by Various
The child stifled a sob. "Here," he said weakly.
"Here? Where?"
"In my house," said Richie. "And Steve's house and Billy's and all over." He rubbed his eyes, leaving a grimy smear.
"All right," soothed Jonathan. "It's all right now, son. Daddy didn't mean to scare you. Daddy has to learn these things, that's all. Just like learning in school."
The boy shook his head resentfully. "You know," he accused. "You just forgot."
"What did I forget, Richie?"
"You forgot all about Allavarg. He told me! It was a different Allavarg when you were little, but it was almost the same. You used to play with your Allavarg when you were little like me!"
Jonathan took a deep breath. "Where did Allavarg come from, Richie?"
But Richie shook his head stubbornly, lips pressed tight. "I promised!"
"Richie, a promise like that isn't a good one," pleaded Jonathan. "Allavarg wouldn't want you to disobey your father and mother, would he?"
The child sat and stared at him.
This was a very disturbing thought and Jonathan could see Richie did not know how to deal with it.
He pressed his momentary advantage. "Allavarg takes care of little boys and girls, doesn't he? He plays with them and he looks after them, I'll bet."
Richie nodded uncertainly.
"And," continued Jonathan, smiling what he hoped was a winning, comradely smile at his son, "I'll bet that Allavarg came from some place far, far away, didn't he?"
"Yes," said Richie softly.
"And it's his job to be here and look after the--the nursery?" Jonathan bit his lip. Nursery? Earth? Carooms--Martians? His head began to ache. "Son, you've got to help me understand. Do you--do you murv me?"
* * * * *
Richie shook his head. "No. But I will after--"
"After what?"
"After I grow up."
"Why not now?" asked Jonathan.
The blond head sank lower. "Because you framish, Daddy."
His father nodded, trying to look wise, wincing inwardly as he pictured his colleagues listening in on this conversation. "Well--why don't you help me so I don't framish?"
"I can't." Richie glanced up, his eyes stricken. "Some day, Allavarg says, I'm going to framish, too!"
"Grow up, you mean?" hazarded Jonathan, and this time his smile was real as he looked at the smudged eyes and soft round cheeks. "Why, Richie," he went on, his voice suddenly husky, "it's fun to be a little boy, but there'll be lots to do when you grow up. You--"
"I wish I was Mr. Easton!" Richie said fiercely.
Jonathan held his breath. "What about Mr. Easton?"
Richie squirmed out of the chair and clutched Jonathan's arm. "Please, Daddy! If you let Mr. Easton go back, can I go, too? Please? Can I?"
Jonathan put his hands on his son's shoulders. "Richie! What do you know about Mr. Easton?"
"Please? Can I go with him?" The shining blue eyes pleaded up at him. "If you don't let him go back pretty soon, he's going to framish again! Please! Can I?"
"He's going to framish," nodded Jonathan. "And what then?" he coaxed. "What'll happen after he framishes? Will he be able to tell me about his trip?"
"I dunno," said Richie. "I dunno how he could. After you framish, you don't remember lots of things. I don't think he's even gonna remember he went on a trip." The boy's hands shook Jonathan's arm eagerly. "Please, Daddy! Can I go with him?"
"No!" Jonathan glared and released his hold on Richie. Didn't he have troubles enough without Richie suggesting--"About the nursery," he said briskly. "Why is there a nursery?"
"To take care of us." Richie looked worried. "Why can't I go?"
"Because you can't! Why don't they have the nursery back where Allavarg came from?"
"There isn't any room." The blue eyes studied the man, looking for a way to get permission to go with Mr. Easton.
"No room? What do you mean?"
Richie sighed. Obviously he'd have to explain first and coax later. "Well, you know my school? You know my teacher in school? You know when my teacher was different?" He peered anxiously at Jonathan, and suddenly the man caught on.
"Of course! You mean when they split the kindergarten into two smaller groups because there were too many--"
* * * * *
His voice trailed off. Too many. Too many what? Too many Martians on Mars? Growing population? No way to cut down the birth rate? He pictured the planet with too many people. What to do? Move out. Take another planet. Why didn't they just do that? He put the question to Richie.
"Oh," said his son wisely, "they couldn't because of the framish. They did go other places, but everywhere they went, they framished. And after you framish, you ain't--aren't a Caroom any more. You're a Gunderguck and of course--"
"Huh?"
"--and a Caroom doesn't like to framish and be a Gunderguck," continued Richie happily, as though reciting a lesson learned in school. "He wants to be a Caroom all the time because it's better and more fun and you know lots of things you don't remember after you get to be a Gunderguck. Only--" he paused for a gulp of air--"only there wasn't room for all the Carooms back home and they couldn't find any place where they could be Carooms all the time, because of the framish. So after a long time, and after they looked all over all around, they decided maybe it wouldn't be so bad if they sent some of their little boys and girls--the ones they didn't have room for--to some place where they could be Carooms longer than most other places. And that place," Richie said proudly, "was right here! 'Cause here there's almost as much gladdisl as back home and--"
"Gladdisl?" Jonathan echoed hoarsely. "What's--"
"--and after they start growing up--"
"Gladdisl," Jonathan repeated, more firmly. "Richie, what is it?"
The forehead puckered momentarily. "It's something you breathe, sort of." The boy shied away from the difficult question, trying to remember what Allavarg had said about gladdisl. "Anyway, after the little boys and girls start to grow up and after they framish and be Gundergucks, like you and Mommy, the Carooms back home send some more to take their places. And the Gundergucks who used to be Carooms here in the nursery look after the new little--"
"Wait a minute! Wait a minute!" Jonathan interrupted suspiciously. "I thought you said Allavarg looks after them."
"He does. But there's so many little Carooms and there aren't many Allavargs and so the Gundergucks have to help. You help," Richie assured his father. "You and Mommy help a little bit."
Big of you to admit it, old man, thought Jonathan, suppressing a smile. "But aren't you our little boy?" he asked. He had a sudden vision of himself addressing the scientists at the Institute: "And so, gentlemen, our babies--who, incidentally, are really Martians--are brought by storks, after all. Except in those cases where--"
"The doctor brought me in a little black bag," said Richie.
* * * * *
The boy stood silent and studied his father. He sort of remembered what Allavarg had said, too. Things like You mustn't ever tell and It's got to be a secret and They'd only laugh at you, Richie, and if they didn't laugh, they might believe you and try to go back home and there just isn't any room.
"I think," said Richie, "I think I better--" He took a deep breath. "Here, Allavarg," he called in a soft, piping voice.
Jonathan raised his head. "Just what do you think you're doing--"
There was a sound behind him, and Jonathan turned startledly.
"Shame on you," said Allavarg, coming through the broken window.
Jonathan's words dropped away in a faint gurgle.
"I'm sorry," said Richie. "Don't be dipplefit."
"It's a mess," Allavarg replied. "It's a krandoor mess!" He waved his arm in the air over Jonathan's head. "And don't think I'm going to forget it!" The insistent hiss of escaping gas hovered over the moving pellet in his hand. "Jivis boy!"
Jonathan coughed suddenly. He got as far as "Now look here" and then found that he could neither speak nor move. T
he gas or whatever it was stung his eyes and burned in his throat.
"Why don't you just freeble him?" Richie asked unhappily. "You're using up all your gladdisl! Why don't you freeble him and get me another one?"
"Freeble, breeble," grumbled Allavarg, shoving the capsule directly under Jonathan's nose. "Just like you youngsters, always wanting to take the easy way out! Gundergucks don't grow on blansercots, you know."
Jonathan felt tears start in his eyes, partly from the fumes and partly from a growing realization that Allavarg was sacrificing precious air for him. He tried to think. If this was gladdisl and if this would keep a man in the state of being a Caroom, then--
"There," said Allavarg, looking unhappily at the emptied pellet. He shook it, sniffed it and finally returned it to the container at his side.
"I'm sorry," Richie whispered. "But he kept askin' me and askin' me."
"There, there," said Allavarg, going to the window. "Don't fret. I know you won't do it again." He turned and looked thoughtfully at Jonathan. He winked at Richie and then he was gone.
* * * * *
Jonathan rubbed his eyes. He could move now. He opened his mouth and waggled his jaws. Now that the room was beginning to be cleared of the gas, he realized that it had had a pleasant odor. He realized--
Why, it was all so simple! Remembering his sessions with Easton, Jonathan laughed aloud. So simple! The message? Stay away from Mars! No room there! They said I could come back if I gave you the message, but I have to come back alone because there's no room for more people!
No room? Nonsense! Jonathan reached for the phone, dialled the Institute and asked for Dr. Stoughton. No room? On the paradise that was Mars? Well, they'd just have to make room! They couldn't keep that to themselves!
"Hello, Fred?" He leaned back in his chair, feeling a surge of pride and power. Wait till they heard about this! "Just wanted to tell you I solved the Easton thing. Just a simple case of hapsodon. You see, Allavarg came and gave me a tressimox of gladdisl and now that I'm a Caroom again--What? What do you mean, what's the matter? I said I'm not a Gunderguck any more." He stared at the phone. "Why, you spebberset moron! What's the matter with you? Don't you blikkel English?"
From the depths of the big chair across the room, Richie giggled.
* * *
Contents
BEFORE EGYPT
By E. K. Jarvis
It was Mallison's strangest assignment. The weird little professor wanted to go to Egypt. That meant a trip back to Earth so far as Mallison was concerned. But the professor pointed to a distant star and Mallison wondered: "Who moved Egypt?"
Mike Mallison and Nicko were in the office when the new clients entered. A girl and an elderly man. The girl smiled at Mike. Then she looked at Nicko and a sharp involuntary scream got past her lips.
"It's all right, lady," Mike said. "He won't hurt you. He never injures a client. Won't you sit down?"
Nicko wasn't offended. He was used to women reacting that way at first sight of him. In fact, the hideous little Martian misfit had caused even strong men to turn pale.
The elderly man was also staring but with more clinical interest than horror. He turned his eyes on Mike and said, "I am Professor Arnold Brandon. This is my daughter, Doree."
"I'm Mike Mallison." He indicated with a nod. "This is my assistant, Nicko."
Nicko grinned, thus baring his tusks and adding new hideousness to his face. He waved his four arms and said, "I'm delighted to make your acquaintances. I hope your trip to Outer Port was not too tiring."
Nicko's tones were bell-like--his diction perfect. The girl gasped. The man blinked, then turned again to Mike. "I hope you received our electrogram."
"Yes, but it was a little vague. It merely said you would arrive at Outer Port as of this date."
"Quite. We wish to charter your ship for a cruise."
Mike considered. The Space Queen was at liberty but he wasn't sure about these two. Other than the fact that the man was old, the girl gray-eyed, slim, and damned pretty, he knew nothing about them. They certainly didn't look like big game hunters.
"For what destination?"
Professor Brandon hesitated. "Out toward Orion, sir."
"A man could cruise out toward Orion for the rest of his life and still not arrive at a destination. Could you be more specific?"
"There is a planet out there I wish to visit but at this time I'd rather discuss details other than its location."
"Such as--?"
"The cost is very important to us."
Doree Brandon spoke up. "My father holds the Chair of Ancient Cultures at Casa Blanca University, and educators, as you may know, are not very well paid. We've been saving for this trip for a long time--"
* * * * *
She faltered, somewhat embarrassed and Mike asked, "In what segment of Orion is this planet located?"
"The ninth, sir."
Mike leaned forward. "May I assume your trip is of a scientific nature?"
"You may, sir."
"Then I wonder if you are familiar with the Terran Educational Foundation? I happened to have had contact with them some five years ago."
"I'm quite familiar with the organization."
"Did it occur to you that they might assume some of the cost of your trip?"
"They refused. They make the absurd claim that this planet I spoke of doesn't exist."
"But you have proof to the contrary?"
"An ancient document," Doree Brandon cut in. "A papyrus scroll. Father translated it."
"And the Foundation did not agree with his translation?"
"I did not submit the scroll. They know nothing about it."
"Father bought it from two men in Paris and worked three years on the translation." Doree looked at her father with great pride.
"My reasons for not submitting it were personal," Professor Brandon said, "and are not pertinent to this discussion."
"May I suggest," Mike said gently, "that a pair of crooks sold you a counterfeit--"
"You may not, sir!"
Doree reflected her father's indignation. "I'll have you know my father is the foremost authority in his field!"
Mike raised a protective hand. "All right--all right. I'm sorry."
"Then perhaps you'll tell us the approximate cost of the cruise?"
"I can haul you to the ninth segment and back for around seven thousand but that won't leave much leeway for search."
Professor Brandon beamed. "We can just about manage it. And I assure you very little search will be necessary."
"If you'll give me the planet's location I'll plot a course and give you an exact figure."
"It is not my intention to seem mysterious, but I'd prefer to give you that data after blast-off."
* * * * *
Mike scowled and half-rose from his chair. Professor Brandon hastily drew a pack of yellow bills from his pocket and laid it on the table. "There are four thousand. I have the rest at the hotel. We shall demonstrate complete faith in you by paying the seven thousand before we leave Outer Port."
With that he smiled and arose from his chair. "I guess that concludes our business at this time. We'll be at the hotel when you wish to contact us. Come Doree." He herded the girl out quickly and closed the door.
Nicko chuckled. "Smart old codger. He had you pegged dead to rights."
Mike turned his scowl on Nicko and snapped, "For Christ's sake, speak Terran!"
Nicko had inadvertently used a Plutonian hill dialect he'd heard once, this being the hideous little Martian's amazing talent--an instinctive grasp of all tongues. His lingual talents were a tremendous asset to Mike but at times they drove him crazy because Nicko might absent-mindedly use several different tongues during a conversation; some of which he could not classify himself, having forgotten where he heard them.
"I said he had you pegged. He knew you were ready to turn him down so he upped with the mool. He knew once you touched the yellow you'd be his pup."
"I'm not so dam
ned sure about that--"
Mike Mallison was a big game guide--a life he loved. He was a man of action and asked nothing better than the perils of his calling; the stalking of the great Plutonian ice bears; crouching in a Venusian swamp waiting for the ten-ton lizards to blow slime a hundred feet in the air and rise from their lava-hot beds; matching wits with the telepathic Uranian rock wolves, the most elusive beast in the universe; setting his sights on a Martian jet-bat so some Terran millionaire could have a new trophy for his game room.
"You're not sure," Nicko was saying in Ganymedian French, "but you'll stay glued to the mool."
Mike was busy thinking and didn't ask for a translation. After all, he needed the money and if he didn't take it these two deluded characters would no doubt find someone who would.
"Besides," Nicko said in Terran, "the female's a dream. The legs--the torso--very nice to be in space with."
"Shut up! This is a business trip! Remember that. Exactly the same as though we were hauling a couple of fat Terran bankers."
"Sure. But that kitty's got more in the bank than--"
"Get the hell out of here! Go over to the Exchange and see if our new pile came in on that ship."
* * * * *
Outer Port was a man-made satellite artificially oxygenated and gravitated. It was the largest of a group assembled during the experimental period of the late twenty-first century. Later, methods of shifting asteroids and small planets into desired orbits were developed and the construction of space globes and platforms was discontinued.
At that time, the Interplanetary Guild of Space Guides purchased the satellite and moored it on the perimeter of the System to serve as a headquarters for their activities. They smashed a bottle of wine on it and christened it Outer Port after which every guide got drunk by way of celebration.
It was a bleak establishment. With no solar supplement, it lay in the eternal twilight of far space, the artificial heat of its surface rising against eternal cold thus causing a perpetual fogging of its atmosphere mixture.
