by Harry Bates
His visitor wore sandals and a loose-fitting blue robe. He stood ill at ease, a slight, enigmatic smile on his face.
That man! He could see him now, as clear in every point as if he were present.
The head was massive, the cranium oval, and not one hair adorned its smooth and shining surface. Beneath the deep corrugations of the forehead the face sloped gently backward past a snub nose as far as the mouth, where it fell sharply away, leaving but the merest excuse of chin and lower jaw. The neck was long, the shoulders sloping; the whole apparition was grotesque. But he was not tempted to smile. No one could have looked into that man's face and smiled. The eyes, large, light, and piercing, would have prevented that.
"You are Doctor Arthur Allison," the man had said. "I've come a long way to see you."
"You're certainly not from Earth." Allison said, gaping, stating the fact rather than asking it.
"No.
"Then"–he could not restrain the question–"then, for Heaven's sake tell me, are you sport or typical?"
The other smiled. "Always the scientist, I see! I am typical."
Allison rose in amazement and went around the side of the desk. "But–but that can hardly be!" he exclaimed. "The solar system's been pretty thoroughly explored, and no race such as yours has ever been discovered."
The stranger's smile faded. "That discovery has been reserved for you," he said significantly. He paused. "May I come to the point of my visit?"
"Please do. I–I'm tremendously interested. Will you sit down?"
"Thank you–no. There is not much time."
He locked the ethnologist with his eyes.
"I am the emissary of a people unknown to you," he began. "Our abode lies within the solar system a reasonable distance away, and for sufficient reasons no uninvited man of your race has ever laid questioning eyes on it, and no man of your generation but you ever will. Our racial strain is cousin to yours, but our science and civilization are ahead by more than 40,000 years. Our powers exceed what might be your wildest imaginings. In terms of death, for instance, we could, in fourteen days, destroy every trace of crustal life on Earth and all her tributary planets; or we could, in that same space of time, reduce every single vertebrate to a state of impotent slavery.
"We would never do these things, however. We have neither the need nor the desire; we are not human, and not, of course, so stupid. Our self-determined developmental cycle will not bring us into intimate contact with you Earthmen for tens of thousands of years, and meanwhile we will remain as we are, aloof and inaccessible, happy within reason and practically self-sufficient.
"You note that I say 'practically'. Once in every twenty-five years we invite one carefully chosen Earthman to do us a service. You without knowing it, have ever since your graduation from college been our most promising candidate. We have had you under observation for seven years, have investigated your ancestors back for ten generations, and in heredity, manhood, intellect, and achievement you are all that we ask; so it is to you, alone of your generation, that I come now to offer this highest honor that could fall to a man of your time.
"I may not tell you what your service to us will be. You must trust me implicitly, obey me blindly. You will come to no danger or hurt. You must leave with me immediately, for a destination and by a route that will be kept secret from you. You will be gone four months. Those four months will be the high point of your intellectual, scientific, and, I might add, emotional life. Are you ready?"
"You make an extraordinary request!" the ethnologist said, when he found words.
"Ours is an extraordinary race," was the instant answer.
"If I refuse?"
"I could use force, and you'd be just as valuable to us under coercion as without; but I won't. You will not refuse. Not one of the men that has ever been approached has refused."
"Has this 'service' anything to do with my specialty?"
The man's eyes showed the faintest trace of amusement. "I may say," he replied. "It is applied and very, very practical ethnology."
"I shall be returned here without hindrance when this service is done?"
"Of course; and you may bring back with you all the knowledge of our science that you can absorb and retain."
Allison considered a moment. He asked, "May I see your feet?"
The out-worlder smiled. He sat on a chair and removed one sandal, exposing a foot such as no man on Earth had ever yet possessed. The big toe was very large, and was flanked by another only a little bit smaller. The three outer toes were vestigial. Here was the foot of the human race, thousands of years in the future.
Allison's eyes bulged. The knowledge there would be!
As if reading his mind the stranger said, "Your Mr. Wells said it long ago. 'Think of the new knowledge!""
The words were a light in Allison's brain. He turned away. The stranger replaced the sandal and rose.
"Think of the new knowledge!" he repeated.
The ethnologist turned to him. "What is your name?" he said.
The other smiled. "I am sometimes called Jones," he replied.
And they were the last words that had been spoken. Allison remembered that he, too, had smiled; that he had spontaneously held out his hand in tacit acceptance; that as his palm touched the out-worlder's there had been a sharp sting as of a needle; and then all his senses had left him, and he sank down and down into oblivion.
For one and a half Earth hours Allison lay logy on the immaculate white cot, only the changing expression of his opened eyes telling of the chaos within. Then slowly and by insensible degrees his delirium became more physical, and he strained at the broad cloth bands that held him down, tossed within their narrow confines, muttered gibberish in three languages.
A thousand horrific menaces disputed his long way up to a consciousness, each a nightmare shape spawned out of unknown frustrations in the abysmal unconscious. By twos and by threes he battled them–all the long dark arms, the fire eyes, the scale-skinned, and the amorphous, and those worse ones without name or substance which enveloped him with intangible oppression. It was most unfair, for no combat was ever decisive; always the shapes eluded him; and indeed they changed their identity as he faced them and were never twice the same.
Except three. Three there were that remained a little apart, but which came again and were always clear and undistorted. First was the out-worldly stranger. Then the blue-eyed girl. And the last the interminable rows of doll faces, each a likeness of his own; each one himself.
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 out-worldly 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 aw
ake. 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 bands 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 promptly 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 over-congratulating himself for the sheeplike docility with which he had acceded to the out-worlder'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 out-worlder to go by! Practical, though, of course. His real name was probably Ugktbgubx, 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 out-worlder 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–"
CHAPTER 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 be 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 shrank 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 anyone 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 wristwatch 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 search-beam, 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."
