“Perhaps. I am not in fear. Will he receive it?”
“It will be considered.”
The Glaroon continued with orders: “Leave structures standing until adjournment. New York City and Harvard University are now dismantled. Divert him from those sectors. Move!”
We were talking about writers with pulp backgrounds a few pages ago. Here is another, James Blish, who learned his trade in the pulps of the forties, mastered all its tricks, then put them to use in totally unexpected ways. “Mistake Inside” reads exactly like a rather standard, entertaining story of time travel or alternate worlds, familiar gambits in science fiction; but be warned—it is nothing of the kind.
James Blish
MISTAKE INSIDE
This was England, two hundred years before bomb craters had become a fixed feature of the English landscape, and while the coffee house still had precedence over the pub. The fire roared, and the smoke from long clay church-warden pipes made a blue haze through which cheerful conversation struggled.
The door swung back, and the host stood in the opening, fat hands on hips, surveying the scene contentedly. Someone, invisible in the fog, drank a slurred uproarious toast, and a glass slammed into the fireplace, where the brandy-coated fragments made a myriad of small blue flames.
“Split me if that goes not in the reckoning!” the innkeeper bellowed. A ragged chorus of derision answered him. The inn cat shot down the stairs behind him, and its shadow glided briefly over the room as it passed the fire. It was an impossibly large, dark shadow, and for a moment it blacked out several of the booths in the rear of the chamber; the close, motionless air seemed to take on a chill. Then it was gone, and the cat, apparently annoyed by the noise, vanished into the depths of a heavy chair.
The host forgot about it. He was accustomed to its sedentary tastes. It often got sat on in the after-theater hilarity. He rolled good-naturedly across the room as someone pounded on a table for him.
But the cat, this time, had not merely burrowed into the cushions. It was gone. In the chair, in a curiously transparent condition which made him nearly invisible in the uncertain light, sat a dazed, tired figure in a Twentieth-Century tux…
The radio was playing a melancholy opus called “Is You Is or Is You Ain’t My Baby” as the cab turned the corner. “Here you are, sir,” croaked the driver in his 3:00 A.M. voice.
The sleepy-eyed passenger’s own voice was a little unreliable. “How much?”
The fare was paid and the cabby wearily watched his erstwhile customer go up the snow-covered walk between the hedges. He put the car in gear. Then he gaped and let the clutch up. The engine died with a reproachful gasp.
The late rider had staggered suddenly sidewise toward the bushes-had he been that drunk? Of course, he had only tripped and fallen out of sight; the cabby’s fleeting notion that he had melted into the air was an illusion, brought on by the unchristian lateness of the hour. Nevertheless the tracks in the snow did stop rather unaccountably. The cabby swore, started his engine, and drove away, as cautiously as he had ever driven in his life.
Behind him, from the high trees in the yard, a cat released a lonely ululation on the cold, still night.
The stage was set…
There is order in all confusions; but Dr. Hugh Tracy, astronomer, knew nothing of the two events recorded above when his adventure began, so he could make no attempt at integrating them. Indeed, he was in confusion enough without dragging in any stray cats. One minute he had been charging at the door of Jeremy Wright’s apartment, an automatic in his hand and blind rage in his heart. As his shoulder had splintered the panel, the world had revolved once around him, like a scene-changing stunt in the movies.
The scene had changed, all right. He was not standing in Jeremy Wright’s apartment at all, but in a low-roofed, dirt-floored room built of crudely shaped logs, furnished only with two antique chairs and a rickety table from which two startled men were arising. The two were dressed in leathern jerkins of a type fashionable in the early 1700’s.
“I—I beg your pardon,” he volunteered lamely. “I must have mixed the apartments up.” He did not turn to go immediately, however, for as he thought disgustedly concerning the lengths to which some people will go to secure atmosphere, he noticed the dirty mullioned window across the room. The sight gave him a fresh turn. He might just possibly have mistaken the number of Jeremy Wright’s apartment, but certainly he hadn’t imagined running up several flights of stairs! Yet beyond the window he could see plainly a cheerful sunlit street.
Sunlit. The small fact that it had been 3: 00 A.M. just a minute before did not help his state of mind.
“Might I ask what you’re doing breaking out of my room in this fashion?” one of the queerly-costumed men demanded, glaring at Hugh. The other, a younger man, waved his hand indulgently at his friend and sat down again. “Relax, Jonathan,” he said. “Can’t you see he’s a transportee?”
The older man stared more closely at the befuddled Dr. Tracy. “So it is,” he said. “I swear, since Yero came to power again this country has been the dumping ground of half the universe. Wherever do they get such queer clothes, do you suppose?”
“Come on in,” invited the other. “Tell us your story.” He winked knowingly at Jonathan, and Hugh decided he did not like him.
“First,” he said, “would you mind telling me something about that window?”
The two turned to follow his pointed finger. “Why, it’s just an ordinary window, in that it shows what’s beyond it,” said the young man. “Why?”
“I wish I knew,” Hugh groaned, closing his eyes and trying to remember a few childhood prayers. The only one that came to mind was something about fourteen angels which hardly fitted the situation. After a moment he looked again, this time behind him. As he had suspected, the broken door did not lead back into the hallway of the apartment building, but into a small bedchamber of decidedly pre-Restoration cast.
“Take it easy,” advised Jonathan. “It’s hard to get used to at first. And put that thing away—it’s a weapon of some kind, I suppose. The last transportee had one that spouted a streamer of purple gas. He was a very pleasant customer. What do you shoot?”
“Metal slugs,” said Hugh, feeling faintly hysterical. “Where am I, anyhow?”
“Outside.”
“Outside what?”
“That’s the name of the country,” the man explained patiently. “My name, by the way, is Jonathan Bell, and this gentleman is Oliver Martin.”
“Hugh Tracy. Ph.D., F.R.A.S.,” he added automatically. “So now I’m inside Outside, eh? How far am I from New York? I’m all mixed up.”
“New York!” exclaimed Martin. “That’s a new one. The last one said he was from Tir-nam-beo, At least I’d heard of that before. How did you get here, Tracy?”
“Suddenly,” Tracy said succinctly. “One minute I was bashing at the door of Jeremy Wright’s apartment, all set to shoot him and get my wife out of there; and then blooey!”
“Know this Wright fellow very well, or anything about him?”
“No, I’ve seen him once or twice, that’s all. But I know Evelyn’s been going to his place quite regularly while I was at the observatory.”
Bell pulled a folded and badly soiled bit of paper from his breast pocket, smoothed it out on the splintery table top, and passed it to Hugh. “Look anything like this?” he asked.
“That’s him! How’d you get this? Is he here somewhere?”
Bell and Martin both smiled. “It never fails,” the younger man commented. “That’s Yero, the ruler of this country during fall seasons. He just assumed power again three months ago. That picture comes off the town bulletin board, from a poster announcing his approaching marriage.”
“Look,” Hugh said desperately. “It isn’t as if I didn’t like your country, but I’d like to get back to my own. Isn’t there some way I can manage it?”
“Sorry,” Martin said. “We can’t help you there. I suppose the best thing
for you to do is to consult some licensed astrologer or thaumaturgist; he can tell you what to do. There are quite a few good magicians in this town—they all wind up here eventually—and one of them ought to be able to shoot you back where you belong.”
“I don’t put any stock in that humbug. I’m an astronomer.”
“Not responsible for your superstitions. You asked for my advice, and I gave it.”
“Astrologers!” Hugh groaned. “Oh, my lord!”
“However,” Martin continued, “you can stay here with us for the time being. If you’re an enemy of Yero, you’re a friend of ours.”
Hugh scratched his head. The mental picture of himself asking an astrologer for guidance did not please him.
“I suppose I’ll have to make the best of this,” he said finally. “Nothing like this ever happened to me before, or to anybody I’ve ever heard of, so I guess I’m more or less sane. Thanks for the lodging offer. Right now I’d like to go hunt up—ulp—a magician.”
Bell smiled. “All right,” he said, “if you get lost in the city, just ask around. They’re friendly folk, and more of “em than you think have been in your spot. Most of the shopkeepers know Bell’s place. After you’ve wandered about a bit you’ll get the layout better. Then we can discuss further plans.”
Hugh wondered what kind of plans they were supposed to discuss, but he was too anxious to discover the nature of the place into which he had fallen to discuss the question further.
Bell led him down a rather smelly hallway to another door, and in a moment he found himself surveying the street.
It was all incredibly confusing. The language the two had spoken was certainly modern English, yet the busy, narrow thoroughfare was just as certainly Elizabethan in design. The houses all had overhanging second stories. Through the very center of the cobbled street ran a shallow gutter in which a thin stream of swill-like liquid trickled. The bright light flooding the scene left no doubt as to its reality, and yet there was still the faint aura of question about it. The feeling was intensified when he discovered that there was no sun; the whole dome or sky was an even dazzle. It was all like a movie set, and it was a surprise to find that the houses had backs to them.
Across the street, perched comfortably in the cool shadows of a doorway, an old man slept, a tasselled nightcap hanging down over his forehead. Over his head a sign swayed: COPPERSMITH.
Not ten feet away from him a sallow young man was leaning against the wall absorbed in the contents of a very modern-looking newspaper, which bore the headlines: DOWSER CONFESSES FAIRY GOLD PLANT. Lower down on the page Hugh could make out a boxed item: STILETTO KILLER FEIGNS INSANITY. In a moment, he was sure, he wouldn’t have to feign it. The paper was as jarring an anachronism in the Shakespearean street scene as a six-cylinder coupe would have been.
At least he was spared having to account for any cars, though. The conventional mode of transportation was horses, it seemed. Every so often one would canter past recklessly. Their riders paid little regard to the people under their horses’ hoofs and the people in their turn scattered with good-natured oaths, like any group of twentieth century pedestrians before a taxi.
As Hugh stepped off the low stone lintel he heard a breathy whistle, and turning, beheld a small red-headed urchin coming jerkily toward him. The boy was alternately whistling and calling “Here, Fleet, Fleet, Fleet! Nice doggy! Here, Fleet!” His mode of locomotion was very peculiar; he lunged mechanically from side to side or forward as if he were a machine partly out of control.
As he came closer Hugh saw that he was holding a forked stick in his hands, the foot of the Y pointing straight ahead, preceding the lad no matter where he went. On the boy’s head was a conical blue cap lettered with astrological and alchemical symbols, which had sagged so as to completely cover one eye, but he seemed loath to let go of the stick to adjust it.
In a moment the boy had staggered to a stop directly before Hugh, while the rigid and quivering end of the stick went down to Hugh’s shoes and began slowly to ascend. He was conscious of a regular sniffing sound.
“Better tend to that cold, son,” he suggested.
“That isn’t me, it’s the rod,” the boy said desperately. “Please, sir, have you seen a brown puppy—” At this point the stick finished its olfactory inspection of Hugh and jerked sidewise, yanking the boy after it. As the urchin disappeared still calling “Here, Fleet!” Hugh felt a faint shiver. Here was the first evidence of a working magic before his eyes, and his sober astronomer’s soul recoiled from it.
A window squealed open over his head, and he jumped just in time to avoid a gush of garbage which was flung casually down toward the gutter. Thereafter he clung as close to the wall as he could, and kept beneath the overhanging second stories. Walking thus, with his eyes on the sole-punishing cobbles, deep in puzzlement, his progress was presently arrested by collision with a mountain.
When his eyes finally reached the top of it, it turned out to be a man, a great muscular thug clad in expensive blue velvet small-clothes and a scarlet cape like an eighteenth century exquisite. Was there no stopping this kaleidoscope of anachronism?
“Weah’s ya mannas?” the apparition roared. “Move out!”
“What for?” Hugh replied in his austere classroom tone. “I don’t care to be used as a sewage pail any more than you do.”
“Ah,” said the giant. “Wise guy, eh? Dunno ya bettas, eh?” There was a whistling sound as he drew a thin sword which might have served to dispatch whales. Hugh’s Royal Society reserve evaporated and he clawed frantically for his automatic, but before the double murder was committed the giant lowered his weapon and bent to stare more closely at the diminutive doctor.
“Ah,” he repeated. “Ya a transportee, eh?”
“I guess so,” Tracy said, remembering that Martin had used the word.
“Weah ya from?”
“Brooklyn,” Hugh said hopefully.
The giant shook his head. “Weah you guys think up these here names is a wonda. Well, ya dunno the customs, that’s easy t’see.”
He stepped aside to let Hugh pass.
“Thank you,” said Hugh with a relieved sigh. “Can you tell me where I can find an astrologer?” He still could not pronounce the word without choking.
“Ummmm—most of ’em are around the squaah. Ony, juss between you an’ me, buddy, I’d keep away from there till the p’rade’s ova. Yero’s got an orda out fa arrestin’ transportees.” The giant nodded pleasantly. “Watch ya step.” He stalked on down the street.
Looking after him, Hugh was startled to catch a brief glimpse of a man dressed in complete dinner clothes, including top hat, crossing the street and rounding a corner. Hoping that this vision from his own age might know something significant about this screwy world, he ran after him, but lost him in the traffic. He found nothing but a nondescript and unhappy alley-cat which ran at his approach.
Discouraged, Hugh went back the way he had come and set out in search of the public square and an astrologer. As he walked, he gradually became conscious of a growing current of people moving in the same direction, a current which was swelled by additions from every street and byway they passed. There was a predominance of holiday finery, and he remembered the giant’s words about a parade. Well, he’d just follow the crowd; it would make finding the square that much easier.
Curious snatches of conversation reached his ears as he plodded along. “… Aye, in the square, sir; one may hope that it bodes us some change…” “… Of Yero eke, that a younge wyfe he gat his youthe agoon, and withal…” “… An’ pritnear every time dis guy toins up, yiz kin count on gittin’ it in the neck…” “… Oft Seyld Yero sceathena threatum, hu tha aethlingas ellen fremedon…”
Most of the fragments were in English, but English entirely and indiscriminantly mixed as to century. Hugh wondered if the few that sounded foreign were actually so, or whether they were some Saxon or Jutish ancestor of English—or, perhaps, English as it might sound in some remo
te future century. If that latter were so, then there might be other cities in Outside where only old, modern and future French was spoken, or Russian, or—
The concept was too complex to entertain. He remembered the giant’s warning, and shook his head. This world, despite the obvious sweating reality of the crowd around him and the lumpy pavement beneath his feet, was still too crazy to be anything but a phantom. He was curious to see this Yero, who looked so inexplicably like Jeremy Wright, but he could not take any warning of Outside very seriously. His principal concern was to get back inside again.
As the part of the crowd which bore him along debouched from the narrow street into a vast open space, he heard in the distance the sound of trumpets, blowing a complicated fanfare. A great shouting went up, but somehow it seemed not the usual cheering of expectant parade-goers. There was a strange undertone—perhaps of animosity? Hugh could not tell.
In the press he found that he could move neither forward nor back. He would have to stand where he was until the event was over and the mob dispersed.
By craning his neck over the shoulders of those in front of him—a procedure which, because of his small stature, involved some rather precarious teetering on tip-toe—he could see across the square. It was surrounded on all four sides by houses and shops, but the street which opened upon it directly opposite him was a wide one. Through it he saw a feature of the city which the close-grouped overhanging houses had hidden before—a feature which put the finishing touch upon the sense of unreality and brought back once more the suggestion of a vast set for a Merrie-England movie by a bad director.
It was a castle. Furthermore it was twice as big as any real castle ever was, and its architecture was totally out of the period of the town below it. It was out of any period. It was a modernist’s dream, a Walter Gropius design come alive. The rectangular facade and flanking square pylons were vaguely reminiscent of an Egyptian temple of Amenhotep IV’s time, but the whole was of bluely gleaming metal, shimmering smoothly in the even glare of the sky.
The Dark Side Page 4
