Doorways in the Sand

by Roger Zelazny

  “No, sir! You are not! That last one is a three-hour course, and that gives you a major in it!”

  “Haven’t seen Circular fifty-seven yet, have you?”

  “What?”

  “It’s been changed.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  I glanced at his In basket.

  “Read your mail.”

  He snatched at the basket; he rifled it. Somewhere near the middle of things he found the paper. Clocking his expressions, I noted disbelief, rage and puzzlement within the first five seconds. I was hoping for despair, but you can’t have everything all at once.

  Frustration and bewilderment were what remained when he turned to me once again and said, “How did you do it?”

  “Why must you look for the worst?”

  “Because I’ve read your file. You got to the instructor some way, didn’t you?”

  “That’s most ignoble of you. And I’d be a fool to admit it, wouldn’t I?”

  He sighed. “I suppose so.”

  He withdrew a pen, clicked it with unnecessary force and scrawled his name on the “Approved by” line at the bottom of the card.

  Returning the card, he observed, “This is the closest you’ve come, you know. It was just under the wire this time. What are you going to do for an encore?”

  “I understand that two new majors will be instituted next year. I suppose I should see the proper departmental adviser if I am interested in changing my area.”

  “You’ll see me,” he said, “and I will confer with the person involved.”

  “Everyone else has a departmental adviser.”

  “You are a special case requiring special handling. You are to report here again next time.”

  “All right,” I said, filing the card in my hip pocket as I rose. “See you then.”

  As I headed for the door he said, “I’ll find a way.”

  I paused on the threshold.

  “You,” I said pleasantly, “and the Flying Dutchman.”

  I closed the door gently behind me.

  INCIDENTS AND FRAGMENTS, bits-and-pieces time. Like—“You’re not joking?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I’d rather it looked like hell for the obvious reasons,” she said, wide-eyed, backing toward the door we had just come through.

  “Well, whatever happened, it’s done. We’ll just clean up and . . .”

  She reopened the door, that long, lovely, wild hair dancing as she shook her head vigorously.

  “You know, I’m going to think this over a little more,” she said, stepping back into the hall.

  “Aw, come on, Ginny. It’s nothing serious.”

  “Like I said, I’ll think about it.”

  She began closing the door.

  “Should I call you later, then?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Tell you what, I’ll call you.”

  Click.

  Hell. She might as well have slammed it. End of Phase One in my search for a new roommate. Hal Sidmore, who had shared the apartment with me for some time, had gotten married a couple of months back. I missed him, as he had been a boon companion, good chess player and general heller about town, as well as an able explicator of multitudes of matters. I had decided to look for something a bit different in my next roommate, however. I thought I had spotted that indefinable quality in Ginny, late one night while climbing the radio tower behind the Pi Phi house, as she was about her end-of-day business in her third-floor room there. Things had gone swimmingly after that. I had met her at ground level, we had been doing things together for over a month and I had just about succeeded in persuading her to consider a change of residence for the coming semester. Then this.

  “Damn!” I decided, kicking at a drawer that had been pulled from the desk, dumped and dropped to the floor. No sense in going after her right now. Clean up. Let her get over things. See her tomorrow.

  Somebody had really torn the place apart, had gone through everything. The furniture had even been moved about and the covers pulled off the cushions. I sighed as I regarded it. Worse than the aftermath of the wildest of parties. What a rotten time for breaking and entering and breaking. It wasn’t the best of neighborhoods, but it was hardly the worst. This sort of thing had never happened to me before. Now, when it did, it had to happen at precisely the wrong time, frightening away my warm and lissome companion. On top of this, something of course had to be missing.

  I kept some cash and a few semivaluables in the top drawer of the bureau in my bedroom. I kept more cash tucked in the toe of an old boot on a rack in the corner. I hoped that the vandal had been satisfied with the top drawer. That was the uninspired idea behind the arrangement.

  I went to see.

  My bedroom was in better order than the living room, though it too had suffered some depredation. The bed clothing had been pulled off and the mattress was askew. Two of the bureau drawers were open but undumped. I crossed the room, opened the top drawer and looked inside.

  Everything was still in place, even the money. I moved to the rack, checked my boot. The roll of bills was still where I had left it.

  “There’s a good fellow. Now toss it here” came a familiar voice that I could not quite place in that context.

  Turning, I saw that Paul Byler, Professor of Geology, had just emerged from my closet. His hands were empty, not that he needed a weapon to back up any threat. While short, he was powerfully built, and I had always been impressed by the quantity of scar tissue on those knuckles. An Australian, he had started out as a mining engineer in some pretty raw places, only later picking up his graduate work in geology and physics and getting into teaching.

  But I had always been on excellent terms with the man, even after I had departed my geology major. I had known him socially for several years. Hadn’t seen him for the past couple of weeks, though, as he had taken some leave. I had thought he was out of town.

  So: “Paul, what’s the matter?” I said. “Don’t tell me you did all this messing?”

  “The boot, Fred. Just pass me the boot.”

  “If you’re short on cash, I’ll be glad to lend you—”

  “The boot!”

  I took it to him. I stood there and watched as he plunged his hand inside, felt about, withdrew my roll of bills. He snorted then and thrust the boot and the money back at me, hard. I dropped both, because he had caught me in the abdomen.

  Before I even completed a brief curse, he had seized me by the shoulders, spun me about and shoved me into the armchair beside the open window where the curtains fluttered lightly in the breeze.

  “I don’t want your money, Fred,” he said, glaring at me. “I just want something you have that belongs to me. Now you had better give me an honest answer. Do you know what I’m talking about or don’t you?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest,” I said. “I don’t have anything of yours. You could have just called me and asked me that. You didn’t have to come busting in here and—”

  He slapped me. Not especially hard. Just enough to jolt me and leave me silent.

  “Fred,” he said, “shut up. Just shut up and listen. Answer when I ask you a question. That’s all. Keep the comments for another day. I’m in a hurry. Now I know you are lying because I’ve already seen your ex-roommate Hal. He says you have it, because he left it here when he moved out. What I am referring to is one of my models of the star-stone, which he picked up after a poker party in my lab. Remember?”

  “Yes,” I said. “If you had just called me and ask—”

  He slapped me again. “Where is it?”

  I shook my head, partly to clear it and partly in negation.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” I said.

  He raised his hand.

  “Wait! I’ll explain! He had that thing you gave him out on the desk, in the front room, was using it for a paperweight. I’m sure he took it with him—along with all his other stuff—when he moved out. I haven’
t seen it for a couple of months. I’m sure of that.”

  “Well, one of you is lying,” he said, “and you’re the one I’ve got.”

  He swung again, but this time I was ready for him. I ducked and kicked him in the groin.

  It was spectacular. Almost worth staying to watch, as I had never kicked anyone in the groin before. The cold, rational thing to do next would be to go for the back of his neck while he was doubled over that way, preferably spiking him with my elbow. However, I was not in a cold, rational mood just then. To be honest about it, I was afraid of the man, scared to get too close to him. Having had small experience with groin-kicked persons, I had no idea how long it might be before he straightened up and came at me.

  Which is why I took to my own element rather than stay there and face him.

  I was over the arm of the chair, had the window the rest of the way up and was out it in an instant. There was a narrow ledge along which I moved until I had hold of the drainpipe, off about eight feet to the right.

  I could continue on around it, go up or down. But I decided to remain where I was. I felt secure.

  Not too much later his head emerged from the window, turned my way. He studied the ledge and cursed me. I lit a cigarette and smiled.

  “What are you waiting for?” I said when he paused for breath. “Come on out. You may be a lot tougher than I am, Paul, but if you come out here only one of us is going back in again. That’s concrete down there. Come on. Talk is cheap. Show me.”

  He took a deep breath and his grip tightened on the sill. For a moment I actually thought he was going to try it. He looked downward, though, and he looked back at me.

  “All right, Fred,” he said, getting control of his lecture voice. “I’m not that big a fool. You win. But listen, please. What I’ve said is true. I’ve got to have that thing back. I would not have acted as I did if it were not very important. Please tell me, if you will, whether you were telling me the truth.”

  I was still smarting from those slaps. I did not feel like being a nice guy. On the other hand, it must have meant a lot to him to make him behave as he had, and I had nothing to gain by not telling him. So: “It was the truth,” I said.

  “And you have no idea where it might be?”

  “None.”

  “Could someone have picked it up?”

  “Easily.”

  “Who?”

  “Anybody. You know those parties we had. Thirty, forty people in there.”

  He nodded and gnashed his teeth.

  “All right,” he said then. “I believe you. Try and think, though. Can you recall anything—anything at all—that might give me a lead?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry.”

  He sighed. He sagged. He looked away.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “I’m going now. I suppose you plan on calling the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m in no position to ask favors, or to threaten you, at the moment. But this is both—a request and a warning of whatever future reprisal I might be able to manage. Don’t call them. I’ve troubles enough without having to worry about them, too.”

  He turned away.

  “Wait,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Maybe if you tell me what the problem is . . .”

  “No. You can’t help me.”

  “Well, supposing the thing turned up? What should I do with it?”

  “If that should happen, put it in a safe place and keep your mouth shut about having it. I’ll call you periodically. Tell me about it then.”

  “What’s so important about it?”

  “Un-uh,” he said, and was gone.

  A whispered question from behind me—“Do you see me, red?”—and I turned, but there was no one there, though my ears still rang from the boxing they had taken. I decided then that it was a bad day and I took to the roof for some thinking. A traffic-copter buzzed me later, and I was queried as to suicidal intentions. I told the cop I was refribbing shingles, though, and that seemed to satisfy him.

  Incidents and fragments continued—

  “I did try phoning you. Three times,” he said. “No answer.”

  “Did you consider stopping by in person?”

  “I was about to. Just now. You got here first.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “No. I’ve got a wife to worry about as well as myself.”

  “I see.”

  “Did you call them?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not certain. Well, I guess it’s that I’d like a better idea as to what’s going on before I blow the whistle on him.”

  Hal nodded, a dark-eyed study in bruise and Bandaid.

  “And you think I know something you don’t?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I don’t,” he said, taking a sip, wincing and stirring more sugar into his iced tea. “When I answered the door earlier, there he was. I let him in and he started asking me about that damned stone. I told him everything I could remember, but he still wasn’t satisfied. That was when he began pushing me around.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I remembered some more things.”

  “Uh-huh. Like you remembered I have it—which I don’t—so he’d come rough me up and leave you alone.”

  “No! That’s not it at all!” he said. “I told him the truth. I left it there when I moved out. As to what became of it afterwards, I have no idea.”

  “Where’d you leave it?”

  “Last I remember seeing it, it was on the desk.”

  “Why didn’t you take it with you?”

  “I don’t know. I was tired of looking at it, I guess.”

  He got up and paced his living room, paused and looked out the window. Mary was off attending a class, a thing she had also been doing that afternoon when Paul had stopped by, had his conference with Hal and started the ball rolling down the alley that led to me.

  “Hal,” I said, “are you telling me the whole truth and nothing but?”

  “Everything important.”

  “Come on.”

  He turned his back to the window, looked at me, looked away.

  “Well,” he said, “he claimed the thing we had was his.”

  I ignored the “we.”

  “It was,” I said, “once. But I was there when he gave it to you. Title passed.”

  But Hal shook his head. “Not that simple,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  He returned to sit with his iced tea. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, took a quick sip, looked at me again.

  “No,” he said. “You see, the one we had was really his. Remember that night we got it? We played cards in his lab till pretty late. The six stones were on a shelf above the counter. We noticed them early and asked him about them several times. He would just smile and say something mysterious or change the subject. Then, as the night wore on and after he’d had more to drink, he began talking about them, told us what they were.”

  “I remember,” I said. “He told us he had been to see the star-stone, which had just that week been received from the aliens and put on display in New York. He had taken hundreds of photographs through all sorts of filters, filled a notebook with observations, collected all the data he could. Then he had set out to construct a model of the thing. Said he was going to find a way to produce them cheaply, to sell them as novelty items. The half dozen on his shelf represented his best efforts at that point. He thought they were pretty good.”

  “Right. Then I noticed that there were several rejects in the waste bin beside the counter. I picked out the best-looking one and held it up to the light. It was a pretty thing, just like the others. Paul smiled when he saw that I had it, and he said, ‘You like it?’ I told him that I did. ‘Keep it,’ he said.”

  “So you did. That’s the way I remember it, too.”

  “Yes, but there was more to it than that,” he said. “I took it back to t
he table with me and set it down next to my money—so that each time I reached over for some change, I automatically glanced at it. After a time I became aware of a tiny flaw, a little imperfection at the base of one of the limbs. It was quite insignificant, but it irritated me more and more each time that I looked at it. So, when you two left the room later, to bring in more cold beer and sodas, I took it over and switched it with one of those on the shelf.”

  “I begin to see.”

  “Okay, okay! I probably shouldn’t have done it. I didn’t see any harm in it at the time. They were just prototype souvenirs he was fooling with, and the difference wasn’t even noticeable unless you were looking hard.”

  “He’d noticed it the first time around.”

  “Which was good reason for him to consider them perfect and not be looking again. And what difference did it make, really? Even in the absence of a six-pack the answer seems obvious.”

  “It sounds all right, I’ll give you that. But the fact is that he did check—and it also seems that they were more important than he had indicated. I wonder why?”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he said. “The first thing that occurred to me was that the souvenir business was just a story he made up because he wanted to show them off to us and he had to tell us something. Supposing he had been approached by someone from the UN to produce a model—several models—for them? The original is priceless, irreplaceable and on display to the public. To guard against theft or someone with a compulsion and a sledgehammer, it would seem wisest to keep it locked away and put a phony one in the showcase. Paul would be a logical choice for the job. Whenever anyone talks crystallography, his name comes up.”

  “I could buy parts of that,” I said, “but the whole thing doesn’t hang together. Why get so upset over the flawed specimen when he could just manufacture another? Why not simply write off the one we’ve lost?”

  “Security?”

  “If that’s so, we didn’t break it. He did. Why shove us around and bring it to mind when we were doing a good job forgetting about it? No, that doesn’t seem to jibe.”

  “All right, what then?”

  I shrugged.