This is my floor," he said.

  He had the door open and was halfway out, when she spoke to him.

  "Mister."

  "Yes, what is it?"

  "I didn't mean to laugh. I really-truly didn't."

  "You had a right to laugh," said Sutton, and closed the door behind him.

  He stood for a moment, fighting down a sudden tenseness that seized him like a mighty fist.

  Careful, he told himself. Take it easy, boy. You are home at last. This is the place you dreamed of. Just a few doors down and you are finally home. You will reach out and turn the knob and push in the door and it will all be there…just as you remembered it. The favorite chair, the life-paintings on the wall, the little fountain with the mermaids from Venus�
�and the windows where you can sit and fill your eyes with Earth.

  But you can't get emotional. You can't go soft and sissy.

  For that chap back at the spaceport had lied. And hotels don't keep rooms waiting for all of twenty years.

  There is something wrong. I don't know what, but something. Something terribly wrong.

  He took a slow step…and then another, fighting down the tension, swallowing the dryness of excitement welling in his throat.

  One of the paintings, he remembered, was a forest brook, with birds flitting in the trees. And at the most unexpected times one of the birds would sing, usually with the dawn or the going of the sun. And the water babbled with a happy song that held one listening in his chair for hours.

  He knew that he was running and he didn't try to stop.

  His fingers curled around the doorknob and turned it. The room was there…the favorite chair, the babble of the brook, the splashing of the mermaids…

  He caught the whiff of danger as he stepped across the threshold and he tried to turn and run, but he was too late. He felt his body crumpling forward to crash toward the floor.

  "Johnny!" he cried and the cry bubbled in his throat. "Johnny!"

  Inside his brain a voice whispered back. "It's all right, Ash. We're locked."

  Then darkness came.

  IV

  THERE WAS someone in the room and Sutton kept his eyelids down, kept his breathing slow.

  Someone in the room, pacing quietly. Stopping now before the window to look out, moving over to the mantelpiece to stare at the painting of the forest brook. And in the stillness of the room, Sutton heard the laughing babble of the painted stream against the splashing of the fountain, heard the faint bird notes that came from the painted trees, imagined that even from the distance that he lay he could smell the forest mold and the cool, wet perfume of the moss that grew along the stream.

  The person in the room crossed back again and sat down in a chair. He whistled a tune, almost inaudibly. A funny, little lilting tune that Sutton had not heard before.

  Someone gave me a going over, Sutton told himself. Knocked me out fast, with gas or powder, then gave me an overhauling. I seem to remember some of it…hazy and far away. Lights that glowed and a probing at my brain. And I might have fought against it, but I knew it was no use. And, besides, they're welcome to anything they found. He hugged himself with a mental smugness. Yes, they're welcome to anything they pried out of my mind.

  But they've found all they're going to find and they have gone away. They left someone to watch me and he still is in the room.

  He stirred on the bed and opened his eyes, opened them slowly, kept them glazed and only partly focused.

  The man rose from the chair and Sutton saw that he was dressed in white. He crossed the room and leaned above the bed.

  "All right, now?" he asked.

  Sutton raised a hand and passed it, bewildered, across his face.

  "Yes," he said. "Yes, I guess I am."

  "You passed out," the man told him.

  "Something I ate," said Sutton.

  The man shook his head. "The trip, more than likely. It must have been a tough one."

  "Yes," said Sutton. "Tough."

  Go ahead, he thought. Go ahead and ask some more. Those are your instructions. Catch me while I'm groggy, pump me like a well. Go ahead and ask the questions and earn your lousy money.

  But he was wrong.

  The man straightened up.

  "I think you'll be all right," he said. "If you aren't, call me. My card is on the mantel."

  "Thanks, doctor," said Sutton.

  He watched him walk across the room, waited until he heard the door click, then sat up in bed. His clothing lay in a pile in the center of the floor. His case? Yes, there it was, lying on a chair. Ransacked, no doubt, probably photostated.

  Spy rays, too, more than likely. All over the room. Ears listening and eyes watching.

  But who? he asked himself.

  No one knew he was returning. No one could have known. Not even Adams. There was no way to know. There had been no way that he could let them know.

  Funny.

  Funny the way Davis at the spaceport had recognized his name and told a lie to cover up.

  Funny the way Ferdinand pretended his suite had been kept for him for all these twenty years.

  Funny, too, how Ferdinand had turned around and spoken, as if twenty years were nothing.

  Organized, said Sutton. Clicking like a relay system. Set and waiting for me.

  But why should anyone be waiting? No one knew when he'd be coming back. Or if he would come at all.

  And even if someone did know, why go to all the trouble?

  For they could not know, he thought…they could not know the thing I have, they could not even guess. Even if they did know I was coming back, incredible as it might be that they should know, even that would be more credible by a million times than that they should know the real reason for my coming.

  And knowing, he said, they would not believe.

  His eyes found the attaché case lying on the chair, and stared at it.

  And knowing, he said again, they would not believe.

  When they look the ship over, of course, they will do some wondering. Then there might be some excuse for the thing that happened. But they didn't have time to look at the ship. They didn't wait a minute. They were laying for me and they gave me the works from the second that I landed.

  Davis shoved me into a teleport and grabbed his phone like mad. And Ferdinand knew that I was on the way, he knew he'd see me when he turned around. And the girl—the girl with the granite eyes?

  Sutton got up and stretched. A bath and shave, first of all, he told himself. And then some clothes and breakfast. A visor call or two.

  Don't act as if you've got the wind up, he warned himself. Act naturally. Pick your nose. Talk to yourself. Pinch out a blackhead. Scratch your back against a door casing. Act as if you think you are alone.

  But be careful.

  There is someone watching.

  V

  SUTTON was finishing breakfast when the android came.

  "My name is Herkimer," the android told him, "and I belong to Mr. Geoffrey Benton."

  "Mr. Benton sent you here?"

  "Yes. He sends a challenge."

  "A challenge?"

  "Yes. You know, a duel."

  "But I am unarmed."

  "You cannot be unarmed," said Herkimer.

  "I never fought a duel in all my life," said Sutton. "I don't intend to now."

  "You are vulnerable."

  "What do you mean, vulnerable? If I go unarmed…"

  "But you cannot go unarmed. The code was changed just a year or two ago. No man younger than a hundred years can go unarmed."

  "But if one does?"

  "Why, then," said Herkimer, "anyone who wants to can pot you like a rabbit."

  "You are sure of this?"

  Herkimer dug into his pocket, brought out a tiny book. He wet his finger and fumbled at the pages.

  "It's right here," he said.

  "Never mind," said Sutton. "I will take your word."

  "You accept the challenge, then?"

  Sutton grimaced. "I suppose I have to. Mr. Benton will wait, I presume, until I buy a gun."

  "No need of that," Herkimer told him, brightly. "I brought one along. Mr. Benton always does that. Just a courtesy, you know. In case someone hasn't got one."

  He reached into his pocket and held out the weapon. Sutton took it and laid it on the table.

  "Awkward-looking thing," he said.

  Herkimer stiffened. "It's traditional," he declared. "The finest weapon made. Shoots a .45-caliber slug. Hand-loaded ammunition. Sights are tested in for fifty feet."

  "You pull this?" asked Sutton, pointing.

  Herkimer nodded. "It is called a trigger. And you don't pull it. You squeeze it."

  "Just why does Mr. Benton challenge me?" asked Sutton. "I don't e
ven know the man. Never even heard of him."

  "You are famous," said Herkimer.

  "Not that I have heard of."

  "You are an investigator," Herkimer pointed out. "You have just come back from a long and perilous mission. You're carrying a mysterious-appearing attaché case. And there are reporters waiting in the lobby."

  Sutton nodded. "I see. When Benton kills someone he likes them to be famous."

  "It is better if they are," said Herkimer. "More publicity"

  "But I don't know Mr. Benton. How will I know who I'm supposed to shoot at?"

  "I'll show you," said Herkimer, "on the televisor."

  He stepped to the desk, dialed a number and stepped back.

  "That's him," he said.

  In the screen a man was sitting before a chess table. The pieces were in mid-game. Across the board stood a beautifully machined robotic.

  The man reached out a hand, thoughtfully played his knight. The robotic clicked and chuckled. It moved a pawn. Benton's shoulders hunched forward and he bent above the board. One hand came around and scratched the back of his neck.

  "Oscar's got him worried," said Herkimer. "He always has him worried. Mr. Benton hasn't won a single game in the last ten years."

  "Why does he keep on playing, then?"

  "Stubborn," said Herkimer. "But Oscar's stubborn, too."

  He made a motion with his hand.

  "Machines can be so much more stubborn than humans. It's the way they're built."

  "But Benton must have known, when he had Oscar fabricated, that Oscar would beat him," Sutton pointed out. "A human simply can't beat a robotic expert."

  "Mr. Benton knew that," said Herkimer, "but he didn't believe it. He wanted to prove otherwise."

  "Egomaniac," said Sutton.

  Herkimer stared at him calmly. "I believe that you are right, sir. I've sometimes thought the same myself."

  Sutton brought his gaze back to Benton, who was still hunched above the board, the knuckles of one hand thrust hard against his mouth.

  The veined face was scrubbed and pink and chubby, and the brooding eyes, thoughtful as they were, still held a fat twinkle of culture and good-fellowship.

  "You'll know him now?" asked Herkimer.

  Sutton nodded. "Yes, I think I can pick him out. He doesn't look too dangerous."