by C. L. Moore
"Why?"
"Safety precautions. The trouble is, with those weapons and scanners and scent-analyzers, any fool can track down and kill an animal. There's no thrill involved unless the animal's a man-eating tiger, and that's a little too thrilling for our underwriters!"
"So what do you want?"
"I'm not sure," Harding said slowly. "A new animal, perhaps. One that fulfills the requirements of Adrenals, Incorporated. But I'm not sure what the answer is, or I wouldn't be asking you."
Gallegher said: "You don't make new animals out of thin air."
"Where do you get them?"
"I wonder. Other planets? Other time-sectors? Other probability-worlds? I got hold of some funny animals once—Lybblas—by tuning in on a future time-era on Mars, but they wouldn't have filled the bill."
"Other planets, then?"
-
Gallegher got up and strolled to his workbench. He began to piece together stray cogs and tubes. "I'm getting a thought. The latent factors inherent in the human brain—My latent factors are rousing to life. Let me see. Perhaps—"
Under his hands a gadget grew. Gallagher remained preoccupied. Presently he cursed, tossed the device aside, and settled back to the liquor-organ. Grandpa had already tried it, but choked on his first sip of a gin buck. He threatened to go back home and take Harding with him and show him some real hunting.
Gallegher pushed the old gentleman off the couch. "Now look, Mr. Harding," he said. "I'll have this for you tomorrow. I've got some thinking to do—"
"Drinking, you mean," Harding said, taking out a bundle of credits. "I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Gallegher. You never work except under pressure. You've got to have a deadline, or you won't do a thing. Well—do you see this? Fifty thousand credits." He glanced at his wrist watch. "I'm giving you one hour. If you don't solve my problem by then, the deal's off."
Gallegher started up from the couch as though he had been bitten. "That's ridiculous. An hour isn't time enough—"
Harding said obdurately: "I'm a methodical man. I know enough about you to realize that you're not. I can find other specialists and technicians, you know. One hour! Or I go out that door and take these fifty thousand credits with me!"
Gallegher eyed the money greedily. He took a quick drink, cursed quietly, and went back to his gadget. This time he kept working on it.
After a while a light shot up from the worktable and hit Gallegher in the eye. He staggered back, yelping.
"Are you all right?" Harding asked, jumping up.
"Sure," Gallegher growled, cutting a switch. "I think I'm getting it. That light ... ouch. I've sunburned my eyeballs." He blinked back tears. Then he went over to the liquor-organ.
After a hearty swig, he nodded at Harding. "I'm getting on the trail of what you want. I don't know how long it will take, though." He winced. "Grandpa. Did you change the setting on this thing?"
"I dunno. I pushed some buttons."
"I thought so. This isn't a gin buck. Wheeooo!"
"Got a wallop, has it?" Grandpa said, getting interested and coming over to try the liquor-organ again.
"Not at all," Gallegher said, walking on his knees toward the audiosonic recorder. "What's this? A spy, huh? We know how to deal with spies in this house, you dirty traitor." So saying, he rose to his feet, seized a blanket, and threw it over the projector.
At that point the screen, naturally enough, was blank.
-
"I cleverly outwit myself every time," Gallegher remarked, rising to switch off the projector. "I go to the trouble of building that recorder and then blindfold it just when matters get interesting. I know less than I did before, because there are more unknown factors now."
"Men can know the nature of things," Joe murmured.
"An important concept," Gallegher admitted. "The Greeks found it out quite a while ago, though. Pretty soon, if you keep on thinking hard, you'll come up with the bright discovery that two and two are four."
"Be quiet, you ugly man," Joe said. "I'm getting into abstractions now. Answer the door and leave me alone."
"The door? Why? The bell isn't singing."
"It will," Joe pointed out. "There it goes."
"Visitors at this time of the morning," Gallegher sighed. "Maybe it's Grandpa, though." He pushed a button, studied the doorplate screen, and failed to recognize the lantern-jawed, bushy-browed face. "All right," he said. "Come in. Follow the guide-line." Then he turned to the liquor-organ thirstily before remembering his current Tantalus proclivities.
The lantern-jawed man came into the room. Gallegher said: "Hurry up. I'm being followed by a little brown animal that drinks all my liquor. I've several other troubles, too, but the little brown animal's the worst. If I don't get a drink, I'll die. So tell me what you want and leave me alone to work out my problems. I don't owe you money, do I?"
"That depends," said the newcomer, with a strong Scots accent. "My name is Murdoch Mackenzie, and I assume you're Mr. Gallegher. You look untrustworthy. Where is my partner and the fifty thousand credits he had with him?"
Gallegher pondered. "Your partner, eh? I wonder if you mean Jonas Harding?"
"That's the lad. My partner in Adrenals, Incorporated."
"I haven't seen him—"
With his usual felicity, Joe remarked, "The ugly man with the big ears. How hideous he was."
"Vurra true," Mackenzie nodded. "I note you're using the past tense, or rather that great clanking machine of yours is. Have you perhaps murdered my partner and disposed of his body with one of your scientific gadgets?"
"Now look—" Gallegher said. "What's the idea? Have I got the mark of Cain on my forehead or something? Why should you jump to a conclusion like that? You're crazy."
Mackenzie rubbed his long jaw and studied Gallegher from under his bushy gray brows. "It would be no great loss, I know," he admitted. "Jonas is little help in the business. Too methodical. But he had fifty thousand credits on his person when he came here last night. There is also the question of the body. The insurance is perfectly enormous. Between ourselves, Mr. Gallegher, I would not hold it against you if you had murdered my unfortunate partner and pocketed the fifty thousand. In fact, I would be willing to consider letting you escape with ... say ... ten thousand, provided you gave me the rest. But not unless you provided me with legal evidence of Jonas's death, so my underwriters would be satisfied."
"Logic," Joe said admiringly. "Beautiful logic. It's amazing that such logic should come from such an opaque horror."
"I would look far more horrible, my friend, if I had a transparent skin like you," Mackenzie said, "if the anatomy charts are accurate. But we were discussing the matter of my partner's body."
Gallegher said wildly: "This is fantastic. You're probably laying yourself open to compounding a felony or something."
"Then you admit the charge."
"Of course not! You're entirely too sure of yourself, Mr. Mackenzie. I'll bet you killed Harding yourself and you're trying to frame me for it. How do you know he's dead?"
"Now that calls for some explanation, I admit," Mackenzie said. "Jonas was a methodical man. Vurra. I have never known him to miss an appointment for any reason whatsoever. He had appointments last night, and more this morning. One with me. Moreover, he had fifty thousand credits on him when he came here to see you last night."
"How do you know he got here?"
"I brought him, in my aircab. I let him out at your door. I saw him go in."
"Well, you didn't see him go out, but he did," Gallegher said.
Mackenzie, quite unruffled, went on checking points on his bony fingers.
"This morning I checked your record, Mr. Gallegher, and it is not a good one. Unstable, to say the least. You have been mixed up in some shady deals, and you have been accused of crimes in the past. Nothing was ever proved, but you're a sly one, I suspect. The police would agree."
"They can't prove a thing. Harding's probably home in bed."
"He is not. Fifty thous
and credits is a lot of money. My partner's insurance amounts to much more than that. The business will be tied up sadly if Jonas remains vanished, and there will be litigation. Litigation costs money."
"I didn't kill your partner!" Gallegher cried.
"Ah," Mackenzie smiled. "Still, if I can prove that you did, it will come to the same thing, and be reasonably profitable for me. You see your position, Mr. Gallegher. Why not admit it, tell me what you did with the body, and escape with five thousand credits."
"You said ten thousand a while ago."
"You're daft," Mackenzie said firmly. "I said nothing of the sort. At least, you canna prove that I did."
Gallegher said: "Well, suppose we have a drink and talk it over." A new idea had struck him.
"An excellent suggestion."
-
Gallegher found two glasses and manipulated the liquor-organ. He offered one drink to Mackenzie, but the man shook his head and reached for the other glass. "Poison, perhaps," he said cryptically. "You have an untrustworthy face."
Gallegher ignored that. He was hoping that with two drinks available, the mysterious little brown animal would show its limitations. He tried to gulp the whisky fast, but only a tantalizing drop burned on his tongue. The glass was empty. He lowered it and stared at Mackenzie.
"A cheap trick," Mackenzie said, putting his own glass down on the workbench. "I did not ask for your whisky, you know. How did you make it disappear like that?"
Furious with disappointment, Gallegher snarled: "I'm a wizard. I've sold my soul to the devil. For two cents I'd make you disappear, too."
Mackenzie shrugged. "I am not worried. If you could, you'd have done it before this. As for wizardry, I am far from skeptical, after seeing that monster squatting over there." He indicated the third dynamo that wasn't a dynamo.
"What? You mean you see it, too?"
"I see more than you think, Mr. Gallegher," Mackenzie said darkly. "In fact, I am going to the police now."
"Wait a minute. You can't gain anything by that—"
"I can gain nothing by talking to you. Since you remain obdurate, I will try the police. If they can prove that Jonas is dead, I will at least collect his insurance."
Gallegher said: "Now wait a minute. Your partner did come here. He wanted me to solve a problem for him."
"Ah. And you solved it?"
"N-no. At least—"
"Then I can get no profit from you," Mackenzie said firmly, and turned to the door. "You will hear from me vurra soon."
He departed. Gallegher sank down miserably on the couch and brooded. Presently he lifted his eyes to stare at the third dynamo.
It was not, then, a hallucination, as he had first suspected. Nor was it a dynamo. It was a squat, shapeless object like a truncated pyramid that had begun to melt down, and two large blue eyes were watching him. Eyes, or agates, or painted metal. He couldn't be sure. It was about three feet high and three feet in diameter at the base.
"Joe," Gallegher said, "why didn't you tell me about that thing?"
"I thought you saw it," Joe explained.
"I did, but—what is it?"
"I haven't the slightest idea."
"Where could it have come from?"
"Your subconscious alone knows what you were up to last night," Joe said. "Perhaps Grandpa and Jonas Harding know, but they're not around, apparently."
-
Gallegher went to the teleview and put in a call to Maine. "Grandpa may have gone back home. It isn't likely he'd have taken Harding with him, but we can't miss any bets. I'll check on that. One thing, my eyes have stopped watering. What was that gadget I made last night?" He passed to the workbench and studied the cryptic assemblage. "I wonder why I put a shoehorn in that circuit?"
"If you'd keep a supply of materials available here, Gallegher Plus wouldn't have to depend on makeshifts," Joe said severely.
"Uh. I could get drunk and let my subconscious take over again ... no, I can't. Joe, I can't drink anymore! I'm bound hand and foot to the water wagon!"
"I wonder if Dalton had the right idea after all?"
Gallegher snarled: "Do you have to extrude your eyes that way? I need help!"
"You won't get it from me," Joe said. "The problem's extremely simple, if you'd put your mind to it."
"Simple, is it? Then suppose you tell me the answer!"
"I want to be sure of a certain philosophical concept first."
"Take all the time you want. When I'm rotting in jail, you can spend your leisure hours pondering abstracts. Get me a beer! No, never mind. I couldn't drink it anyway. What does this little brown animal look like?"
"Oh, use your head," Joe said.
Gallegher growled; "I could use it for an anchor, the way it feels. You know all the answers. Why not tell me instead of babbling?"
"Men can know the nature of things," Joe said. "Today is the logical development of yesterday. Obviously you've solved the problem Adrenals, Incorporated, gave you."
"What? Oh. I see. Harding wanted a new animal or something."
"Well?"
"I've got two of 'em," Gallegher said. "That little brown invisible dipsomaniac and that blue-eyed critter sitting on the floor. Oh-ho! Where did I pick them up? Another dimension?"
"How should I know? You've got 'em."
"I'll say I have," Gallegher agreed. "Maybe I made a machine that scooped them off another world—and maybe Grandpa and Harding are on that world now! A sort of exchange of prisoners. I don't know. Harding wanted non-dangerous beasts elusive enough to give hunters a thrill—but where's the element of danger?" He gulped. "Conceivably the pure alienage of the critters provides that illusion. Anyway, I'm shivering."
"Flooding of the blood stream with adrenalin gives tone to the whole system," Joe said smugly.
"So I captured or got hold of those beasts somehow, apparently, to solve Harding's problem ... mm-m." Gallegher went to stand in front of the shapeless blue-eyed creature. "Hey, you," he said.
There was no response. The mild blue eyes continued to regard nothing. Gallegher poked a finger tentatively at one of them.
Nothing at all happened. The eye was immovable and hard as glass. Gallegher tried the thing's bluish, sleek skin. It felt like metal. Repressing his mild panic, he tried to lift the beast from the floor, but failed completely. It was either enormously heavy or it had sucking-disks on its bottom.
"Eyes," Gallegher said. "No other sensory organs, apparently. That isn't what Harding wanted."
"I think it clever of the turtle," Joe suggested.
"Turtle? Oh. Like the armadillo. That's right. It's a problem, isn't it? How can you kill or capture a ... a beast like this? Its exoderm feels plenty hard, it's immovable—that's it, Joe. Quarry doesn't have to depend on flight or fight. The turtle doesn't. And a barracuda could go nuts trying to eat a turtle. This would be perfect quarry for the lazy intellectual who wants a thrill. But what about adrenalin?"
Joe said nothing. Gallegher pondered, and presently seized upon some reagents and apparatus. He tried a diamond drill. He tried acids. He tried every way he could think of to rouse the blue-eyed beast. After an hour his furious curses were interrupted by a remark from the robot.
"Well, what about adrenalin?" Joe inquired ironically.
"Shut up!" Gallegher yelped. "That thing just sits there looking at me! Adren... what?"
"Anger as well as fear stimulates the suprarenals, you know. I suppose any human would become infuriated by continued passive resistance."
"That's right," said the sweating Gallegher, giving the creature a final kick. He turned to the couch. "Increase the nuisance quotient enough and you can substitute anger for fear. But what about that little brown animal? I'm not mad at it."
"Have a drink," Joe suggested.
"All right, I am mad at the kleptomaniacal so-and-so! You said it moved so fast I can't see it. How can I catch it?"
"There are undoubtedly methods."
"It's as elusive as the other critter is
invulnerable. Could I immobilize it by getting it drunk?"
"Metabolism."
"Burns up its fuel too fast to get drunk? Probably. But it must need a lot of food."
"Have you looked in the kitchen lately?" Joe asked.
Visions of a depleted larder filling his mind, Gallegher rose. He paused beside the blue-eyed object.
"This one hasn't got any metabolism to speak of. But it has to eat, I suppose. Still, eat what? Air? It's possible."
-
The doorbell sang. Gallegher moaned, "What now?" and admitted the guest. A man with a ruddy face and a belligerent expression came in, told Gallegher he was under tentative arrest, and called in the rest of his crew, who immediately began searching the house.
"Mackenzie sent you, I suppose?" Gallegher said.
"That's right. My name's Johnson. Department of Violence, Unproved. Do you want to call counsel?"
"Yes," said Gallegher, jumping at the opportunity. He used the visor to get an attorney he knew, and began outlining his troubles. But the lawyer interrupted him.
"Sorry. I'm not taking any jobs on spec. You know my rates."
"Who said anything about spec?"
"Your last check bounced yesterday. It's cash on the line this time, or no deal."
"I ... Now wait! I've just finished a commissioned job that's paying off big. I can have the money for you—"
"When I see the color of your credits, I'll be your lawyer," the unsympathetic voice said, and the screen blanked. The detective, Johnson, tapped Gallegher on the shoulder.
"So you're overdrawn at the bank, eh? Needed money?"
"That's no secret. Besides, I'm not broke now, exactly. I finished a—"
"A job. Yeah, I heard that, too. So you're suddenly rich. How much did this job pay you? It wouldn't be fifty thousand credits, would it?"
Gallegher drew a deep breath. "I'm not saying a word," he said, and retreated to the couch, trying to ignore the Department men who were searching the lab. He needed a lawyer. He needed one bad. But he couldn't get one without money. Suppose he saw Mackenzie—
The visor put him in touch with the man. Mackenzie seemed cheerful.
"Hello," he said, "see, the police have arrived."
