The Seventh Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack

by H. B. Fyfe

  “Pete, this is no joke,” insisted Smith. “I wish it hadn’t got­ten around so fast, but there it is.”

  “There what is?” demanded Parrish, in a tone bordering on the querulous.

  “Well…there’s been some kind of power failure through­out the business district. There aren’t any elevators running, and we don’t know how long it will be until the power company copes with the trouble.”

  “No elevators?” repeated Parrish.

  He stared at the sliding doors of the elevator shaft as if unable to comprehend the lack of such service. The idea seemed to sink in.

  “No elevators? And ninety-nine stories up?”

  “Sssh!” said Smith, glancing down the corridor.

  “What’s the matter with you, Castor?” asked Parrish. “Are you watching for someone…someone…oh!”

  “See what I’m thinking?” asked Smith.

  They faced each other for a moment in silence.

  “Well, it ought to be all right, as long as he can get down the stairs if he wants to,” said Parrish. “I’m sorry, Beryl. We’ll have to make it some other time.”

  “But how are we going to get home?” asked the blonde.

  “Oh, they’ll probably have it fixed by the time we’re finished here,” said Parrish.

  “Then what’s all the trouble about. Why is Willie looking so sour?”

  Westervelt braced himself against the impact of three glances and tried not to sneer. The other two men cleared their throats and looked back at Beryl.

  “I’m going to have to ask your co-operation, Beryl,” said Smith. “First, Pete, I’d like to point out to you a little gem of modern design. This door here is powered to slide open automatically for a fire or other emergency.”

  “Of course,” said Parrish curiously.

  “But there isn’t any power,” Smith pointed out.

  Parrish reached out impatiently and tried the door. He wrenched at it two or three times, then bent to peer for the latch.

  “No use, Pete,” said Smith, glancing down the hall again. “Willie already went through that whole routine. I’ve been on the phone to the building manager, and there isn’t any­thing he can do except send a party up from the seventy-fifth floor to burn open the door from the stair side.”

  “Is he doing it?”

  “Well, frankly…I told him it wasn’t necessary,” said Smith, getting a stubborn look on his long face.

  “But you know Bob!” expostulated Parrish. “If he gets the idea that he’s penned in here—”

  “I know, I know,” said Smith. “On the other hand, we can always get something from the lab and break out from this side, provided we take care not to let him know what is going on until later.”

  Westervelt eyed Beryl sardonically. He had seldom seen an expression so blended of impatience and vague worry. He wondered if anyone would explain to her.

  Parrish shook his head.

  “I think it might be better to call downstairs again, and have them come up,” he said.

  “I don’t want to do that,” said Smith.

  “Why not?”

  “It would get around. Pretty soon, the story would be all over the D.I.R.”

  Parrish actually leaned forward slightly to study his chief’s face. He found no words, but his very expression was plain­tive. Smith sighed.

  “We’re in the business of springing spacers from jails all over the explored galaxy,” he said. “We’re supposed to be loaded to the jets with high-potency brainwaves and have a gadget for every purpose! How is it going to look if we’re locked in our own office and can’t get out without help?”

  Parrish threw up his hands. Pivoting, he walked loosely a few feet along the corridor and back, squeezing his chin in the palm of one hand. He clasped his hands behind his back, then, and peered around Smith at the empty wing of the corridor.

  “Maybe we could dope him,” he suggested, without much feeling.

  “I should have thought of that,” admitted Smith, “but he’s finished eating.”

  “Can’t we find something in the lab to shoot a dart?”

  As Smith tried to remember, Westervelt interrupted.

  “If you decide on that, I’m not volunteering, thank you. Did you ever see Mr. Lydman move in a hurry? Whoever tries it had better not miss with the first dart!”

  Smith said, “Harumph!” and Parrish looked uncomfortable. The assistant glanced momentarily at Beryl, but shook his head immediately.

  Westervelt followed his thinking. For one thing, Lydman was known to be devoted to his wife and two children; for another, who knew how badly Beryl might miss?

  “Now, if everyone will just keep calm,” said Smith, “and we can keep Bob busy, we’ll probably get along fine until they restore power. How long can it take, after all? They can’t waste any time with a large part of a modern city like this cut off. It’s unthinkable.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Parrish.

  Smith turned to Beryl.

  “What I meant by asking your co-operation,” he said, “is that we’ll need to have someone with Mr. Lydman most of the time. Willie has been doing it until now, but we don’t want it to look like deliberate surveillance.”

  “But why?” asked Beryl. “I mean…I see that it worries all of you that…that he might find out. But what if he does?”

  “Possibly nothing,” answered Smith. “On the other hand, Mr. Lydman was once imprisoned, in his space traveling days. He was held for a long time under very trying conditions; and the experience has left him with a problem. It is not exactly claustrophobia…”

  He paused, as if to let Beryl recall other remarks about Lydman. Their general air of gravity seemed to impress her.

  “I’ll be…glad to help,” she said reluctantly.

  “Fine!” said Smith. “Probably nothing will be necessary. Now, I think we had better go in and tell Si, so that every­one will be alerted to the situation.”

  Westervelt caught the glance that passed between Parrish and Beryl. He was almost certain that each of them was mentally counting the people who had known before they had been told.

  That’s what you get for being so busy in the dead files, he thought.

  They trouped in behind Smith. Simonetta watched as if they had been a parade. Smith, with an occasional comment from Parrish, told her the story.

  “So that is the partial reason for staying late,” he con­cluded, “although, of course, the case of Harris comes first.”

  Westervelt had wandered over to a window. He adjusted the filter dial for maximum clarity and looked out.

  From where he was, he could see a great black carpet across part of the city, spreading out from somewhere be­neath his position until it was cut by a sharp line of street lights many blocks away. Beyond that, the city looked nor­mal. To the near side of the invisible boundary and, he supposed, for a like distance in the opposite direction behind his viewpoint, there were only sparse and faint glows of emergency lights. Some were doubtless powered by buildings with the equipment for the purpose, others were the lights of police and emergency vehicles on the ground or cruising low between the taller buildings.

  I wonder what they actually do when something like this happens? he thought. What if they think they have it fixed, turn on the juice again, and it blows a second time?

  His reverie was interrupted by the sound of Simonetta’s phone. From where he was, he could see Joe Rosenkrantz’s features as the operator asked for Smith.

  “Oh, there you are, Mr. Smith,” said Joe. “Pauline has been trying all over. Trident is transmitting, and I thought you would want to be here. They say they have a relay set up right to Harris.”

  Smith let out a whoop and made for the door.

  “He’ll be right there,” Simonetta told the grinning TV man.

 
; Parrish and Westervelt trailed along. When the latter looked back, he saw that Simonetta had replaced Beryl; and he could hardly blame the blonde for seizing the chance to sit down and collect her thoughts. He felt like crawling into a hole somewhere himself.

  Passing the library, Parrish cocked an eyebrow at him. Westervelt nodded. He went in and told Lydman about the call. The ex-spacer was interested enough to join the pro­cession.

  When Westervelt followed him into the communications room, Joe Rosenkrantz was explaining the set-up to Smith.

  “Like before, we go through Pluto, Capella VII, and an automatic relay on an outer planet of the Trident system, but you won’t see anything of that. It’s after we get John­son that the fun begins.”

  He leaned back in his swivel chair before the screen and surveyed the group.

  “Johnson is gonna think to a fish near his island. This fish thinks to one swimming near Harris. They claim Harris answers.”

  Smith ran both hands through his hair.

  “We try anything,” he said. “Let’s go!”

  Joe got in contact with Johnson, the Terran D.I.R. man, among other things, on Trident. The latter was not quite suc­cessful in hiding an I-told-you-so attitude.

  “Harris himself confirms that he is being held on the ocean floor,” he said. “He seems to be a sort of pet, or curiosity.”

  “Can you make sense out of the messages?” asked Smith. “I mean, is there any difficulty because of a language barrier? We don’t want to make some silly assumption and find out it was based on a misunderstanding.”

  After the weird pause caused by the mind-numbing dis­tance, Johnson replied.

  “There isn’t any language barrier in a thought, but you might say there’s sometimes an attitude barrier. Usually, we can pick up an equivalent meaning if we assume, for instance, that our time sense is similar to that of these fish.”

  “Well, try asking Harris how deep he is,” suggested Smith.

  They watched Johnson look away, although the man did not seem to be going through any marked effort of con­centration. Hardly thirty seconds of this had elapsed when they saw him scowl.

  “This fish off my beach can’t get it through his massive intellect that he can’t think directly to another fish at your position. He thinks you must be pretty queer not to have someone to do your thinking for you.”

  Smith turned a little red. Westervelt admired Joe Rosen­krantz’s pokerface. Johnson appeared to be insisting.

  “Harris says he is two minutes’ swim under the surface,” he reported.

  “Well, how far from your position, then?” asked Smith.

  The distance turned out to be a day-and-a-half swim.

  “Does he need anything? Are they keeping him under liv­able conditions?”

  The pause, and Johnson relayed, “They pump him air and feed him. He needs someone to get him out.”

  “How can we find him?” asked Smith. “Can he work up any way of signaling us?”

  “You are signaling him now, he says. He wants you to get him out.”

  Smith looked around him for questions. Lydman suggested asking how Harris was confined. Smith put it to Johnson, and after the maddening pause, got an answer.

  “He says he’s in a big glass box like a freight trailer. It’s like a cage. Inside, he is free to move around, and he wants to get out.”

  “Then have him tell us where it is!” snapped Smith.

  “He doesn’t know,” came the reply. “They move about every so often.”

  “What did I say?” whispered Parrish. “Nomadic.”

  No one took the time to congratulate him because Smith was asking what the Tridentians were like. Johnson’s mental connection seemed to develop static. They saw him shake his head as if to clear it. He turned a puzzled expression to the screen.

  “I didn’t get that very plainly,” he admitted. “A sort of combination of thoughts—they feed him and they don’t taste good.”

  “Well, tell your fishy friend to keep his own opinions out of it,” said Smith, surprising Westervelt, who had not quite caught up to the situation.

  Johnson, a moment later, grimaced. His expression became apologetic.

  “Don’t say things like that!” he told Smith, turning again to the screen. “It slipped through my mind as I heard you, and he didn’t like it!”

  “Who? Harris?”

  “No, the fish at his end. I apologized for you.”

  There was a general restless shifting of feet in the Terran office. Smith seemed, in the dim lighting of the communica­tions room, to flush a deeper shade.

  “And what does Harris say?”

  Johnson inquired. Harris requested that they get him out.

  “Goddammit!” muttered Smith. “He must be punchy!”

  “It happens,” Lydman reminded him softly.

  “Yes,” said Smith, after a startled look around, “but some were like that to begin with, and his record suggests it all the way.”

  He asked Johnson to get a description of the place where Harris found himself. The answer was, in a fashion, con­clusive.

  “Like any other part of the sea bottom,” reported Johnson. “And, furthermore, he’s tired of thinking and wants to rest.”

  “Who does?” demanded Smith.

  “They won’t tell me,” said Johnson, sadly.

  Smith choked off a curse, noticing Simonetta standing there. He combed his hair furiously with both hands. No one sug­gested any other questions, so he thanked Johnson and told Joe to break off.

  “At least, we know it’s all real,” he sighed. “He was ac­tually taken, and he’s still alive.”

  “You put a lot of faith in a couple of fish,” said Lydman.

  Smith hesitated.

  “Well…now…they aren’t really fish,” he said. “Let’s not build up a mental misconception, just because we’ve been kidding about ‘swishy the thinking fishy.’ Ac­tually, they probably wouldn’t even suggest fish to an ichthyologist, and they may be a pretty high form of life.”

  “They may be as high as this Harris,” commented Parrish, and earned a cold stare from Lydman.

  “I think I’ll look around the lab,” said the latter, as the others made motions toward breaking up the gathering.

  Westervelt promptly headed for the door. He saw that Lydman was walking around the corner of the wire mesh partition that enclosed the special apparatus of the communi­cations room, doubtless bent upon taking a shortcut into the lab.

  I want to go sit down a while before they pin me on him again, thought the youth. I need fifteen minutes, then I’ll relieve whoever has him, if Smitty wants me to.

  TWELVE

  The light, impotent after penetrating fifty fathoms of Tridentian sea, was murky and green-tinted; but Tom Harris had become more or less used to that. It rankled, nevertheless, that the sea-people continued to ignore his de­mands for a lamp.

  He knew that they used such devices. Through the clear walls of his tank, he had seen night parties swimming out to hunt small varieties of fish. The water craft they piloted on longer trips and up to the surface were also equipped with lights powered by some sort of battery. It infuriated Harris to be forced arbitrarily to exist isolated in the dimness of the ocean bottom day or the complete blackness of night.

  He rose from the spot where he had been squatting on his heels. So smooth was the glassy footing that he slipped and almost fell headlong. He regained his balance and looked about.

  The tank was about ten by ten feet and twice as long, with metal angles which he assumed to be aluminum securing all edges. These formed the outer corners, so that he could see the gaskets inside them that made the tank water-tight. The sea-people, he had to admit, were quite capable of coping with their environment and understanding his.

  The end of the tank distant from H
arris was opaque. He thought that there were connections to a towing vehicle as well as to the plant that pumped air for him. The big fish had not made that quite clear to him. All other sides of the tank were quite clear. Whenever he walked about, he could look through the floor and find groups of shells and other remnants of deceased marine life in the white sand. Oc­casionally, he considered the pressure that would implode upon him should anything happen to rupture the walls, but he had become habitually successful in forcing that idea to the back of his mind.

  Along each of the side walls were four little airlocks. The use of these was at the moment being demonstrated by one of the sea-people to what Harris was beginning to think of as a child.

  The parent was slightly smaller than Harris, who stood five-feet-five and weighed a hundred and thirty pounds Terran. It also had four limbs, but that was about the last point they had in common. The Tridentian’s limbs all joined his armored body near the head. Two of them ended in powerful pincers; the others forked into several delicate tenta­cles. The body was somewhat flexible despite the weight of rugged shell segments, and tapered to a spread tail upon which the crustacean balanced himself easily.

  Harris felt at a distinct disadvantage in the vision depart­ment: each of the Tridentians had four eyes protruding from his chitinous head. The adult had grown one pair of eye­stalks to a length of nearly a foot. The second pair, like both of the youngster’s, extended only a few inches.

  The Terran could not be sure whether the undersea cur­rency consisted of metal or shell, but the Tridentian deposited same sort of coin in a slot machine outside one of the little airlocks. It caused a grinding noise. Directly afterward, a small lump of compressed fish, boned, was ejected from an opening on the inside.

  “Goddam’ blue lobsters!” swore Harris. “Think they’re do­ing me a favor!”

  He let them wait a good five minutes before he decided that the prudent course was to accept the offering. Sneering, he walked over and picked up the food. There was usually little else provided. On days he had been too angry or too disgusted to accept the favors of sightseers, his keepers as­sumed that he was not hungry.