The 19th Golden Age of Science Fiction

by Charles V. De Vet

  He made a reservation on another plane leaving that same afternoon. Double-checking for certainty, he called steamship offices and railroads and was assured that none had departed during the crucial hour the day before.

  On the plane the hostess treated him with a friendliness which he was certain was more than professional courtesy. He felt a pleasant discomfort when she was pleasant. To his mild surprise he recognized, for the first time, that she was a member of the opposite sex. His queer perturbation was merely his glands functioning in response to her presence.

  His curiosity aroused, he looked around him. Another woman, hardly more than a girl, sat in the seat across the aisle from him. She was dark-haired with honey-colored skin. For some reason she was strangely interesting. He studied her every feature: Her blue moody eyes, her red lips, and the thin-flared nostrils which gave her features a classic profile. Through it all he felt a vitality and strength of personality. Beside her the hostess looked almost plain. He knew that she must be very beautiful. She looked up and met his observing gaze.

  Unexpectedly a mood of gray obsession crept over him. Like a disinterested spectator he observed it, and wondered about its cause. Then he knew. The look she gave him was cool, completely disinterested. It told him more plainly than anything else could have done that he was not one of these people. He never would be. Perhaps his form, as it had been on Dohmet, would be freakish to them. Very probably he was still a freak among them, with merely the outer semblances of their humanity.

  Would he ever be able to return? If forced to remain here would there be a place for him? Was there any possibility of biological cooperation with the sex he now observed? Or must he walk among them, unloved and unwanted, an important misfit?

  Unexpectedly Robert felt that the man in the seat beside him was sad! Wonderingly he looked at the man. Some sense within himself, unapparent but as real and sharp as vision itself, was operating. There had been no sudden “ping” of discovery, rather it was like looking through a window which he had not noticed before.

  Robert looked at a passenger sitting in front of him. Here he read a bottled-up frustration. A third man exuded fear. Startled, he read hate, with the intention to do someone great bodily harm, in the mind of another passenger.

  He looked at the hostess. She was still watching him and gave him a calculated smile. He read her sexual interest. He sensed also that her emotional preferences were rather promiscuous.

  With awakened interest he looked at the girl to his right until she returned the look. Her emotions were quiet, subdued, with none strong enough to gain precedence. Her interest in him was not great. Disappointed he looked away.

  “I have to connect with a plane to Minneapolis at New York,” his seat partner said.

  This time Robert was not surprised when he heard the name Minneapolis, and he knew, without the slightest doubt, where the Machine was located. Within his mind some soundless ticking, like a buried pocketpiece, was en rapport with the Machine itself.

  “I am going to Minneapolis too,” he answered.

  At the Minneapolis depot Robert hailed a taxi. Instantly he sensed that there was something about the driver that was odd. After a short pause he found that the strangeness was in the man’s eyes. They were predominantly brown but blotches of green stained their pigment. And they seemed to glare with the easy hate of a wild animal. Quickly Robert read the man’s emotions. He found them very commonplace.

  He climbed into the cab. “Drive south,” he said. He sat back and listened to the ticking in his mind that spotted the Machine. It was so clear now, that he knew the exact location of the Machine, its distance, and knew also that he would be instantly aware of any movement it might make. It would not even be necessary for him to go to it until ready.

  Thirty-three blocks later he leaned forward. “Turn east at the next corner,” he told the driver.

  When he came in sight of the Mississippi River he paid his fare and alighted. He knew that he was very near to the Machine now—and also to the Beast!

  From some deep source within him he was conscious of a motion of excitement and was amazed at the pleasure he felt now that the conflict would soon be joined. He knew then that he had a vein of savage ruthlessness running through him. He must bridle it with caution.

  Across the street he read: BACHELOR’S CLUB, Resident Hotel The coincidence between the name and that of the hotel in Calcutta struck him as a good omen. He decided to stay there. He walked inside and registered. He took a short nap, and rose with the first shadows of night.

  Now the search began. Somewhere here lurked the Beast! And he must be found.

  While he ate in the Club’s lunchroom Robert observed his companions closely, using his new-found supersensory faculty. All the diners were of the male sex to which the hotel catered. The servants and kitchen help were female. Robert’s waitress smiled at him. By now he knew, without caring, that he was attractive to women. Oddly he read hate, in various stages, in most of the men around him.

  After lunch he went down into the game room. There were several men here, most of them playing at the billiard or ping pong tables. Almost without exception they gave off their subtle efflux of hate. He must find out more about that.

  Robert decided to strike up an acquaintance and see if he could learn the reason for that hate. But he must be discreet. A young man sitting alone in one of the elevated chairs overlooking a billiard table radiated a friendly disposition. There was also a strong suggestion of personal vanity. Robert decided to speak to him. He walked over to the young man and sat down in the next chair.

  “Pardon me,” Robert said, “my name’s Robert Graves. I’m a stranger here.”

  The young man turned. He showed large teeth in a sardonic but friendly smile. “Welcome to the last citadel of the embattled male,” he greeted, extending his hand. “My name’s Jacobson. Phil, but most everybody calls me Jakie. Are you divorced, or did you learn wisdom before you were trapped?” He laughed depreciatingly.

  Robert smiled back. He liked the man. “How do you mean?”

  “Didn’t you know? We’re all women haters here.”

  “Not actually?”

  “Seriously, most of our members are pretty sincere about it,” Jacobson replied. He watched one of the players methodically make three billiards in a row. “The club was started not too long ago and the owner rather fatuously gave it the name, Bachelor’s Club. Strangely, however, most of his clientele are deadly serious about it. They have pretty bitter feelings about women.”

  “How about yourself?” Robert was really interested now.

  Jacobson laughed his easy laugh. “I’m afraid I’m as bad as the rest. Maybe worse. You see, I’m the owner of the Club. If you have a few minutes to spare some time, drop into my room. I’ll give you a few facts about the so-called fair sex that will open your eyes.”

  * * * *

  The next day Robert bought a small compact hand weapon—an automatic pistol, it was called. For two davs he walked the streets making a hasty study of each pedestrian he met. In the evenings he studied the members of the Club. He suspected that this method might prove inadequate: The Beast probably would have his emotions well under control, and his crafty powers of simulation would be too cunning to be easily penetrated. But he had to start somewhere and, at least, he knew the Beast could not be far away. He intended gradually to widen his circle of investigation.

  Robert hoped that the Beast would have something about him that would set him apart from the natives. Maybe his pattern of emotions would be different. Maybe he would show no emotions, and thus he easily detected. Robert hoped desperately for some such break.

  In his spare time he studied the newspapers closely. He was a frequent visitor at the police station, investigating each criminal brought in who had committed a crime within a five-mile radius of the Club.

  On the second day out he walked into a restaurant and stopped in pleased surprise. Alone at one of the tables sat the girl he had observed on
the plane.

  She looked up and saw him. She smiled in recognition. He walked over to her table.

  “Aren’t you the passenger who sat across the aisle from me on the plane from India?” she asked.

  “I was hoping you’d remember me,” Robert answered.

  “Won’t you sit down?” she invited.

  “Thank you.” He sat down. “I’m Robert Graves.”

  “And I’m Alberta Thompson.” There was the friendly camaraderie about her that slight acquaintances, meeting in a new environment, always exhibited toward each other; he could feel warm friendship in her now. “Did you live in India?” she asked.

  He thought quickly. “I was just returning from a sight-seeing trip,” he lied.

  “Oh,” she readily accepted the explanation. “I was nursing at the Calcutta Memorial Hospital. I’m working for Tonneywell Manufacturing now. Still a nurse.”

  Something made Robert look up. An old man with a gray mustache was standing looking at them. The hate that flowed from him was almost tangible.

  Instantly the question rose to Robert’s mind. Could this be the Beast? The feeling died. The man’s hate was directed at Alberta. Other than the hate his only dominant trait seemed a marked nervous stupidity.

  * * * *

  That evening, while sitting with Jacobson in the latter’s club, Robert saw the mustached man again. There was a black streak in the old man.

  “Who is that fellow, Jakie?” Robert asked.

  “One of our charter members,” said Jacobson. “Name’s Schultz. Been paying alimony through the nose for years now.” That accounted for the old man’s sour disposition.

  Jacobson seemed to know, and be friendly with, everyone. He was definitely the gregarious type.

  “See that pool player over there,” Jacobson said, “the one with a face like a new-born baby? That’s Baldie Brown, another of our pioneers.”

  Something about Brown fascinated Robert. His emotions were very unstable. And they ranged from high elation when he ‘sunk a shot’, to deep despair when the game went against him. Robert wondered if this was caused by an intoxicant.

  * * * *

  The sixth day Robert stood in front of the Tonneywell Manufacturing company studying the workers as they streamed out. His inspection revealed nothing out of the ordinary until a large man wearing a covert-cloth topcoat stepped out of the building. The wanton maliciousness he read in the man’s emotions sickened him. Greed, avarice, and selfishness rode him heavily like a malignant mantle. This was the way Robert had imagined the Beast would appear. He decided to investigate this lead immediately.

  The man stepped into a long green automobile and drove off.

  Robert briefly noted the license number.

  He decided that he needed help for the routine parts of his search. He couldn’t let himself waste any valuable time on such checking.

  In the city directory he found what he wanted.

  He walked three blocks up Lake Street and entered a two-story, red brick building. On the second floor he found the number he sought. The glass pane in the door bore the simple notation: ROBERT HILL.

  Nothing else.

  Inside he found a slim wiry man of average height sitting at a desk reading a magazine.

  “Mr. Hill?” Robert asked. The figure at the desk nodded. He put down his magazine. Swiftly Robert surveyed him. He liked what he saw there: Honesty, intelligence, no undue neurotic stress, and only minor emotional strife—having to do with insufficient money to satisfy the needs or wants of himself and his family. “My name is Robert Graves.”

  Hill extended his hand. “What can I do for you?”

  “From time to time I’ll need your services,” Robert said. “The work will be simple investigation, but its nature must be highly confidential. I will pay you one hundred dollars now,” he laid the money on the desk, “and you may bill me for any additional fees, or expenses. Agreed?”

  Hill nodded again. He was not a very talkative man. This, also, Graves liked.

  “First,” Robert said. “I want you to find the owner of a car bearing the license number 178-235. Get me all the information you can about him.”

  “Minnesota license?” Hill asked.

  “Yes.”

  * * * *

  By the end of the first week in Minneapolis Robert had added few definite suspects to his lists. However, every slightest action of each person he met was neatly annotated and classified in his memory. Someday, he hoped, the actions of some one of them would slip together into a neat pattern and he would have tracked down the Beast. When that time came he would be prepared to strike without mercy.

  The seventh night he took Alberta to a movie. It was only their second date but they walked to her home hand in hand. Already they were silent when together with that silence of understanding. He knew that she liked him more each time they met. He knew also that he loved her. And that he was being very foolish. This was a diversion from the job ahead of him and he had no right to let himself be diverted—by anything. Furthermore, he would have to leave her as soon as he was successful.

  And—his old gray obsession returned while he was the happiest he had ever been on this world—maybe I’m a freak to her, he thought.

  When he left Alberta that night his animal tissues demanded action to dispel the frustration in his mind. He decided to find the Machine. He might need it at anytime.

  Already he had a fairly good idea of its location.

  He walked to the bank of the Mississippi. The rock cliffs were steep but he had found a path the third day he arrived. Now he followed the path down under the Lake Street bridge. The night was dark but by the faint light that reached him from the bridge lamps he could see the giant cement abutments out in the river.

  A five-foot iron sewer-pipe burrowed back into the rock. He had come this far the third day but two youngsters standing at the mouth of the pipe, hallooing into it and listening to the reverberations of their voices, had made him decide to return at night. He knew he was very near.

  Forty yards farther a side path branched upward. He followed it to a wide rock ledge. Grass and shrubs grew on the top of the ledge. It was a very lonely place this late at night. Somewhere on the bank above a dog kept up a steady barking. Unhesitatingly Robert walked through the high shrubs toward the cliff. He bent his body forward and walked into a natural cave. When he had left the last dim vestiges of light he felt along the walls with his hands.

  The wall beneath his hand rounded and became smooth. He had arrived! He groped his way to the door and fitted his hand into the print. The door opened and a lance of light gashed the darkness. Briefly he wondered at the source of the light. He hadn’t paid attention to it before because he had been there in the daylight, but the Machine had no windows, and no openings other than the door. He stepped inside.

  Cursorily he examined the room.

  Everything appeared as he had left it. The communication box was still on the desk.

  “What do I do now?” he asked the box. He did not expect an answer. Therefore he was not disappointed when none came.

  Unexpectedly he realized that he was very tired. This, he reasoned, was because he had returned to his haven; the one place where he could relax the tense virility of his mind and feel very safe. In here reality paused.

  He lay on the couch. Just as he was about to fall asleep a passage from one of the few books he had read since coming to this world drifted in front of his memory’s eye.

  The book had been written by a man named Bertrand Russell.

  My own belief is that a conscious thought can be planted in the unconscious if a sufficient amount of vigor and intensity is put into it.

  I have found for example, that if I have to write upon some rather difficult topic, the best plan is to think about it with very great intensity—the greatest intensity of which I am capable—for a few hours or days, and at the end of that time give orders, so to speak, that the work is to proceed under ground. After some time I r
eturn to the topic, consciously, and find that the work has been done.

  Lord knows I’ve given this matter enough intense thought, he smiled as he dropped off to sleep.

  When he awoke he had the answer to part of his problem. Somewhere, sometime—since he had come to this city—he was certain that he had made contact with the Beast!

  * * * *

  Back in the Club Robert found a message waiting for him. It was from Hill asking him to call. He stepped into a booth and telephoned.

  “Hill speaking,” the voice said.

  “This is Graves.”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Graves. Your man’s name is Adam Johnson. He’s the executive manager of Tonneywell. He holds several other important offices: Director of the First Bank; Regent of the University, and such. Do you want me to enumerate them?”

  “No. What is his social background?”

  “He’s married. Father of two children. Both boys. He was born in Minneapolis, and lived here all his life.”

  “Is there any record of his ever having been in India?”

  “None that I found. Do you want me to investigate that angle more thoroughly?”

  “Yes, and call me back as soon as you have definite information.”

  * * * *

  Against his better judgment Robert continued seeing Alberta. He was certain now that she loved him. Especially after an incident that happened while they were walking along the Mississippi bank.

  He had been looking at an ore boat in the river when some hyper-rational faculty of his intricate nervous system sounded an urgent alarm. He turned just in time to grab Alberta as she fell toward him. Her shoulder had been about to hit him in the back. The blow would have certainly knocked him over the bank and onto the rocks a hundred feet below. She would probably have fallen with him.

  As he held her in his arms she sobbed brokenly. “Oh, Robert, I might have killed you!” she cried. “I might have killed you! I stumbled on a stone.”