by Keith Laumer
“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 cave men 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 olster 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 thickset 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—or 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.
* * * *
He was standing on a steep hillside, looking down across a sweep of meadow 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?”
“Here,” the guard reached into a hopper, took out a handful of pamphlets. “These are supposed to be for guys that are relocated without prejudice. You know, poor slobs that just happened to see too much; but I’ll let you have one. Let’s see…anglic, Anglic….” He selected one, handed it to Dan.
“Thanks.”
“Better get clear.”
Dan withdrew his head. He sat down on the grass and looked over the booklet. It was handsomely printed in gay colors. WELCOME TO RELOCATION CENTER NO. 23 said the cover. Below the heading was a photo of a group of sullen-looking creatures of varying heights and degrees of hairiness wearing paper hats. The caption read: New-comers Are Welcomed Into a Gay Round of Social Activity. Hi, New-comer!
Dan opened the book. A photo showed a scene identical to the one before him, except that in place of the meadow, there was a park-like expanse of lawn, dotted with rambling buildings with long porches lined with rockers. There were picnic tables under spreading trees, and beyond, on the river, a yacht basin crowded with canoes and row-boats.
“Life In a Community Center is Grand Fun!” Dan read. “Activities! Brownies, Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Sea Scouts, Tree Scouts, Cave Scouts, PTA, Shriners, Bear Cult, Rotary, Daughters of the Eastern Star, Mothers of the Big Banana, Dianetics—you name it! A Group for Everyone, and Everyone in a Group!
Classes in conversational Urdu, Sprotch, Yiddish, Gaelic, Fundu, etc; knot-tying, rug-hooking, leather-work, Greek Dancing, finger-painting and many, many others!
Little Theatre!
Indian Dance Pageants!
Round Table Discussions!
Town Meetings!
Dan thumbed on through the pages of emphatic print, stopped at a double-page spread labeled, A Few Do’s and Don’ts.
* All of us want to make a GO of relocation. So—let’s remember the Uranium Rule: Don’t Do It! The Other Guy May Be Bigger!
* Remember the Other Fellow’s Taboos!
What to you might be merely a wholesome picnic or mating bee may offend others. What some are used to doing in groups, others consider a solitary activity. Most taboos have to do with eating, sex, elimination or gods; so remember look before you sit down, lie down, squat down or kneel down!
* Ladies With Beards Please Note:
Friend husband may be on the crew clearing clogged drains—so watch that shedding in the lavatories, eh, girls? And you fellas, too! Sure, good grooming pays—but groom each other out in the open, okay?
* * * *
* NOTE: There has been some agitation for separate but equal facilities. Now, honestly, folks; is that in the spirit of Center No. 23
? Males and females will continue to use the same johns as always. No sexual chauvinism will be tolerated.
* * * *
* A Word To The Kiddies!
No brachiating will be permitted in the Social Center area. After all, a lot of the Dads sleep up there. There are plenty of other trees!
* * * *
* Daintiness Pays!
In these more-active-than-ever days, Personal Effluvium can get away from us almost before we notice. And that hearty scent may not be as satisfying to others as it is to ourselves! So remember, fellas: watch that P. E.! (Lye soap, eau de Cologne, flea powder and other beauty aids available at supply shed!)
Dan tossed the book aside. There were worse things than solitude. It looked like a pretty nice world—and it was all his.
The entire North American continent, all of South America, Europe, Asia, Africa—the works. He could cut down trees, build a hut, furnish it. There’d be hunting—he could make a bow and arrows—and the skins would do to make clothes. He could start a little farming, fish the streams, sun bathe—all the things he’d never had time to do back home. It wouldn’t be so bad. And eventually Dzhackoon would arrange for his release. It might be just the kind of vacation—
“Ah Dan, my boy!” a bass voice boomed. Dan jumped and spun around.
Blote’s immense face blinked at him from the Portal. There was a large green bruise over one eye. He wagged a finger reproachfully.
“That was a dirty trick, Dan. My former employees were somewhat disgruntled, I’m sorry to say. But we’d best be off now. There’s no time to waste.”
“How did you get here?” Dan demanded.
“I employed a pocket signaler to recall my carrier—and none too soon.” He touched his bruised eye gingerly. “A glance at the instruments showed me that you had visited the park. I followed and observed a TDMS Portal. Being of an adventurous turn and, of course, concerned for your welfare, I stepped through—”
“Why didn’t they arrest you? I was picked up for operating the carrier.”
“They had some such notion. A whiff of stun gas served to discourage them. Now let’s hurry along before the management revives.”
“Wait a minute, Blote. I’m not sure I want to be rescued by you—in spite of your concern for my welfare.”
“Rubbish, Dan! Come along.” Blote looked around. “Frightful place! No population! No commerce! No deals!”
“It has its compensations. I think I’ll stay. You run along.”
“Abandon a colleague? Never!”
“If you’re still expecting me to deliver a time machine, you’re out of luck. I don’t have one.”
“No? Ah, well, in a way I’m relieved. Such a device would upset accepted physical theory. Now, Dan, you mustn’t imagine I harbor ulterior motives—but I believe our association will yet prove fruitful.”
Dan rubbed a finger across his lower lip thoughtfully. “Look, Blote. You need my help. Maybe you can help me at the same time. If I come along, I want it understood that we work together. I have an idea—”
“But of course, Dan! Now shake a leg!”
Dan sighed and stepped through the portal. The yellow-clad guard lay on the floor, snoring. Blote led the way back into the great hall. TDMS officials were scattered across the floor, slumped over desks, or lying limp in chairs. Blote stopped before one of a row of shimmering portals.
“After you, Dan.”
“Are you sure this is the right one?”
“Quite.”
Dan stepped through in the now familiar chill and found himself back in the park. A small dog sniffing at the carrier caught sight of Blote, lowered his leg and fled.
“I want to pay Mr. Snithian a visit,” Dan said, climbing into a seat.
“My idea exactly,” Blote agreed, lowering his bulk into place.
“Don’t get the idea I’m going to help you steal anything.”
“Dan! A most unkind remark. I merely wish to look into certain matters.”
“Just so you don’t start looking into the safe.”
Blote tsked, moved a lever. The carrier climbed over a row of blue trees and headed west.
IV
Blote brought the carrier in high over the Snithian Estate, dropped lower and descended gently through the roof. The pale, spectral servants moving about their duties in the upper hall failed to notice the wraith-like cage passing soundlessly among them.
In the dining room, Dan caught sight of the girl—Snithian’s daughter, perhaps—arranging shadowy flowers on a sideboard.
“Let me take it,” Dan whispered. Blote nodded. Dan steered for the kitchen, guided the carrier to the spot on which he had first emerged from the vault, then edged down through the floor. He brought the carrier to rest and neutralized all switches in a shower of sparks and blue light.
The vault door stood open. There were pictures stacked on the bunk now, against the wall, on the floor. Dan stepped from the carrier, went to the nearest heap of paintings. They had been dumped hastily, it seemed. They weren’t even wrapped. He examined the topmost canvas, still in a heavy frame; as though, he reflected, it had just been removed from a gallery wall—
“Let’s look around for Snithian,” Dan said. “I want to talk to him.”
“I suggest we investigate the upper floors, Dan. Doubtless his personal pad is there.”
“You use the carrier; I’ll go up and look the house over.”
“As you wish, Dan.” Blote and the carrier flickered and faded from view.
Dan stooped, picked up the pistol he had dropped in the scuffle with Fiorello and stepped out into the hall. All was silent. He climbed stairs, looked into rooms. The house seemed deserted. On the third floor he went along a corridor, checking each room. The last room on the west side was fitted as a study. There was a stack of paintings on a table near the door. Dan went to them, examined the top one.
It looked familiar. Wasn’t it one that Look said was in the Art Institute at Chicago?
There was a creak as of an un-oiled hinge. Dan spun around. A door stood open at the far side of the room—a connecting door to a bedroom, probably.
“Keep well away from the carrier, Mr. Slane,” a high thin voice said from the shadows. The tall, cloaked figure of W. Clyde Snithian stepped into view, a needle-barreled pistol in his hand.
“I thought you’d be back,” he piped. “It makes my problem much simpler. If you hadn’t appeared soon, it would have been necessary for me to shift the scene of my operations. That would have been a nuisance.”
* * * *
Dan eyed the gun. “There are a lot more paintings downstairs than there were when I left,” he said. “I don’t know much about art, but I recognize a few of them.”
“Copies,” Snithian snapped.
“This is no copy,” Dan tapped the top painting on the stack. “It’s an original. You can feel the brush-work.”
“Not prints, of course. Copies.” Snithian whinnied. “Exact copies.”
“These paintings are stolen, Mr. Snithian. Why would a wealthy man like you take to stealing art?”
“I’m not here to answer questions, Mr. Slane!” The weapon in Snithian’s hand bugged. A wave of pain swept over Dan. Snithian cackled, lowering the gun. “You’ll soon learn better manners.”
Dan’s hand went to his pocket, came out holding the automatic. He aimed it at Snithian’s face. The industrialist froze, eyes on Dan’s gun.
“Drop the gun.” Snithian’s weapon clattered to the floor. “Now let’s go and find Kelly.”
“Wait!” Snithian shrilled. “I can make you a rich man, Slane.”
“Not by stealing paintings.”
“You don’t understand. This is more than petty larceny!”
“That’s right. It’s grand larceny. These pictures are worth thousands.”
“I can show you things that will completely change your attitude. Actually, I’ve acted throughout in the best interests of humanity!”
Dan gestured with the g
un. “Don’t plan anything clever. I’m not used to guns. This thing will go off at the least excuse, and then I’d have a murder to explain.”
“That would be an inexcusable blunder on your part!” Snithian keened. “I’m a very important figure, Slane.” He crossed the deep-pile rug to a glass-doored cabinet. “This,” he said, taking out a flat black box, “contains a fortune in precious stones.” He lifted the lid. Dan stepped closer. A row of brilliant red gems nestled in a bed of cotton.
“Rubies?”
“Flawless—and perfectly matched.” Snithian whinnied. “Perfectly matched. Worth a fortune. They’re yours, if you cooperate.”
“You said you were going to change my attitude. Better get started.”
* * * *
“Listen to me, Slane. I’m not operating independently. I’m employed by the Ivroy, whose power is incalculable. My assignment has been to rescue from destruction irreplaceable works of art fated to be consumed in atomic fire.”
“What do you mean—fated?”
“The Ivroy knows these things. These paintings—all your art—are unique in the galaxy. Others admire but they cannot emulate. In the cosmos of the far future, the few surviving treasures of dawn art will be valued beyond all other wealth. They alone will give a renewed glimpse of the universe as it appeared to the eyes of your strange race in its glory.”
“My strange race?”
Snithian drew himself up. “I am not of your race.” He threw his cloak aside and straightened.
Dan gaped as Snithian’s body unfolded, rising up, long, three-jointed arms flexing, stretching out. The bald head ducked now under the beamed ceiling. Snithian chuckled shrilly.
“What about that inflexible attitude of yours, now, Mr. Slane?” he piped. “Have I made my point?”
“Yes, but—” Dan squeaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “But I’ve still got the gun.”
“Oh, that.” An eight-foot arm snaked out, flicked the gun aside. “I’ve only temporized with you because you can be useful to me, Mr. Slane. I dislike running about, and I therefore employ locals to do my running for me. Accept my offer of employment, and you’ll be richly rewarded.”
“Why me?”
“You already know of my presence here. If I can enlist your loyalty, there will be no need to dispose of you, with the attendant annoyance from police, relatives and busybodies. I’d like you to act as my agent in the collection of the works.”