"Raymond—Where the hell's yore gloves, boy? You know what I told you bout them gloves!" Mr. Fleuris lifted a meaty arm, his sausage- sized fingers closing into a fist.
Raymond whimpered in anticipation of the blow that was certain to land on his upturned face.
Before Horace Fleuris had a chance to strike his son, Colonel Reynard grabbed the big man's wrist. In the dim light it looked as if the Colonel's third finger was longer than the others. I heard Mr. Fleuris grunt in surprise and saw his upraised fist tremble.
"You will not touch this child, understand?"
"Dammit, leggo!" Fleuris' voice was pinched, as if he was both in pain and afraid.
"I said 'understand'?"
"I heared you the first time, damn you!"
The Colonel let Fleuris' arm drop. "You are the child's father?"
Fleuris nodded sullenly, massaging his wrist.
"I should kill you for what you've done."
"Here, now! Don't go blamin' me for it!" Fleuris blustered. "It was them doctors up at the State Hospital! They said it'd cure him! I tried to tell 'em what the boy's problem was, but you can't tell them big-city doctors squat, far as they're concerned! But what could I do? We was gettin' tired of movin' ever time the boy got into th' neighbor's chicken coop . . ."
"Now he'll never learn how to control it!" Reynard stroked Raymond's forehead. "He's stuck in-between the natures, incapable of fitting into your world ... or ours. He is an abomination in the eyes of Nature. Even animals can see he has no place in the Scheme!"
"You like the boy, don't you?" There was something about how Fleuris asked the question that made my stomach knot. "I'm a reasonable man. When it comes to business."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Mr. Fleuris was standing there, talking about selling his son to a complete stranger like he was a prize coon dog!
"Get out of here."
"Now hold on just a second! I ain't askin' for nothin' that ain't rightfully mine, and you know it! I'm the boy's pa and I reckon that calls for some kind of restitution, seeing how's he's my only male kin . . ."
"Now!" Colonel Reynard's voice sounded like a growl.
Horace Fleuris turned and fled, his fleshy face slack with fear. I never dreamed a man his size could move that fast.
I glanced at where Reynard stood, one hand resting on Raymond's shoulder. Colonel Reynard's face was no longer human, his mouth fixed in a deceptive smile. He fixed me with his murder-green eyes and wrinkled his snout. "That goes for you too, man-cub."
To this day I wonder why he let me go unharmed. I guess it's because he knew that no one was going to listen to any crazy stories about fox- headed men told by a pissant kid. No one wanted to believe crap like that. Not even the pissant kid.
Needless to say, I ran like a rabbit with a hound on my tail. Later I was plagued by recurring nightmares of a fox-headed animal-tamer dressed in jodhpurs that went around sticking his head in human mouths, and of a huge orangutan in overalls that looked like Mr. Fleuris.
▼▼▼
By the time Christmas break came around everyone had lost interest in Raymond's disappearance. The Fleuris family had moved sometime during the last night of October to parts unknown. No one missed them. It was like Raymond Fleuris had never existed.
I spent a lot of time trying not to think about what I'd seen and heard that night. I had other things to fret about. Like Kitty Killigrew going steady with Rafe.
Several years passed before I returned to the Choctaw County Fair. By then I was a freshman at the University of Arkansas at Monticello, over in Drew County. I'd landed a scholarship and spent my week-days studying in a bare-ass dorm room while coming home on weekends to help my daddy with the farm. I had long since talked myself into believing what I'd seen that night was a particularly vivid nightmare brought on by a bad corndog. Nothing more.
The midway didn't have a kootchie show that year, but I'd heard rumors that they had something even better. Or worse, depending on how you look at it.
According to the grapevine, the carnival had a glommin' geek. Since geek shows are technically illegal and roundly condemned as immoral, degrading, and sinful, naturally it played to capacity crowds.
The barker packed as many people as he could into a cramped, foul- smelling tent situated behind the freak show. There was a canvas pit in the middle of the tent, and at its bottom crouched the geek.
He was on the scrawny side and furry as a monkey. The hair on his head was long and coarse, hanging past his waist, as did a scraggly beard. His long forearms and bowed legs were equally shaggy, coated with dark fur that resembled the pelt of a wild goat. It was hard to tell, but I'm certain he was buck naked. There was something wrong with the geek's fingers, though that might have been on account of his four- inch long nails.
As the barker did his spiel about the geek being the last survivor of a race of wild men from the jungles of Borneo, I continued to stare at the snarling, capering creature. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something familiar about the geek.
The barker finished his bit and produced a live chicken from a gunny sack. The geek lifted his head and sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of the bird. An idiot's grin split his hairy face and a long thread of drool dripped from his open jaws. His teeth were surprisingly white and strong.
The barker tossed the chicken into the pit. It fluttered downward, squawking as it frantically beat the air with its wings. The geek giggled like a delighted child and pounced on the hapless bird. His movements were as graceful and sure as those of a champion mouser dispatching a rat. The geek bit the struggling chicken's head off, obviously relishing every minute of it.
As the crowd moaned in disgust and turned their faces away from what was happening in the pit, I continued to watch, even though it made my stomach churn.
Why? Because I had glimpsed the pale finger of scar tissue traversing the geek's right temple.
I stood and stared down at Raymond Fleuris crouched at the bottom of the geek pit, his grinning face wreathed in blood and feathers.
Happy at last.
THERE'S A WOLF IN MY TIME MACHINE
Larry Niven
▼▼▼
THE old extension cage had no fine controls, but that hardly mattered. It wasn't as if Svetz were chasing some particularly extinct animal. Ra Chen had told him to take whatever came to hand.
Svetz guided the cage back to preindustrial America, somewhere in midcontinent, around 1000 AnteAtomic Era. Few humans, many animals. Perhaps he'd find a bison.
And when he pulled himself to the window, he looked out upon a vast white land.
Svetz had not planned to arrive in midwinter.
Briefly he considered moving into the time stream again and using the interrupter circuit. Try another date, try the luck again. But the interrupter circuit was new, untried, and Svetz wasn't about to be the first man to test it.
Besides which, a trip into the past cost over a million commercials. Using the interrupter circuit would nearly double that. Ra Chen would be displeased.
Svetz began freezing to death the moment he opened the door. From the doorway the view was also white, with one white bounding shape far away.
Svetz shot it with a crystal of soluble anesthetic.
He used the flight stick to reach the spot. Now that it was no longer moving, I he beast was hard to find. It was just the color of the snow, but for its open red mouth and the black pads on its feet. Svetz tentatively identified it as an arctic wolf.
It would fit the Vivarium well enough. Svetz would have settled for anything that would let him leave this frozen wilderness. He felt uncommonly pleased with himself. A quick, easy mission.
Inside the cage, he rolled the sleeping beast into what might have been a clear plastic bag, and sealed it. He strapped the wolf against one curved wall of the extension cage. He relaxed into the curve of the opposite wall as the cage surged in a direction vertical to all directions.
Gr
avity shifted oddly.
A transparent sac covered Svetz's own head. Its lip was fixed to the skin of his neck. Now Svetz pulled it loose and dropped it. The air system was on; he would not need the filter sac.
The wolf would. It could not breath industrial-age air. Without the filter sac to remove the poisons, the wolf would choke to death. Wolves were extinct in Svetz's own time.
Outside, time passed at a furious rate. Inside, time crawled. Nestled in the spherical curve of the extension cage, Svetz stared up at the wolf, who seemed fitted into the curve of the ceiling.
Svetz had never met a wolf in the flesh. He had seen pictures in children's books . . . and even the children's books had been stolen from the deep past. Why should the wolf look so familiar?
It was a big beast, possibly as big as Hanville Svetz, who was a slender, small-boned man. Its sides heaved with its panting. Its tongue was long and red, and its teeth were white and sharp.
Like the dogs, Svetz remembered. The dogs in the Vivarium, in the glass case labeled:
DOG
Contemporary
Alone of the beasts in the Vivarium, the dogs were not sealed in glass for their own protection. The others could not breathe the air outside. The dogs could.
In a very real sense, they were the work of one man. Lawrence Wash Porter had lived near the end of the Industrial Period, between 50 and 100 PostAtomic Era, when billions of human beings were dying of lung diseases while scant millions adapted. Porter had decided to save the dogs.
Why the dogs? His motives were obscure, but his methods smacked of genius. He had acquired members of each of the breeds of dog in the world and bred them together over many generations of dogs and most of his own lifetime.
There would never be another dog show. Not a pure-bred dog was left in the world. But hybrid vigor had produced a new breed. These, the ultimate mongrels, could breathe industrial-age air, rich in oxides of carbon and nitrogen, scented with raw gasoline and sulfuric acid.
The dogs were behind glass because people were afraid of them. Too many species had died. The people of 1100 Post Atomic were not used to animals.
Wolves and dogs . . . could one have sired the other?
Svetz looked up at the sleeping wolf and wondered. He was both like and unlike the dogs. The dogs had grinned out through the glass and wagged their tails when children waved. Dogs liked people. But the wolf, even in sleep . . .
Svetz shuddered. Of all the things he hated about his profession, this was the worst; the ride home, staring up at a strange and dangerous extinct animal. The first time he'd done it, a captured horse had seriously damaged the control panel. On his last mission an ostrich had kicked him and broken three ribs.
The wolf was stirring restlessly . . . and something about it had changed.
Something was changing now. The beast's snout was shorter, wasn't it? Its forelegs lengthened peculiarly; its paws seemed to grow and spread.
Svetz caught his breath, and instantly forgot the wolf. Svetz was choking, dying. He snatched up his filter sac and threw himself at the control.
▼▼▼
Svetz stumbled out of the extension cage, took three steps, and collapsed. Behind him, invisible contaminants poured into the open air.
The sun was setting in banks of orange cloud.
Svetz lay where he had fallen, retching, fighting for air. There was an outdoor carpet beneath him, green and damp, smelling of plants. Svetz did not recognize the smell, did not at once realize that the carpet was alive. He would not have cared at that point. He knew only that the cage's air system had tried to kill him. The way he felt, it had probably succeeded.
It had been a near thing. He had been passing 30 PostAtomic when the air went bad. He remembered clutching the interrupter switch, then waiting, waiting. The foul air stank in his nostrils and caught in his throat and tore at his larynx. He had waited through twenty years, feeling every second of them. At 50 PostAtomic he had pulled the interrupter switch and run choking from the cage.
50 PA. At least he had reached industrial times. He could breathe the air.
It was the horse, he thought without surprise. The horse had pushed its wickedly pointed horn through Svetz's control panel, three years ago. Maintenance was supposed to fix it. They had fixed it.
Something must have worn through.
The way he looked at me every time I passed his cage. I always knew the horse would get me, Svetz thought.
He noticed the filter sac still in his hand. Not that he'd be—
Svetz sat up suddenly.
There was green all about him. The damp green carpet beneath him was alive; it grew from the black ground. A rough, twisted pillar thrust from the ground, branched into an explosion of red and yellow papery things. More of the crumpled colored paper lay about the pillar's base. Something that was not an aircraft moved erratically overhead, a tiny thing that fluttered and warbled.
Living, all of it. A preindustrial wilderness.
Svetz pulled the filter sac over his head and hurriedly smoothed the edges around his neck to form a seal. Blind luck that he hadn't fainted yet. He waited for it to puff up around his head. A selectively permeable membrane, it would pass the right gasses in and out until the composition was . . . was . . .
Svetz was choking, tearing at the sac.
He wadded it up and threw it, sobbing. First the air plant, now the filter sac! Had someone wrecked them both? The inertial calendar too; he was at least a hundred years previous to 50 PostAtomic.
Someone had tried to kill him.
Svetz looked wildly about him. Uphill across a wide green carpet, he saw an angular vertical-sided formation painted in shades of faded green. It had to be artificial. There might be people there. He could—
No, he couldn't ask for help either. Who would believe him? How could they help him anyway? His only hope was the extension cage. And his time must be very short.
The extension cage rested a few yards away, the door a black circle on one curved side. The other side seemed to fade away into nothing. It was still attached to the rest of the time machine, in 1103 PA, along a direction eyes could not follow.
Svetz hesitated near the door. His only hope was to disable the air plant. Hold his breath, then . . .
The smell of contaminants was gone.
Svetz sniffed at the air. Yes, gone. The air plant had exhausted itself, drained its contaminants into the open air. No need to wreck it now. Svetz was sick with relief.
He climbed in.
He remembered the wolf when he saw the filter sac, torn and empty. Then he saw the intruder towering over him, the coarse thick hair, the yellow eyes glaring, the taloned hands spread wide to kill.
▼▼▼
The land was dark. In the east a few stars showed, though the west was still deep red. Perfumes tinged the air. A full moon was rising.
Svetz staggered uphill, bleeding.
The house on the hill was big and old. Big as a city block, and two floors high. It sprawled out in all directions, as though a mad architect had built to a whim that changed moment by moment. There were wrought-iron railings on the upper-floor windows, and wrought-iron handles on the screens on both floors, all painted the same dusty shade of green. The screens were wood, painted a different green. They were closed across every window. No light leaked through anywhere.
The door was built for someone twelve feet tall. The knob was huge. Svetz used both hands and put all his weight into it, and still it would not turn. He moaned. He looked for the lens of a peeper camera and could not find it. How would anyone know he was here? He couldn't find a doorbell either.
Perhaps there was nobody inside. No telling what this building was. It was far too big to be a family dwelling, too spread out to be a hotel or apartment house. Might it be a warehouse or a factory? Making or storing what?
Svetz looked back toward the extension cage. Dimly he caught the glow of the interior lights. He also saw something moving on the living green that carpeted
the hill.
Pale forms, more than one.
Moving this way?
Svetz pounded on the door with his fists. Nothing. He noticed a golden metal thing, very ornate, high on the door. He touched it, pulled at it, let it go. It clanked.
He took it in both hands and slammed the knob against its base again and again. Rhythmic clanking sounds. Someone should hear it.
Something zipped past his ear and hit the door hard. Svetz spun around, eyes wild, and dodged a rock the size of his fist. The white shapes were nearer now. Bipeds, walking hunched.
They looked too human—or not human enough.
The door opened.
She was young, perhaps sixteen. Her skin was very pale, and her hair and brows were pure white, quite beautiful. Her garment covered her from neck to ankles, but left her arms bare. She seemed sleepy and angry as she pulled the door open—manually, and it was heavy, too. Then she saw Svetz.
"Help me," said Svetz.
Her eyes went wide. Her ears moved too. She said something Svetz had trouble interpreting, for she spoke in ancient american.
"What are you?"
Svetz couldn't blame her. Even in good condition his clothes would not fit the period. But his blouse was ripped to the navel, and so was his skin. Four vertical parallel lines of blood ran down his face and chest.
Zeera had been coaching him in american speech. Now he said carefully, "I am a traveler. An animal, a monster, has taken my vehicle away from me."
Evidently the sense came through. "You poor man! What kind of animal?"
"Like a man, but hairy all over, with a horrible face—and claws— claws—"
"I see the marks they made."
"I don't know how he got in. I—" Svetz shuddered. No, he couldn't tell her that. It was insane, utterly insane, this conviction that Svetz's wolf had become a bloodthirsty humanoid monster. "He only hit me once. On the face. I could get him out with a weapon, I think. Have you a bazooka?"
The Ultimate Werewolf Page 16
