The 19th Golden Age of Science Fiction

by Charles V. De Vet

  A primitive cunning impelled him to seek a position of observation; one where he would be called upon to do a minimum of adjusting.

  He was passing a building with great frames of transparent material forming much of its front. Another meaningless sign read: Bachelor’s Club-Hotel. Within sat creatures dressed like himself and with the same pale flesh coloring. He went inside and sat in a grooved object which stood in a row of its kind facing the outside. He saw that one of the creatures rested his head against the back of the object in which he sat and with his eyes closed. None of the others paid any attention to him, while they did pay attention to each other. He rested his head hack also and closed his eyes.

  Eagerly he listened to the conversation about him and let each word make its impression on his united brain. Each added its mite of wider and deeper concepts.

  He did not realize what a magnificent job of assimilation his mind was doing—he had no means of comparison—but at the end of two hours he could understand much of what was being said, and he could have carried on a limited conversation, if necessary.

  An inborn caution warned him to accept only as much contact with these creatures as was absolutely necessary at this stage of the course of events. To him it was still a strange adventure—a very strange adventure!

  Inside his coat pocket—by now he understood about the garments he wore, though he was still not certain of their purpose—he found a leather wallet. Inside was a white card, lettered in black. He read the name printed there: ROBERT GRAVES. Underneath was the notation 1212 Aukland Road. He surmised that this connoted his place of residence. The name he presumed was his own.

  That gave him a destination—something definite to work toward. He could not correlate the letters with the sounds of words he had heard, but he should be able to recognize the street and the numbers by comparison.

  Carefully he planned his next actions, taking advantage of everything he had learned that would help him. When he had given his plan the best application of thought of which he was capable he left the hotel.

  Each street, he found, bore rectangular marking plates supported by a metal pole. The sixth marker was lettered AUKLAND RD. He followed one way, studying closely the numbers on each building. Within a relatively short time he had figured out the pattern of the numbering system. Ten units to a group. He glanced at his hands. Ten digits. He did not know how he arrived at the reciprocal relation of the two, but it was a logical surmise.

  Before leaving the hotel he had decided on one intermediate step that must be taken before he reached 1212 Aukland. He had almost passed the place he sought before he recognized it.

  Three of the pale-skinned creatures stood inside the bookshop examining bound tablets of thin-sheeted substance. Several of the tablets were on display in the window. He went inside and found the tablets to be called books. He picked one at random and leafed through it as he saw others doing. No one paid any attention to him.

  Within a short time he found what he sought. Now to attempt a transaction. This might be difficult. What were the steps necessary to secure ownership of the object? Did he posess anything of commensurate value with which to barter? Did they have a medium of exchange?

  One of the creatures carried a book to a counter and deposited a metal disc in front of a second creature standing behind the counter. A smaller one was given in exchange and the purchaser walked out of the building with his book under his arm.

  With luck he could duplicate the procedure. He walked to the table. He knew that he had several of the metal discs in his pocket. He placed them all on the table. The clerk selected five of them and shoved the remainder back. He put the change into his pocket and left with his book.

  1212 Aukland was small and bore signs of deterioration. He found what must be its place of ingress and experimented with a round hard knob that protruded from it. He turned the knob and the door opened readily. Inside he found another door. Metal this time. There was the print of a hand in the metal. He placed his own hand in the print and the second door opened.

  He stepped inside and found himself in a completely metal room. The room did not follow the outside contours of the building. Instantly he deducted that the wooden structure had been superimposed over the metal. Thus he stood in what must be a hollow machine.

  In a corner of the room he saw one of the objects similar to that in which he had sat in the hotel. Wearily he let his body slump into it. Haven! Perhaps temporary, but at least it gave him some time to plan his future actions. He had not realized how desperately tired he was. He had been under an exhausting strain for a long time. He was grateful now for the release this retreat offered him. But before he allowed himself to rest he must make certain that there was nothing here to harm him while he was unguarded.

  He rose and walked about the room. There was another chair—he defined it with one of the word pictures in his mind—slighter in structure than the others he had seen, but obviously of the same functional purpose. A desk somewhat like the counter in the bookstore. A square metal box rested on the desk. On the top of the box was a series of lettering. The first letters were ROBERT GRAVES. For a time this held his curiosity, but he shrugged. He-would come back to it after he had had the opportunity to study his book.

  Inside a drawer in the desk he found a bundle of slips of paper, darkly colored and engraved. The number 100 was printed on each corner.

  A long fabric-covered frame stood against the far wall. He assumed it to be a place for reclining. He tested it gingerly. It yielded luxuriously to the contours of his body. Satisfied for the present, he closed his eyes and slept.

  Robert Graves—he now associated the name-picture with himself—awoke abruptly. He was aware of a feeling of discomfort, almost of pain. After a moment he localized the source of the discomfort in his stomach. Although he had no recollection of ever having eaten he knew that he was hungry. Resolutely he subjugated the feeling to his more immediate necessity.

  He rose, walked to the desk and, after giving the metal object a brief glance, picked up his book and sat in the larger of the room’s two chairs.

  At first he had difficulty with the book. He read the word-picture on its front: DICTIONARY. Inside he studied the printed characters until he determined their system. It consisted of twenty-six alphabetic symbols. He gave each a picture-name. With their help, and a cognitive correlation between them and the words he had learned verbally by listening to the men in the hotel, he began slowly to grasp their meaning. Soon he went so far as to associate the verbal pronunciations with the printed word. Then, as quick as the thought was born, he substituted their sounds for his word-pictures.

  Once again he was not aware of the magnitude of his intellectual performance. He had no way of knowing if his achievement was either above or below the norm of capabilities of the creatures on the outside.

  He did not know either that his ability to read by encompassing and assimilating as many as forty words at a glance was unusual. Nor that his memory was eidetic.

  However, he did have a calm feeling of satisfaction about himself. The sentiment was not egotistical.

  He had none of the pride of possessing virtues which he had nothing to do with acquiring: His was not a self-esteem arising from his size, his strength, or his appearance. Rather it was an objective appreciation. Originally, knowing nothing about himself, he had no slightest perception of his make-up other than the superficial ones of physical attributes.

  In the back of his mind he had feared that he would find himself mediocre—when he must be capable and competent. He had hesitated to reflect on his plight if he should find himself stupid, illogical, subject to panic. His reactions had gratifyingly proved otherwise. He had evidenced a remarkable facility for properly sizing up his circumstances and for coping with them with the best powers at his command. He sensed now that he had been as methodical and thorough as necessary; yet that his mind had worked with celerity and an ability, which was probably unique, to select the correct action
and course of actions from the data at hand.

  At the end of three hours he was half-way through the dictionary and the discomfort in his stomach had become an anguished demand.

  A short block from the metal room Robert found the eating place he sought. He had no trouble ordering. Or eating. His hands manipulated the implements, as he saw the other diners do, with no difficulty.

  When he paid for his meal with some of the few remaining coins in his pocket he noticed neat rows of confectionary on the counter. He bought a package of five thin, double-wrapped wafers. He unwrapped one and put it into his mouth. It was sweet to the taste but when he chewed it, it refused to be masticated or dissolved by the digestive juices. He knew that it would be indigestible. He spat it out. He wondered about its purpose.

  S Robert was about to enter the metal room he saw a brown skinned man driving past in a cart drawn by two oxen.

  Back in his room he returned to work on the dictionary. When he had finished he was ready for his next step.

  Pulling the smaller of the two chairs to the desk, he sat on it and read the inscription printed on the boxlike object. He read:

  ROBERT GRAVES. You may ask me any questions you wish. Just be certain that each question is pertinent to your circumstances or that the answer is very important to you. The number that you may ask is limited, and if wasted may leave you without information vital to your continued existence.

  This then was it. The moment for which he had prayed. But now he found that he was strangely reluctant to learn about himself. Would he be happy knowing who or what he was? There was no doubt but that he had been placed in the present circumstances by the premeditated actions of some person or group of persons. What had been their purpose? What was his mission? And would he be adequate to the handling of it? Whatever he was, he knew one thing: His life was precious to him. He did not want to die. Yet the last sentence on the box had been filled with menace to himself. He sighed as he let his shoulders relax and faced the box.

  There were no visible buttons, switches, or methods of control. There seemed nothing for him to do except ask his questions. There was no uncertainty as to what the first question must be.

  “Who am I?” he asked.

  From within the box a voice spoke, clearly, crisply.

  “You are Shon Kage, a native of the world Dohmet.”

  That told him nothing.

  “Where is the world Dohmet?”

  “It is contiguous to the planet you now inhabit. It is not apparent to you because it occupies a dimension ordinarily inaccessible from that sphere of existence.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “You are an operative, sent by us to track down and kill the Beast, a pathological criminal who escaped us by fleeing to your present world.”

  Finally he knew. But he must have more information or the problem would be impossible of solution.

  “Who is the Beast?”

  “What form he has taken there we cannot know, as matter form can be changed when the passage between worlds is made—as you have been changed. We can only assume that he will be found in the guise of the dominant species on that world. Otherwise, his freedom of choice and action would, of course, be very restricted.”

  “How will I know him when I find him?”

  “Again we cannot be certain. Most of the burden of solving that must devolve on you. We can only offer clues, most of which will probably be useless to you. First, he is a killer. Before we tracked him down on our own world he had decimated our three billion population. However, though he must be killed, your mission is not punitive. We have sent you to prevent his actions bringing chaos to the sphere into which he fled. One caution we can give you. Do not look for anything readily apparent. His methods will be insidious.

  “Second,” the voice went on, while Graves wondered if the box was a reasoning device, “the Machine you now occupy was sent from our world to yours. It has several unique properties. For one thing it is set to the Beast’s life-pulse emanations and will always be found in close proximity—never more than five miles, as distance is measured where you are stationed. That will narrow your search. In addition the Machine has an attraction for you. Wherever it goes you will be able to follow.”

  “I understand,” Robert said. “Am I speaking directly to someone on my own world?”

  “Yes. We sent this communication device through with the Machine this last trip. However, its capacity for communication is limited by the fact that it was necessary for us to maintain a delicately molecular balance in the Machine when it was sent.”

  “Will it be possible for me to return?”

  “Yes. In the wall above your desk is a button.” Robert verified the statement. “When your mission is completed press it and the Machine will do the rest.”

  “How did it happen that I arrived here with no past memory, and yet why do I feel as though I have lived this kind of life before?”

  There was a pause. “The answer to that is not necessary to your quest. Do you wish to use valuable tape to find out?”

  For the first time he realized the tremendous force his emotions exerted. He fully acknowledged the logic of the recorder’s precaution yet he answered, “Yes.”

  “Very well. How the Beast obtained entry there we do not know. He may have arrived in full command of all his faculties. We, however, could only send you through in such a way that your brain was wiped completely clean of all past memories. We do not believe that it was injured in any way. During past years we have been successful in making brief sketchy contacts with the world you are now in. We learned one language, some of its customs, and the body form of its people. When we discovered where the Beast had escaped to, we trained operatives in the use of this language and customs.

  “As our worlds are in different time continuums no time necessarily passes in your world while it is passing here, and vice versa. Therefore, we were able to train our operatives for years, until the language and actions you are now using became second nature to their organisms—trained into their very muscles and nervous systems—without losing any time there in finding the Beast. That is why your innate essence responds so readily to what you are learning there. I must warn you now that your tape has nearly run out. You have probably one more question. Two at the most.”

  The words hit like a blow. He knew he should weigh heavily his next question, that it must be vital. They would not be able even to warn him again. But once again his emotions dominated him. He must have the answer to this question.

  “Am I alone?”

  “Six operatives have been sent before you—in, and attuned to your present Machine. Your individual box, of course, was sent separately. Had the agents been successful they would have returned—instantly, due to the differences in our time continuums. But they have not returned. You are the last we will be able to send. Unless you are successful…”

  The voice died, as though the speaker realized that he might be wasting valuable tape.

  Graves bent forward, his face etched with frantic urgency. “How will I recognize them?”

  “They will…” The voice died with a soft whir.

  Graves grabbed the box, pounded it, and raised it to throw to the floor before reason again asserted itself. Then he sagged back into his chair. Alone!

  * * * *

  Robert slept once more. Before he left the Machine a second time he took the sheaf of green papers from the desk drawer. He knew now, from his study of the dictionary that they were large units of money. He counted them. Exactly twenty. A total of two thousand pounds—British denomination. This was evidently a large sum of money and should serve his purpose for some time.

  He stepped outside. The cart driver and the oxen were still there. They had made no apparent progress since he entered. This struck him as odd, but he dismissed it from his mind after a moment’s puzzled thought.

  At his former eating place he found the same table, which he had occupied before, empty. He sat down. His waiter retur
ned. There was a confused expression on his face as he took Robert’s order. Robert remembered seeing the same man occupying the table next to him; eating the same food. He recognized other faces. Suddenly a permeating perplexity burst into acknowledged certainty. No time had passed on the outside while he had been in the Machine! That accounted for the same occupants of the eating place, for the puzzlement of his waiter, and for the driver of the oxen having made no progress while he was inside. Evidently the time continuum inside the Machine was still tied to that of Dohmet.

  * * * *

  When Robert opened the door of 1212 Aukland to enter the building, he experienced yet another excitation of his still unstable sensibilities. There was no inner-metal-door. The building was an empty husk. The Machine was gone!

  He knew what must have happened. The Beast had left the city!

  The voice in the box had assured him that he would be aware of the location of the Machine at all times.

  But he felt nothing.

  He walked while he waited for some indication of the Machine’s whereabouts. If he knew how recognition would come it would be easier.

  When darkness fell and no sign came he began to worry.

  He wondered if perhaps his mind was too keyed up to recognize the manifestation when it came. Perhaps it would come to him while he slept. He returned to the Bachelor’s Club he had entered when he first appeared in the city. By now he needed rest as well.

  The clerk hesitated when he preferred a hundred-pound note, but accepted it. By the next morning he still had received no communication from the Machine but he had arrived at a clear-cut decision. He was obviously a resourceful man, he thought, or he would not have been sent on such a vital mission. They had expected him to solve this in his own way. And now he knew how it must be done.

  A short study of the telephone directory in his room taught him how to use it. He called the operator and asked for information. He explained that he had to leave town and asked the best means of traveling. She suggested that he try the airlines. At his request she connected him with the airlines office. He was fortunate the first try. A plane had left the day before, during the hour between his leaving the Machine and returning. Its destination was New York.