The Goblin Reservation

by Clifford D. Simak

  "It was no one's fault," said Oop. "It's just the way things happen."

  "Well, anyhow," said Maxwell, "we loused up Harlow's deal."

  "I'll say you did," a voice said behind them. "Will someone please tell me what is going on?"

  They turned around.

  Harlow Sharp stood in the doorway. Someone had turned on all the museum lights and he stood out sharply against the lighted oblong of the doors.

  "The museum is wrecked," he said, "and the Artifact is gone and here are the two of you and I might have known. Miss Hampton, I'm astonished. I thought you had better sense than to become entangled in such low company. Although that crazy cat of yours—”

  "You leave Sylvester out of this," she said. "He never had a thing to do with it."

  "Well, Pete?" asked Sharp.

  Maxwell shook his head. "I find it a bit hard to explain."

  "I would think so," said Sharp. "Did you have all this in mind when you talked with me this evening?"

  "No," said Maxwell. "It was a sort of accident."

  "An expensive accident," said Sharp. "It might interest you to know that you've set Time's work back a century or more. Unless, of course, you somehow moved the Artifact and have it hidden out somewhere. In which case, my friend, I give you a flat five seconds to hand it back to me."

  Maxwell gulped. "I didn't move it, Harlow. In fact, I barely touched it. I'm not sure what happened. It turned into a dragon."

  "It turned into a what?"

  "A dragon. I tell you, Harlow—”

  "I remember now," said Sharp. "You always were blathering around about a dragon. You started out for Coonskin to find yourself a dragon. And now it seems you've found one. I hope that it's a good one."

  "It's a pretty one," said Carol. "All gold and shimmery."

  "Oh, fine," said Sharp. "Isn't that just bully. We can probably make a fortune, taking it around on exhibition. We can whomp up a circus and give top billing to the dragon. I can see it now in great big letters: THE ONLY DRAGON IN EXISTENCE."

  "But it isn't here," said Carol. "It up and flew away."

  "Oop," said Sharp, "you haven't said a word. What is going on? You are ordinarily fairly mouthy. What is going on?"

  "I'm mortified," said Oop.

  Sharp turned away from him and looked at Maxwell.

  "Pete," he said, "you probably realize what you have done. The watchman phoned me and wanted to call the police. But I told him to hold up on calling the police and I'd come right down. I had no idea it would turn out as bad as it did turn out to be. The Artifact is gone and I can't deliver it and that means I'll have to hand back all that cash, and a lot of the exhibits have been smashed to smithereens—”

  "The dragon did that," Maxwell said, "before we let him out."

  "So you let him out? He didn't actually get away. You just let him out."

  "Well, he was smashing all that stuff. I guess we weren't thinking."

  "Tell me honest, Pete. Was there actually a dragon?"

  "Yes, there was one. He was immobilized inside the Artifact. Perhaps he was the Artifact. Don't ask me how he got there. Enchantment, I would guess."

  "Enchantment?"

  "Enchantment really happens, Harlow. I don't know how. I've spent years trying to find out and I don't know much more about it now than when I started out."

  "It seems to me," said Sharp, "that there is someone missing. When all hell breaks loose, there usually is someone else who is tied into it. Can you tell me, Oop, where Ghost, that great, good friend of yours, might be?"

  Oop shook his head. "He's a hard one to keep track of. Always slipping off."

  "That isn't all of it," said Sharp. "There is still another situation that we should pay some heed to. Shakespeare has come up missing. I wonder if any of you could shed some light on his disappearance."

  "He was with us for a while," said Oop. "We were just setting down to eat when he became quite frightened and lit out of there. It happened when Ghost remembered that he was Shakespeare's ghost. He's been wondering all these years, you know, who he is the ghost of."

  Slowly, lowering himself one section at a time, Sharp sat down on the top step and looked slowly from one to the other of them.

  "Not a thing," he said. "You didn't miss a thing when you started out to ruin Harlow Sharp. You made a job of it."

  "We didn't start out to ruin you," said Oop. "We never had a thing against you. It seemed, somehow, that things started going wrong and they never stopped."

  "By rights," said Sharp, "I should sue every one of you for every cent you have. I should ask a judgment—and don't fool yourself, I'd get it—that would keep all of you working for Time the rest of your natural lives. But the three of you together couldn't offset by a fraction, during your collective lifetimes, what you cost Time tonight. So there's no sense in doing it. Although I suppose the police will have to get into this ruckus. I don't see how they can be kept out of it. The three of you, I'm afraid, will have to answer a lot of questions."

  "If someone would only listen to me," said Maxwell, "I could explain it all. That's what I've been trying to do ever since I got back—to find someone who would listen to me. I tried to talk to you this afternoon... "

  "Then," said Sharp, "suppose you start right now by explaining it to me. I'll own to a slight curiosity. Let's go across the street to my office, where we can settle down and have a talk. Or might that inconvenience you? There's probably a thing or two you still have to do to finish up the job of bankrupting Time."

  "No, I guess there isn't," said Oop. "I'd say, offhand, that we've done about everything we can."

  23

  Inspector Drayton rose heavily from the chair in which he had been sitting in Sharp's outer office.

  "I'm glad you finally arrived, Dr. Sharp," he said. "Something has arisen—”

  The inspector cut short his speech when he caught sight of Maxwell. "So it's you," said the inspector. "I am glad to see you. You've led me a long, hard chase."

  Maxwell made a face. "I'm not sure, Inspector, that I can reciprocate your gladness."

  If there was anyone he could get along without right now, he told himself, it was Inspector Drayton.

  "And who might you be?" Sharp asked shortly. "What do you mean by busting in here."

  "I'm Inspector Drayton, of Security. I had a short talk with Professor Maxwell the other day, on the occasion of his return to Earth, but I'm afraid that there are still some questions..."

  "In that case," said Sharp, "please take your place in line. I have business with Dr. Maxwell and I'm afraid that mine takes precedence over yours."

  "You don't understand," said Drayton. "I had not come here to apprehend your friend. His turning up with you is a piece of good fortune I had not expected. There is another matter in which I thought you might be helpful, a matter which came up rather unexpectedly. You see, I had heard that Professor Maxwell had been a guest at Miss Clayton's recent party and so I went to see her—”

  "Talk sense, man," said Sharp. "What has Nancy Clayton got to do with all of this?"

  "I don't know, Harlow," said Nancy Clayton, appearing at the doorway of the inner office. "I never intended to get involved in anything. All I ever try to do is entertain my Mends and I can't see how there's anything so wrong in that."

  "Nancy, please," said Sharp. "First tell me what is going on. Why are you here and why is Inspector Drayton here and—”

  "It's Lambert," Nancy said.

  "You mean the man who painted the picture that you have."

  "I have three of them," said Nancy proudly.

  "But Lambert has been dead more than five hundred years."

  "That's what I thought, too," said Nancy, "but he turned up tonight. He said that he was lost."

  A man stepped from the inner room, urging Nancy to one side—a tall and rugged man with sandy hair and deep lines in his face.

  "It appears, gentlemen," he said, "that you are discussing me. Would you mind if I spoke up for myse
lf?"

  There was a strange twang to the way he spoke his words and he stood there, beaming at them, in a good-natured manner, and there was not much that one could find in him to make one dislike the man.

  "You are Albert Lambert?" Maxwell asked.

  "Indeed I am," said Lambert, "and I hope I don't intrude, but I have a problem."

  "And you're the only one?" asked Sharp.

  "I'm sure that I don't know," said Lambert. "I suppose there are many other persons who are faced with problems. When you have a problem, however, the question is of where to go to have it solved."

  "Mister," said Sharp, "I am in the same position and I am seeking answers just the same as you are."

  "But don't you see," Maxwell said to Sharp, "that Lambert has the right idea. He has come to the one place where his problem can be solved."

  "If I were you, young fellow," Drayton said, "I wouldn't be so sure. You were pretty foxy the other day, but now I'm onto you. There are a lot of things—”

  "Inspector, will you please keep out of this," said Sharp. "Things are bad enough without you complicating them. The Artifact is gone and the museum is wrecked and Shakespeare has disappeared."

  "But all I want," said Lambert reasonably, "is to get back home again. Back to 2023."

  "Now, wait a minute," Sharp commanded. "You are out of line. I don't—”

  "Harlow," Maxwell said, "I explained it all to you. Just this afternoon. And I asked you about Simonson. Surely you recall."

  "Simonson? Yes, I remember now." Sharp looked at Lambert. "You are the man who painted the canvas that shows the Artifact."

  "Artifact?"

  "A big block of black stone set atop a hill."

  Lambert shook his head. "No, I haven't painted it. Although I suppose I will. In fact, it seems I must, for Miss Clayton showed it to me and it's undeniably something that I would have done. And I must say, who shouldn't, that it is not so bad."

  "Then you actually saw the Artifact back in Jurassic days?"

  "Jurassic?"

  "Two hundred million years ago."

  Lambert looked surprised. "So it was that long ago. I knew it was pretty far. There were dinosaurs."

  "But you must have known. You were traveling in time."

  "The trouble is," said Lambert, "the time unit has gone haywire. I never seem to be able to go to the time I want."

  Sharp put up his hands and held his head between them. Then he took them away and said: "Now, let's go at this slowly. One thing at a time. First one step and then another, till we get to the bottom of it."

  "I explained to you," said Lambert, "that there's just one thing that I want. It's very simple really, all I want is to get home again."

  "Where is your time machine?" asked Sharp. "Where did you leave it. We can have a look at it."

  "I didn't leave it anywhere. There's no place I could leave it. It goes everywhere with me. It's inside my head."

  "In your head!" yelled Sharp. "A time unit in your head. But that's impossible."

  Maxwell grinned at Sharp. "When we were talking this afternoon," he said, "you told me that Simonson revealed very little about his time machine. Now it appears—”

  "I did tell you that," Sharp agreed, "but who in their right mind would suspect that a time unit could be installed in a subject's brain. It must a new principle. Something that we missed entirely." He said to Lambert, "Do you have any idea how it works."

  "Not the slightest," Lambert said. "The only thing I know is that when it was put into my head—a rather major surgical operation, I can assure you—I gained the ability to travel in time. I simply have to think of where I want to go, using certain rather simple coordinates, and I am there. But something has gone wrong. No matter what I think, I go banging back and forth, like a yo-yo, from one time to yet another, none of which are the times I want to be."

  "It would have advantages," said Sharp, speaking musingly and more to himself than to the rest of them. "It would admit of independent action and it would be small, much smaller than the mechanism that we have to use. It would have to be to go inside the brain and... I don't suppose, Lambert, that you know too much about it?"

  "I told you," Lambert said. "Not a thing. I wasn't really interested in how it worked. Simonson happens to be a friend of mine..."

  "But why here? Why did you come here? To this particular place and time?"

  "An accident, that's all. And once I arrived it looked a lot more civilized than a lot of places I had been and I started inquiring around to orient myself. Apparently I had never been so far into the future before, for one of the first things I learned was that you did have time travel and that there was a Time College. Then I heard that Miss Clayton had a painting of mine, and thinking that if she had a painting I had done she might be disposed favorably toward me, I sought her out. In hope, you see, of finding out how to contact the people who might be able to use their good offices to send me home again. And it was while I was there that Inspector Drayton arrived."

  "Now, Mr. Lambert," Nancy said, "before you go any further, there is something that I want to ask you. Why didn't you, when you were back in the Jurassic or wherever it was that Harlow said you were, and you painted this picture—”

  "You forget," Lambert told her. "I haven't painted it yet. I have some sketches and someday I expect—”

  "Well, then, when you get around to painting that picture, why don't you put in dinosaurs. There aren't any dinosaurs in it and you just said you knew you were a long way in the past because there were dinosaurs."

  "I put no dinosaurs in the painting," said Lambert, "for a very simple reason. There were no dinosaurs."

  "But you said..."

  "You must realize," Lambert explained patiently, "that I paint only what I see. I never subtract anything. I never add anything. And there were no dinosaurs because the creatures in the painting had chased them all away. So I put in no dinosaurs, nor any of the others."

  "Any of the others?" asked Maxwell. "What are you talking about now? What were these others?"

  "Why," said Lambert, "the ones with wheels."

  He stopped and looked around him at their stricken faces.

  "Did I say something wrong?" he asked.

  "Oh, not at all," Carol said sweetly. "Go right ahead, Mr. Lambert, and tell us all about the ones with wheels."

  "You probably won't believe me," Lambert said, "and I can't tell you what they were. The slaves, perhaps. The work horses. The bearers of the burdens. The serfs. They were life forms, apparently—they were alive, but they went on wheels instead of feet and they were not one thing alone. Each one of them was a hive of insects, like bees or ants. Social insects, apparently. You understand, I don't expect that you'll believe a word I say, but I swear..."

  From somewhere far away came a rumble, the low, thudding rumble of rapidly advancing wheels. And as they stood, transfixed and listening, they knew that the wheels were coming down the corridor. Nearer came the rumble, growing louder as it advanced. Suddenly it was just outside the door and slowing down to turn and all at once a Wheeler stood inside the door.

  "That's one of them!" screamed Lambert. "What is it doing here?"

  "Mr. Marmaduke," said Maxwell, "it is good to see you once again."

  "No," the Wheeler told him. "Not Mr. Marmaduke. The so-called Mr. Marmaduke will not be seen by you again. He is in very bad disgrace. He made a vast mistake."

  Sylvester had started forward, but Oop had reached down and grabbed him by the loose skin of the neck and was holding him tightly while he struggled to break free.

  "There was a contract made," the Wheeler said, "by a humanoid that went by the name of Harlow Sharp. Which one of you would be Harlow Sharp?"

  "I'm your man," said Sharp.

  "Then, sir, I must ask you what you intend to do about the fulfillment of the contract."

  "There is nothing I can do," said Sharp. "The Artifact is gone and cannot be delivered. Your payment, of course, will be refunded promptly."<
br />
  "That, Mr. Sharp," the Wheeler said, "will not be sufficient. It will fall far short of satisfaction. We shall bring the trial of law against you. We shall bust you, mister, with everything we can. We shall do our best to poverty you and—”

  "Why, you miserable go-cart," Sharp yelled, "there is no law for you. Galactic law does not apply with a creature such as you. If you think you can come here and threaten me..."

  Ghost appeared, out of thin air, just inside the doorway.

  "It's about time," Oop yelled angrily. "Where've you been all night? What did you do with Shakespeare?"

  "The Bard is safe," said Ghost, "but there is other news." The arm of the robe raised and gestured at the Wheeler. "Others of his kind swarm in Goblin Reservation to try to trap the dragon."

  So, thought Maxwell, somewhat illogically, it had been the dragon they had wanted, after all. Could the Wheelers have known all along, he wondered, that there had been a dragon? And the answer was that, of course, they would have known, for it had been they or their far ancestors who had done the work back in Jurassic days.

  In Jurassic days on Earth, and how many others times on how many other planets? The serfs, Lambert had said, the horses, the bearers of the burdens. Were they now, or had they been, inferior members of that ancient tribe of beings, or had they been, perhaps, simply domesticated animals, harnessed biologically by genetic engineering, for the jobs they were assigned?

  And now these former slaves, having established an empire of their own, reached out their hands for something that they may have reason to believe should be their heritage. Theirs, since nowhere else in the universe, except, perhaps, in scattered, dying pockets, was there left any trace of the great colonization project dreamed by the crystal planet.

  And perhaps, thought Maxwell—perhaps it should be theirs. For theirs had been the labor that had engineered the project. And had the dying Banshee, laden with an ancient guilt, sought to right a wrong when he had doublecrossed the crystal planet, when he had sought to help these former slaves? Or had he, perhaps, believed that it was better that the heritage should go, not to some outsider, but to a race of beings who had played a part, however menial, however small, in the great project that had crumbled into failure?