Adventures in Time and Space

by Raymond J Healy

  As the hours passed and he fought upward it became increasingly necessary to identify these recurring images. They were somehow enormously important. They were bound with his life, or had been, or would be; it was very obscure, which; and they were all a mystery and a menace in their own fashion.

  To trap their secret he constructed colossal edifices of metaphysical cunning, performed prodigies of deduction, all the while he swam oceans, plunged through fire, sank through bottomless ooze in his running fight with the demons that beset him; but always at the moment of knowing he would forget what he was looking for and have to begin all over.

  Who was the outworldly stranger? Who, the blue-eyed girl? Those rows of doll faces‌—‌why were they his faces? Why was each one himself?

  He would try new cunning. He would close his eyes for a long while, then open them suddenly, and he’d know.

  The man on the immaculate white cot closed his eyes and lay still; and then began the long, deep sleep that was to restore him to himself.

  Allison awoke gently and lay quiet a moment, dully wondering where he might be and how he had arrived there. The room was unfamiliar, with its close, square walls and the peculiar but soothing soft amber haze that filtered evenly from horizontal tubes set well up near the ceiling. There was no trace of a window, but a metal-framed door showed indistinctly in the wall at his right. He turned toward it‌—‌and found himself restrained.

  A surge of alarm ran through his veins and brought him fully awake. He arched upward and discovered that a broad cloth band had been passed over his chest and another over his thighs. His arms were free, and his exploring hands soon found a buckle which was easily loosened. He sat up and released his legs, then was at once out of bed and making for the door.

  He found it locked.

  “Not so good,” he thought, pushing back his shock of yellow hair and turning and surveying the room. But at the head of the bed was a small table‌—‌the only other article of furniture. Placed opposite under the ceiling were grilles which he decided were for ventilation. The walls looked like marble, cream-colored, and apparently synthetic.

  He turned back to the door; pounded on it; yelled out: “Hey, Jones”; listened. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard a faint answering noise outside. He repeated his call; but no one came, and, irritated, he went back to the cot and sat on its edge, head in hands, until “Jones” should come and release him.

  It was clear he had been anesthetized, and he supposed he couldn’t complain, for it had been part of their agreement that both route and destination be kept secret; but how deucedly prompt the man had acted!

  And how long he must have been unconscious! A quarter-inch growth of beard scratched the palms held to his cheeks! Well, no doubt he had arrived.

  The ethnologist rose from the cot and stalked about the room. He was not overcongratulating himself for the sheeplike docility with which he had acceded to the outworlder’s amazing offer. There were a hundred questions to ask, and hardly one had been answered; there were affairs of importance to be put in order before leaving Earth, and not one had been attended to. Confound Jones, for the outrageous promptness of his action! Where was he now, anyway?

  Again he banged on the door and yelled, and again it was fruitless. He resumed his pacing.

  “Jones!” Of all names for the outworlder to go by! Practical, though, of course. His real name was probably Ugkthgubx, or some such jaw breaker. Would match his face…

  The Earthman stopped short. Into his stream of consciousness had floated a figment that would not be identified. Something about a girl, blue-eyed and beautiful. And something else‌—‌connected with her‌—‌rows and rows‌—‌frightening‌—‌himself there, somehow…

  It sank and was gone.

  He sat again on the cot, tense, “open,” delicately fishing it back up. It came‌—‌went‌—‌came clearly.

  Interminable rows of doll faces‌—‌ But why were they his faces? Why was each one himself?

  A thrill of fear swept up his back. Had something been done to him while he was unconscious?

  Later: Why the emotion, why the fear that accompanied that memory?

  Still later: Why that flash that something may have been done to me while I was unconscious?

  He hung suspended, fishing for answers that would not come. Gradually the image faded, leaving in its place an intangible feeling of oppression. He got up and walked to throw off the spell; muttered:

  “God help Jones if he did monkey with me!”

  There was a noise at the door, and, turning, he beheld the massive bald head that never could he forget. Smiling, Jones entered. “You are recovered?” he asked cordially.

  An exclamation of anger rose to Allison’s lips‌—‌and died there. Behind the outworlder stood a girl. She was clad in a simple, loose-flowing crimson robe, gathered at the waist. She was blue-eyed and beautiful.

  Jones beckoned to her. “Doctor Allison,” he said, “let me present our Miss CB-301.”

  II

  Allison did not distinguish himself for ease of manner in that introduction, for he was wondering how it could be that this girl, whom he was now meeting for the first time could be the very one whose image already dimly lurked in his memory. None of his awkwardness was to be charged to any romantic “falling for” her; no mistake is to be made about that. A score of girls had hitherto found he was quite immune‌—‌though a psychoanalyst might have discovered that what he called “a scientific disinterest in the sex” could be reduced to the absurd fact that he was simply a little afraid of them.

  The ethnologist, becoming aware that Miss So-and-So had said “How do you do!” in the most conventional of Earth fashions, in turn nodded and mumbled something himself. Jones smiled broadly and, stepping to the door, begged to be excused, saying he was overwhelmed with work.

  “Miss CB-301 speaks your language perfectly,” he said, “and will explain such things as are permitted. I’ll be back presently.” And the door clicked closed behind him, leaving an off-balanced young ethnologist very much alone with an unabashed young maiden with freckles on her nose and the light of admiration in her eyes.

  Allison stood stiffly uncomfortable. Who could have thought that this would happen? And so suddenly? Confound that Jones again; he was certainly one fast worker.

  What should he say to the female? Nice day? No‌—‌better, flattery. He complimented her on the lack of accent in her speech. It suggested unusual brains in one so young.

  “Oh, but no‌—‌I’m really terribly dumb!” the young thing gushed sincerely. “I could hardly get through my fourth-dimensional geometry! But English is easier. Don’t you think so?”

  Yes; he certainly thought so. He warmed toward her a little. “Then let me congratulate you,” he said, “for admitting your dumbness. I’m not accustomed to such extraordinary modesty on the part of women. I may say I find it very becoming.”

  The girl smiled her delight, and Allison smiled, too. Then, struck by an unpleasant thought, her face took on a woebegone look. “I’m an atavism,” she said.

  What was the polite comment on that?

  The ethnologist in Allison rose to the surface. “Let me see your feet,” he said with sudden eagerness.

  “Oh, no‌—‌don’t ask that! Please!”

  She shrunk from him.

  “Why not?” he demanded.

  “Because they’re so ugly!” the girl exclaimed wretchedly. “I don’t want you to see them! Ever!”

  “Sit’ down and take off your sandals!” he ordered. After all, she was only a kid, and her reluctance was unwarranted and foolish.

  Tremblingly the girl obeyed, and Allison looked down upon as beautiful a pair of five-toed feet as he had ever seen. Extremely interesting, so complete a divergence from what must be the present racial type. He smiled, and she, seeing, felt better and hastened to put her sandals on again.

  “After all,” she said rising, “even though I am an atavism, you’re
a primitive, and‌—‌and‌—‌well, it could be terribly thrilling!” She looked up at him adoringly‌—‌hopefully.

  Allison laughed. He was all at his ease now with the young thing, and, it must be repeated, he was thoroughly immune.

  “It sounds as if you’re proposing,” he said.

  “We’re to be married,” she confided. “I hope you don’t mind too much.”

  This was ominous and led to a sudden terrible suspicion.

  “Is this why I was brought from Earth‌—‌to marry you?” he demanded angrily.

  “Oh, no! Not just for me!” she answered; then, as if conscious of having made a slip, she added quickly; “I saw you when they brought you in and asked then. You see, you’re the only man I’ve ever met who is like me. I never felt funny about any one else the way I feel funny about you.”

  He was reassured, but it left the problem of rebuffing her. He had done nothing to commit himself, and it was just her hard luck if she had to go and “feel funny” where one so hopeless as he was concerned. He had better nip her romantic notions in the bud.

  “Young lady, I like you very much,” he said, “but my interest is largely ethnological. I’m sorry, but it can never be anything more. I ‌—‌I’ll be a‌—‌a big brother to you,” he concluded asininely.

  The girl was hurt, and her face fell. It was very awkward for a moment. Allison affected a cheeriness he did not feel.

  “Come,” he said, “tell me about your people. Do they all look like the man who brought me here? Are you the only one of your kind in the whole country?”

  She brightened a little. “Yes,” she replied; “I’m the only one like you. You wouldn’t care for the others at all. Look‌—‌I’ll show you.” She lifted her left wrist and showed him, strapped thereto, what looked like an enameled wrist watch with a large bezel; only the dial of this was blank, and radiating from the sides were five gnurled stems.

  “Do you have these on Earth?” she asked. He admitted they did not. “Look,” she said, turning her body at an angle and adjusting the stems.

  As Allison looked, close by her side, the dial took on an opalescent glow, and dimly there appeared on it threads and shadows which under her adjustments cleared into a picture, animated‌—‌the heads and figures of half a dozen women.

  “Television,” he said. “You’re receiving this from a broadcasting studio.”

  “No,” she corrected; “a searchbeam, portable. I can focus it at a distance on whatever I choose. It passes through almost anything.” Allison marveled. “But that’s not the point,” she objected: “Look at those women. Do you find them more beautiful than I?”

  He certainly did not. They were, each one, the feminine counterpart of the man Jones. Their necks were as columnar, their shoulders as sloped, and their heads were nothing less than disgusting, considering that they belonged to bodies of what is commonly called the “fair sex.” They had wide faces, flat, with bulging foreheads and utterly degenerated jaws, with a rim of thin hair that circled their craniums as might a fringed girdle, an egg.

  Allison shuddered. “I pass!” he said.

  The girl probably did not understand his words, but she read aright the expression on his face. “You see!” she cried triumphantly, as if it were thereby decided that he was to marry her. “That is part of the line of waiting brides to be. You’ve got to marry one of us!”

  “Well, I’m not going to marry one of you!” the ethnologist exclaimed angrily. “Why do you say I do?” he demanded, the ominous suspicion again taking shape in his mind. “Why? Why?” he repeated, following her as she backed away.

  The girl was on the verge of tears. “I can’t tell you, and I won’t!” she said. “But it’s a shame, ‘cause I thought it would be so easy and nice! Because you’re a primitive.”

  Allison turned away; there was no satisfaction to be had from her. She was a throwback, all right. He suddenly wanted very much to see the man called Jones. He had plenty of explanations coming to him, and it seemed to him he’d been treated rather shabbily so far. He turned back to the girl.

  “Miss‌—‌Miss “ He came to a stop. “Pardon me‌—‌what is your name again?”

  “Miss CB-301.”

  “Ah, yes. May I call you Miss Brown? Uh‌—‌Miss Brown, will you go find Mr. Jones‌—‌the man who introduced us? I want to see him at once. Or maybe I can go to him?” he quickly suggested.

  “Oh, no, you can’t do that. I’ll go bring him here.” She seemed a little afraid of her primitive. She added, more brightly: “I think I want to see him myself.”

  “Will you lend me that searchbeam till you get back?”

  She hesitated, as if she should not, then, pathetically eager to please him, she unstrapped and placed it about his left wrist. She’s beautiful, all right, he thought, as she fastened it on. Hair, and plenty of it. Thick and dark and tastefully drawn through that jeweled clasp at the nape of her neck. Those other women’s!

  She tapped on the door, and it was opened by a brown-robed figure outside. For a moment she looked softly into Allison’s eyes, and then she was gone.

  What had she meant by saying he had to marry “one of us”? Had to! Yes; Jones had plenty of explanations piling up.

  The ethnologist sat on the edge of the cot and held up his wrist. What a marvel of ingenuity the little device was! Tentatively he turned the stem she had first touched. The dial glowed, then meaningless shadows appeared on it. The slightest movement of his body changed these shadows for new ones. He turned other stems and got what seemed to be a wall. Delicately he manipulated in the attempt to probe beyond. The blurred figure of a man appeared, came clearer, and then Allison got a shock. The image that lay on the glowing round dial was point for point his own.

  In his amazement he moved, and the man was gone. Pulse throbbing, he fished him back. No doubt about it‌—‌the outlines were fuzzy, but the resemblance was there. All over‌—‌size, shoulders, head, proportions, clothing. Even the room he occupied was identical. He stood leaning against the wall, arms folded, looking in angry fashion straight ahead, and on his face was a short thatch of yellow beard.

  Out of Allison’s unconscious came the memory he had had before. Interminable rows of doll faces. Each face his own face, and each one, somehow, himself.

  Mystery lay all around him. Jones, so strangely in out of the night. His extraordinary offer. The sudden unconscious journey. The unknown outworld civilization that hemmed him in. The rows of doll faces with their freight of fear. This man who looked so like himself. What devil’s work could be under way?

  There was a movement on the glowing dial. The door of the room opened, and the man known as Jones entered, followed by a surgeonlike figure in white smock and helmet who pushed before him a rubber-wheeled table. At sight of them the man left the wall and advanced menacingly. They talked, and Jones’ manner was wholly conciliatory.

  Then, suddenly, it was over. Jones stepped to the man’s side and touched him lightly on the shoulder with the palm of his hand. He slumped to the floor, from which in businesslike fashion he was picked up, laid on the table and wheeled out through the door.

  Allison stared with amazement. It was the same trick that had been worked on him. The shoulder instead of the hand.

  The men were gone from the dial. He set himself quickly to picking them up again. Angling his body slightly did it. They had paused outside the door.

  They moved; grew blurred; he found a stem that brought them sharper again. He followed them down a square corridor into which many doors were set at equal distances on each side. As they progressed they dwindled to the size of match heads, but he found the way to make them larger. Other figures passed by, two in white smocks and helmets, others in colored gowns, their ugly heads fully exposed; and as Allison looked at them, his group was gone.

  An anxious moment, then he found them. They were a little lower to one side, descending in an elevator. Lost them! Again his heart stood still while he felt them out. I
t was as if that unconscious man on the table‌—‌that man who so resembled him‌—‌were he himself. Where were they taking him? What was to be done with him, all unresisting?

  There passed an interval during which a jumble of walls, shadows, people, strange apparatus, and blurs were all that came to his dial. Once, even, a conical green bush; or perhaps it was a tree. Then Allison by pure chance found his men again.

  An imposing picture lay on the dial when he had brought them to size and clarity. They stood waiting behind a low railing at one end of a large auditorium. Behind them, the other side of the railing, half a hundred rows of seats, laced by aisles, rose upward to the ceiling, and every seat was occupied by men and women of the strange race whose prisoner he was. In front of them, the focal point of every eye in that vast gathering, was a glittering cage, within which rested two chairs, meshed by wires together, and placed in front of a complicated battery of scientific apparatus whose nature Allison didn’t know.

  Quickly, with perfect coordination, the ensuing scene took place. The table bearing the unconscious man was wheeled within the cage, and he was removed and made to sit upright in one of the chairs. At the same time a woman of the race, escorted by an official, entered the space within the railing from a doorway to the right and was conducted to the other chair. She was touched, palm on shoulder, by Jones, and immediately slumped back unconscious. Metallic headbands attached to the chairs were fastened about their foreheads. Then all left the cage and the door was closed.

  Jones went to a large panel to one side and threw a switch, and for one instant a glow of varicolored light flooded the cage. When it had died he and the others reentered, freed the two subjects, and, in a way Allison could not catch, revived them. Then the handsome young man with the blond hair and the ugly woman with the fringed bald head and corrugated brow proceeded out of the cage to a small desk by the railing, where they stopped, looked deeply at each other, and in full view of the assembled thousands kissed each other ardently on the mouth.