Seven Come Infinity

by Groff Conklin

  She let her senses reach out for any indication of life above her. The bank of the river, directly ahead, was barren and deserted. In the distance she could hear the dull, muted sounds of a sleeping city. Nothing else.

  She rose to her feet and treaded softly toward the river edge, warily observing everything about her. A row of semi-stripped freight cars stood on a siding to her right. To her left was an underpass. Straight ahead, tall shadow-shrouded buildings.

  Among those buildings lay her danger—a danger of inarguable necessity. She must be cautious. A giant will be pulled down by a race of pigmies, unless he tempers his strength with cunning.

  If she could reach the slum section of the city—the best place for a stranger to assimilate herself among the natives—without being seen, the balance would tip in her favor.

  Pentizel drew from her memory the little her tapes had had about this typical Earth city in which she had landed: Name—St. Paul. Population seven hundred eighty thousand. Capital city of local subdivision—an old city.

  Without distraction from her alert progress, one part of her mind assayed the city’s probable place in the sociological cycle. Center of commerce shifted from river bank, to rail center, and finally out to air terminals. The old section of the city should be located somewhere on the far side of the railroad tracks.

  It was a simple matter for Pentizel to slip unseen through dim back streets, from building to building, until she reached the flats of old Lactonatown.

  So far strictly according to preconceived plan. Next step—to obtain clothing and, if possible, local currency.

  For nearly an hour Pentizel waited in the shadow of an alley mouth, with the patience of the stalking animal she was. The twenty-two degrees below zero temperature did not trouble her; it was less cold than an average day on her own world. The frigid climate was one main reason why she had chosen this northern hemisphere.

  At last Pentizel caught a sharp, salt, fragrance on the cool breeze. She heard, a few seconds later, the sound of approaching footsteps. She concentrated—with an instinctive, intricate, sensory process.

  The prospective victim was a male, heavy of body, and either old, or very tired.

  Her quarry reached the mouth of the alley, and Pentizel sprang.

  The brief action was the same as it had been before, with the other member of this race of clods: The shocked immobility of surprise; the slowly registering alarm; the frantic futile resistance; and the small stricken cry of capitulation to superior strength at the end.

  Pentizel had carefully observed pictures, and video, of Earth natives during her flight here, but she had seen only briefly a living one. She studied closely the build and features of the unconscious male as she quickly stripped him.

  The body structure was much the same as her own. She had anticipated that. The features were different, but of the same basic mold. There would have to be some drastic changes made on her own face—before she could pass as one of them—but it was not an impossible task.

  Leather foot casings, which Pentizel unsnapped and slipped on her own feet. Trousers—she did not bother with the undergarments, either on the feet or body—a synthetic-fur lined greatcoat, and matching head covering. These effete creatures needed a great deal of protection against the elements.

  Pentizel’s confidence mounted rapidly. She pulled the head covering down over the pointed tips of her ears, and the collar of the greatcoat up. When she snapped the collar close around the lower part of her face, she was satisfied. With ordinary luck she would escape discovery.

  Next step—a place to rest and hide.

  As rapidly as possible Pentizel put a dozen blocks between herself and her victim. An electric light blinked “RYAN HOTEL,” and Pentizel went in. She had no doubt of her ability to speak the native language fluently—she and her race were particularly adept at that sort of thing, and she had used much of her time on the trip in studying tapes and practicing. She was certain she even had a fair grasp of their slang and colloquialisms.

  Pentizel kept her face low in the coat collar as she walked to the hotel register desk. A sleepy-eyed clerk looked up at her and Pentizel made a motion of flailing herself with her arms. “Sure cold out,” she muttered, keeping her voice in a low masculine range.

  The clerk nodded and stifled a yawn with his hand. “You wanna room?”

  “Yes. For two nights.” Pentizel had examined the billfold in the trouser pocket and found several rectangular slips of green paper. Undoubtedly local currency. She took out one with the largest number on it—a ten—and laid it on the desk.

  The clerk took the bill and made change. “Six-fifty from ten,” he said, without interest. He laid three of the green slips—with ones printed on their corners—and a round silver coin on the desk. Beside them he tossed a room key. “Third door to your right,” he said. “Top of the stairs.”

  Pentizel had surveyed the small lobby of the hotel with a fleeting first glance on entering. She moved toward the stairs now without hesitation.

  Once inside her room, she locked the door, drew in a deep breath, and let it out. Her whole body relaxed with the expelled breath. A world lay within the grasp of her eager hands. A world of decadent weaklings—waiting to be ravaged!

  * * * *

  Vern Nelson was getting a bit drowsy. Two hours before he had been unable to sleep, and had come up to the monitor station to take over the nightwatch beam. It was a public service, donated by his employers, and always an intriguing diversion for him. As he idly tilted the control handle the scene on the huge screen before him shifted across the city. It passed the Bluff section, paused for a moment at the river edge, and swung on across the old railroad yards.

  A few blocks farther on Nelson spotted a small darting movement in one corner of the screen. He swung back. Nothing. Whatever it had been was now hidden beneath the overhang of a low building.

  A moment later the figure slipped across the street and into the shadow of a second building. Nelson could not see him plainly enough to make any identification—he stayed too deep in the shadows—but he was able to follow his movements easily.

  Another block and the figure slipped into an alley mouth, and eased himself into a crouch beside a trash barrel.

  An hour went by, and Nelson was beginning to think the crouching man would never move. He was getting sleepy again.

  Then it happened!

  A pedestrian, in the forefront of the camera screen, had been approaching the alley from the south. Nelson, watching the figure in the shadow, gave only casual attention to the approaching man. And it was not until the crouching figure made a sudden leap that he realized its intention.

  The action was as swift as a shifting beam of sunlight, and the pedestrian went down without more than a brief second of struggle.

  Nelson straightened in his chair. The stalker was dressed in some outlandish costume—from where Nelson sat it looked like a black and white striped fur suit.

  Quickly Nelson cut the IBM machine at his elbow into synchronization with the video camera. It began its soft whirr.

  “Identify!” Nelson barked.

  The stalker stripped his victim and donned his clothes before he began to move away—in long graceful leaps on all fours!

  Nelson pushed back his chair and stood up. A fine sprinkling of perspiration dotted his forehead. Something unusual had happened—was happening—out there. This was no ordinary assault and battery. Impatiently he punched the IBM response button.

  “Insufficient data,” the machine coughed.

  “Stick with it,” Nelson said, forgetting in his abstraction that he was speaking redundantly. Also, he shouldn’t expect results yet. There wasn’t much more for the IBM to tabulate than the sight of a man—or an animal—running on all fours.

  In front of a cheap hotel the creature straightened and assumed the upright carriage of a man, and went in. Nelson switched to an inside-the-hotel camera and followed him as he went to the registration desk. He lost him on th
e first landing, but picked him up again as he entered a sleeping room. Another camera brought him inside the room.

  With his attention still on the screen, Nelson pushed a button of the intercom on his desk. When a voice in the box said, “Nightwatch,” he turned his head, but not his gaze. “A man’s been assaulted on Eight Street,” he said. “Near Cedar, about a hundred feet from the entrance to the Y. Send a pickup for him. Don’t waste time; he’s been stripped of his clothing. If he’s still alive, he’ll freeze quickly in this weather.”

  “I’ll have a car there in two minutes,” the voice in the intercom said. Meanwhile the man—if it was a man—in the hotel room casually pulled off his stolen greatcoat and trousers, and tossed them along with his hat on the floor. Nelson got his first good look at the man then. His body, and most of his head, was covered with the black and white striped fur. Natural fur—not a costume! His earlier suspicions had been correct then—definitely an extraterrestrial. And he had a good idea what the creature’s home world was. He punched the IBMT response button again.

  “Strong probability person is alien,” the machine intoned monotonously. “Apparent evidence indicates cat race of planet Paarae. Not conclusive however.”

  That was enough for Nelson. This might be the opportunity of a lifetime. If he could just swing it right. He switched on the intercom again and spoke urgently. “Get me police headquarters. Rush it.”

  As he waited Nelson switched the screen ahead of him to the police bureau, bringing it in just as the bored desk sergeant answered the phone.

  “This is Nelson, up at the RBC monitor building,” he told the sergeant. “A few minutes ago we tabbed an assault at Eighth and Cedar. We have a pickup on the way now. O.K., if we handle this ourselves?”

  The sergeant shrugged. “Why not? You spotted him. You still got the hood covered?”

  “Yes, but we’d like permission to assume jurisdiction.”

  The sergeant looked up, but Nelson knew he did not see him; the big screen was one-way. “You accept complete responsibility?”

  “Complete. Thanks. I’ll remember this.” Nelson cut the contact before the sergeant could hedge.

  Now to move with speed—and adroitness. As he turned to the intercom again the IBM said, “Preliminary evidence verified.” He had forgotten to shut off the machine. He did so now.

  It took him six minutes to contact Major Gower. He had been sleeping, naturally. Nelson knew he had to get his point across fast and well—or his big chance would be fumbled away. “Sorry to wake you, major,” he said, and went quickly ahead. “I think I spotted a cat man here in the city, sir.”

  “A cat man?” The major was still not fully awake.

  “Yes, sir. From the planet Paarae. This is an illegal entry. They’re a treacherous race—killers—and barred from all the Human worlds. I’ve already recorded him committing assault. Don’t know yet whether his victim is dead or not. I’ve sent out a pickup.”

  He had all Gower’s attention now. “You’re keeping him covered, of course,” Gower said. He reached for his trousers on the chair at the side of his bed.

  “Yes, sir. He’s holed up in a cheap hotel on Robert Street.” Now to make his own play. “This could be a mighty big thing for us, major. But we’ll have to go into high gear if we want to get the full play on it. Do I have your permission to push things along?”

  Gower brushed one hand impatiently through the air. “You’re in charge,” he stated. “What have you done so far? Call the police yet?”

  Nelson nodded. “That’s about all though. With your go-ahead I’ll put on the express at this end. I’d suggest that sponsors be contacted without delay. Every minute will be precious. This could be the hottest live feature we’ve ever had the luck to stumble across. The contract men should be able to get a sponsor’s right arm for an exclusive.”

  “I’ll handle it personally,” the major said. Nelson had to admire the sharpness of the man’s mind. He had grasped the complete picture, from just the few sentences they had exchanged. “You go ahead with the coverage,” the major added. “Give it the works; I’ll back you all the way.”

  He had it! Now to move in big-time style. Nelson paused and wiped the moist palms of his hands down the sides of his shirt. For just a passing moment his mind was blank. Was he big enough for the job? There were a hundred loose ends to be tied together. Where to begin? The uncertainty passed. He was in full command of himself, and of the situation.

  He leaned over and spoke into the intercom. “You get all that, Benny? I left the line open so you could listen in.”

  “I got it,” Benny answered. “Who do you want me to get hold of first?”

  “Everybody. Connect me with the heads of all departments. Open line.” Nelson spoke rapidly, ecstatically. This was playing the game. “I want you to get them on standby in fifteen minutes time. If you’re unable to contact any of the top men, get their seconds in charge, but have someone from every last department. Got it?”

  “I’ll try,” Benny said dubiously.

  “Don’t try, do it!” Nelson cut him off. While he waited he made a direct call to the Nightwatch crew. “You bring in that assault victim yet?”

  “He’s in the first-aid room in the basement now.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “Yes. Seems to be in pretty good shape. Except he’s over being scared now, and starting to act indignant.”

  “Settle with him. Promise to replace his clothes with the best suit and storm coat in St. Paul. And give him whatever you have to for ‘pain and suffering.’ Try to hold it down to a thousand or two—but get his signed release before you let him out of the building.”

  “Will do.”’

  Nelson paced the room impatiently, until summoned back to his desk by a call on the intercom. He glanced at his wrist watch. Seventeen minutes. Not half bad.

  “Got them all—on direct wire,” Benny said. “Holmgren of Personnel was out, but…”

  “Never mind that,” Nelson cut him off impatiently. He took a deep breath. “All you men, listen,” he said. “The major has put me in charge on this thing. We don’t have time for discussion. I’ll give you the situation, and the necessary details, of what’s happened so far. You note whatever applies to your own department. When I finish I want you to move, and move with top speed. If you do, we’ve got the world by the tail; if you don’t, we’ve got nothing.

  “Now here it is: About an hour ago we spotted a cat man from the planet Paarae attacking a pedestrian on Eighth, near Cedar. If you’re not up on your planetology, the cat men are killers. Barred from all the Human worlds, and most of the non-Human. I’ve got clearance from the police for an exclusive handling. We’re going to follow that cat—every single move he makes. Follow him when he eats, and when he sleeps, and even when he’s just breathing. Have your staffs collect all the background material they can find. Fill in with that background whenever it looks like the program’s beginning to drag a little. But keep it exciting. If that cat has the venom in his soul I think he has, we won’t have to fake much.”

  Nelson took time out to light a cigarette and pull in a deep drag. “I want you to locate his spaceship.” He let the smoke billow out with his words. “It has to be hidden somewhere near the Mississippi. Then when you find how he came in, and where he hid his ship, make a mock up. Use the enlarged-model technique, but make it look real. I know the critics will pan our pretending to have spotted him coming in, but who reads the critics? And the man in the lounge chair will eat it up. Carry on with shots of the cat leaving the ship—distant shots of a man in a black and white striped fur suit will cover that—and going up to the mouth of the alley on Eighth, between Cedar and Wabasha. You can cut in there with the film I have of the real thing. Right now the cat’s sleeping in a cheap hotel down on Robert Street. We can close in the time easily enough to make it a continuous run.

  “Now I want a top grade build-up on this. Play up strong the potentiality of violence: Assault, murder,
blood. Make it good. Start cutting in immediately—on whatever program’s running on the channel now—with tantalizers. Don’t tell them exactly what the feature will be. Let them use their imagination. Build up their curiosity, and impatience, for the start of the biggest—live—thrill show in the annals of video. Make ’em wait for it on the edges of their seats, then make ’em watch that cat man with their hearts in their mouths. Make them cringe even when he turns over in his sleep.

  “Oh yes. This denizen of Paarae is a mighty sharp individual. Don’t you, or any of your men, go anywhere near him. And warn the other services that we’ll sue them to within an inch of their lives if they spoil this by messing around. Black out the St. Paul-Minneapolis area for a hundred miles around. No, better make it two hundred. We don’t want the curious yokels flocking in here. Cancel all scheduled programs for an indefinite period.

  “That should do it. If there’s anything else you need to know, call me back personally. But be sure it’s necessary, because I won’t have a minute to spare doing your thinking for you.”

  Nelson switched off the intercom and sat back in his chair. His undershirt: was soaked with perspiration.

  He had ten minutes to get his breath back before the intercom came alive again. “Skipper? You still there?”

  Nelson bent forward. “Go ahead.”

  “This is Nightwatch. That assault victim’s name is John Bowman. We got him to settle for five hundred. O.K.?”

  “Fine. You get his signed release?”

  “Got it right here in my hand.”

  “Good work.”

  Nelson put his head on his arms and stretched forward on his desk. The tension was beginning to ease, and he felt the first letdown. His buzzer sounded just before he dropped off to sleep. “Yeah?” he said.

  “Survey,” the voice in the box came in. “We’re handling the search for the cat’s ship. We located an unaccounted-for something or other buzzing on the bottom of the Mississippi, about a block east of Lambert’s Landing. There’s a fresh break in the ice just above. That must be it. Do you want us to send a diver down to make sure?”