Allister Park was not surprised. But he was concerned. Attractive as the girl was, the thought of solving his predicament was more so. Besides, he was already sleepy from the liquors he had drunk.
“How about making some coffee, sweetie-pie?” he asked.
She acquiesced. The making and drinking of the coffee took another hour. It was close to midnight. To keep the ball rolling, Park told some stories. Then the conversation died down again. The girl yawned. She seemed puzzled and a bit resentful.
She asked: “Are you going to sit up all night?”
That was just what Park intended to do. But while he cast about for a plausible reason to give, he stalled: “Ever tell you about that man Wugson I met last week? Funniest chap you ever saw. He has a big bunch of hairs growing out the end of his nose…”
He went on in detail about the oddities of the imaginary Mr. Wugson. The girl had an expression of what-did-I-do-to-deserve-this. She yawned again.
Click! Allister Park rubbed his eyes and sat up. He was on a hard knobby thing that might, by gross misuse of the language, be called a mattress. His eyes focussed on a row of iron bars.
He was in jail.
Allister Park’s day in jail proved neither interesting nor informative. He was marched out for meals and for an hour of exercise. Nobody spoke to him except a guard who asked: “Hey there, chief, who ja think you are today, huh? Julius Caesar?”
Park grinned. “Nope. I’m God, this time.”
This was getting to be a bore. If one could do this flitting about from existence to existence voluntarily, it might be fun. As it was, one didn’t stay put long enough to adjust oneself to any of these worlds of-illusion?
The next day he was a shabby fellow sleeping on a park bench. The city was still New York — no it wasn’t; it was a different city built on the site of New York.
He had money for nothing more than a bottle of milk and a loaf of bread. These he bought and consumed slowly, while reading somebody’s discarded newspaper. Reading was difficult because of the queer spelling. And the people had an accent that required the closest attention to understand.
He spent a couple of hours in an art museum. The guards looked at him as if he were something missed by the cleaners. When it closed he went back to his park bench and waited. Night came.
A car — at least, a four — wheeled power vehicle — drew up and a couple of cops got out. Park guessed they were cops because of their rhinestone epaulets. One asked: “Are you John Gilby?” He pronounced it: “Air yew Thawn Gilbь?”
But Allister Park caught his drift. “Damned if I know, brother. Am I?”
The cops looked at each other. “He’s him, all right,” said one. To Park: “Come along.”
Park learned, little by little, that he was not wanted for anything more serious than disappearance. He kept his own counsel until they arrived at the stationhouse.
Inside was a fat woman. She jumped up and pointed at him, crying raucously: “That’s him! That’s the dirty deserter, running off and leaving his poor wife to starve! The back of me hand to you, you dirty-”
“Please, Mrs. Gilby!” said the desk sergeant.
The woman was not to be silenced. “Heaven curse the day I met you! Sergeant darlin’, what can I do to put the dirty loafer in jail where he belongs?”
“Well,” said the sergeant uncomfortably, “you can charge him with desertion, of course. But don’t you think you’d better go home and talk it over? We don’t want to-”
“Hey!” cried Park. They looked at him. “I’ll take jail, if you don’t mind-”
Click! Once again he was in bed. It was a real bed this time. He looked around. The place had the unmistakable air of a sanitarium or hospital.
Oh, well. Park rolled over and went to sleep.
The next day he was still in the same place. He began to have hopes. Then he remembered that, as the transitions happened at midnight, he had no reason for assuming that the next one would not happen the following midnight.
He spent a very boring day. A physician came in, asked him how he was, and was gone almost before Park could say “Fine.” People brought him his meals. If he’d been sure he was going to linger, he’d have made vigorous efforts to orient himself and to get out. But as it was, there didn’t seem any point.
The next morning he was still in bed. But when he tried to rub his eyes and sit up, he found that his wrists and ankles were firmly tied to the four posts. This wasn’t the same bed, nor the same room; it looked like a room in somebody’s private house.
And at the foot of the bed sat the somebody: a small gray-haired man with piercing black eyes that gleamed over a sharp nose.
For a few seconds Allister Park and the man looked at each other. Then the man’s expression underwent a sudden and alarming change, as if internal pain had gripped him. He stared at his own clothes as if he had never seen them before. He screamed, jumped up, and dashed out of the room. Park heard his feet clattering down stairs, and the slam of a front door; then nothing.
Allister Park tried pulling at his bonds, but the harder he pulled, the tighter they gripped. So he tried not pulling, which brought no results either.
He listened. There was a faint hiss and purr of traffic outside. He must be still in a city, though, it seemed, a fairly quiet one.
A stair creaked. Park held his breath. Somebody was coming up, and without unnecessary noise. More than one man, Park thought, listening to the creaks.
Somebody stumbled. From far below a voice called up a question that Park couldn’t catch. There were several quick steps and the smack of a fist.
The door of Park’s room was ajar. Through the crack appeared a vertical strip of face, including an eye. The eye looked at Park and Park looked at the eye.
The door jerked open and three men pounced into the room. They wore floppy trousers and loose blouses that might have come out of a Russian ballet. They had large, flat, pentagonal faces, red-brown skins and straight black hair. They peered behind the door and under the bed.
“What the hell?” asked Allister Park.
The largest of the three men looked at him. “You’re not hurt, Hallow?”
“No. But I’m damn sick of being tied up.”
The large man’s face showed a flicker of surprise. The large man cut Park’s lashings. Park sat up, rubbing his wrists, and learned that he was wearing a suit of coarse woolen underwear.
“Where’s the rascally Noggle?” asked the large brown man. Although he rolled his r’s like a Scot, he did not look like a Scot. Park thought he might be an Asiatic or an American Indian.
“You mean the little gray-haired bird?”
“Sure. You know, the scoundrel.” He pronounced the k in “know.”
“Suppose I do. When I woke up he was in that chair. He looked at me and beat it out of here as if all the bats of Hell were after him.”
“Maybe he’s gone daft. But the weighty thing is to get you out.” One of the men got a suit out of the closet, resembling the three men’s clothes, but somber gray.
Allister Park dressed. The tenseness of the men made him hurry, though he didn’t take all this very seriously yet. Working his feet into the elastic-sided shoes with the big metal buckles, Park asked: “How long have I been here?”
“You dropped from the ken of a man a week ago today,” replied the large man with a keen look.
A week ago today he had been Allister Park, assistant district attorney. The next day he hadn’t been. It was probably not a mere coincidence.
He started to take a look at his new self in the mirror. Before he could do more than glimpse a week’s growth of beard, two of the men were gently pulling his arms toward the door. There was something deferential about their urgency. Park went along. He asked: “What do I do now?”
“That takes a bit of thinking on,” said the large man. “It might not be safe for you to go home. Shh!” He stole dramatically down the stairs ahead of them. “Of course,” he continued, “you could
put in a warrant against Joseph Noggle.”
“What good would that do?”
“Not much, I fear. If Noggle was put up to this by MacSvensson, you can be sure the lazy knicks wouldn’t find him.”
Park had more questions, but he didn’t want to give himself away any sooner than he had to.
The house was old, decorated in a curious geometrical style, full of hexagons and spirals. On the ground floor sat another brown man in a rocking chair. In one hand he held a thing like an automobile grease gun, with a pistol grip. Across the room sat another man, with a black eye, looking apprehensively at the gun-thing.
The one in the chair got up, took off his bonnet, and made a bow toward Park. He said: “Haw, Hallow. Were you hurt?”
“He’ll live over it, glory be to Patrick,” said the big one, whom the others addressed as “Sachem.” This person now glowered at the man with the black eye. “Nay alarums, understand? Or-” he drew the tip of his forefinger in a quick circle on the crown of his head. It dawned on Park that he was outlining the part of the scalp that an Indian might remove as a trophy.
They quickly went out, glancing up and down the street. It was early morning; few people were visible. Park’s four companions surrounded him in a way that suggested that, much as they respected him, he had better not make a break.
The sidewalk had a wood-block paving. At the curb stood a well-streamlined automobile. The engine seemed to be in the rear. From the size of the closed-in section, Park guessed it to be huge.
They got in. The instrument board had more knobs and dials than a transport plane. The Sachem started the car noiselessly. Another car blew a resonant whistle, and passed them wagging a huge tail of water vapor. Park grasped the fact that the cars were steam-powered. Hence the smooth, silent operation; hence also the bulky engine and the complex controls.
The buildings were large but low; Park saw none over eight or ten stories. The traffic signals had semaphore arms with “STAI” and “COM” on them.
“Where are you taking me?” asked Park.
“Outside the burg bounds, first,” said the Sachem. “Then we’ll think on the next.”
Park wondered what was up; they were still respectful as all Hell, but there was something ominous about their haste to get outside the “burg bounds,” which Park took to be the city limits. He said, experimentally, “I’m half starved.”
A couple of the brown men echoed these sentiments, so the Sachem presently stopped the car at a restaurant. Park looked around it; except for that odd geometric style of decoration, it was much like other restaurants the world over.
“What’s the program?” he asked the Sachem. Park had known some heavy drinkers in his time, but never one who washed his breakfast pancakes down with whiskey, as the large brown man was now doing.
“That’ll be seen,” said the Sachem. “What did Noggle try to do to you?”
“Never did find out.”
“There’s been an under talk about the swapping of minds. I wonder if — where are you going?”
“Be right back,” said Park, heading for the men’s room. In another minute the Sachem would have cornered him on the question of identity. They watched him go. Once in the men’s room, he climbed onto a sink, opened a window, and squirmed out into the adjacent alley. He put several blocks between himself and his convoyers before he slowed down.
His pockets failed to tell him whose body he had. His only mark of identification was a large gold ring with a Celtic cross. He had a few coins in one pocket, wherewith he bought a newspaper. Careful searching disclosed the following item:
BISJAP STIL MISING
At a lжt aur jestrdai nee toocan had ben faund of yi mising Bisjap Ib Scoglund of yi Niu Belfast Bisjapric of yi Celtic Cristjan Tjцrtj, hwuuz vanisjing a wiik agoo haz sterd yi bцrg. Cnicts sai yai aar leeving nee steen цntornd in yжir straif tu fained yi hwarabouts of yi mising preetjr, hwuuz lцsti swink on bihaaf of yi Screlingz haz bimikst him in a fiirs yingli scцfal…
It looked to Park as though some German or Norwegian had tried to spell English — or what passed for English in this city — phonetically according to the rules of his own language, with a little Middle English or Anglo-Saxon thrown in. He made a tentative translation:
BISHOP STILL MISSING
At a late hour yesterday no token (sign?) had been found of the missing Bishop Ib Scoglund of the New Belfast Bishopric of the Celtic Christian Church, whose vanishing a week ago has stirred the burg (city?). Cnicts (police?) say they are leaving no stone unturned in their strife (effort?) to find the whereabouts of the missing preacher…
It sounded like him, all right. What a hell of a name, Ib Scoglund! The next step was to find where he lived. If they had telephones, they ought to have telephone directories…
Half an hour later Park approached the bishop’s house. If he were going to change again at midnight, the thing to do would be to find some quiet place, relax, and await the change. However, he felt that the events of the week made a pattern, of which he thought he could see the beginnings of an outline. If his guesses were right, he had arrived at his destination.
The air was moderately warm and a bit sticky, as New York City air might well be in April. A woman passed him, leading a floppy-eared dog. She was stout and fiftyish. Although Park did not think that a skirt that cleared her knees by six inches became her, that was what was being worn.
As he turned the corner onto what ought to be his block, he sighted a knot of people in front of a house. Two men in funny steeple-crowned hats sat in an open car. They were dressed alike, and Park guessed they were policemen.
Park pulled his bonnet — a thing like a Breton peasant’s hat — over one side of his face. He walked past on the opposite side of the street, looking unconcerned. The people were watching No. 64, his number.
There was an alley on one side of the house. Park walked to the next corner, crossed, and started back toward No. 64. He had almost reached the entrance to the alley when one of the men spotted him. With a cry of “There’s the bishop himself!” the men on the sidewalk — there were four — ran toward him. The men in the funny hats got out of their vehicle and followed.
Park squared his shoulders. He had faced down wardheelers who invaded his apartment to tell him to lay off certain people, or else. However, far from being hostile, these shouted: “Wher-r-re ya been, Hallow?” “Were you kidnapped?” “Ja lose your recall?” “How about a wording?” All produced pads and pencils.
Park felt at home. He asked: “Who’s it for?” One of the men said: “I’m from the Sooth.”
“The what?”
“The New Belfast Sooth. We’ve been upholding you on the Skrelling question.” Park looked serious. “I’ve been investigating conditions.”
The men looked puzzled. Park added: “You know, looking into things.”
“Oh,” said the man from the Sooth. “Peering the kilters, eh?”
The men in the funny hats arrived. One of the pair asked: “Any wrongdoings, Bishop? Want to mark in a slur?” Park, fumbling through the mazes of this dialect, figured that he meant “file a complaint.” He said: “No, I’m all right. Thanks anyway.”
“But,” cried the hat, “are you sure you don’t want to mark in a slur? We’ll take you to the lair if you do.”
“No, thank you,” said Park. The hats sidled up to him, one on either side. In the friendliest manner they took his arms and gently urged him toward the car, saying: “Sure you want to mark in a slur. We was sent special to get you so you could. If somebody kidnapped you, you must, or it’s helping wrongdoing, you know. It’s just a little way to the lair-”
Park had been doing some quick thinking. They had an ulterior reason for wanting to get him to the “lair” (presumably a police station); but manhandling a bishop, especially in the presence of reporters, just wasn’t done. He wrenched loose and jumped into the doorway of No. 64. He snapped: “I haven’t got any slurs, and I’m not going to your lair, get me?”
“Aw, but Hallow, we wasn’t going to hurt you. Only if you have a slur, you have to mark it in. That’s the law, see?” The man, his voice a pleading whine, came closer and reached for Park’s sleeve. Park cocked a fist, saying: “If you want me for anything, you can get a warrant. Otherwise the Sooth’ll have a story about how you tried to kidnap the bishop, and how he knocked the living bejesus out of you!” The reporters made encouraging noises.
The hats gave up and got back in their car. With some remark about “… he’ll sure give us hell,” they departed. Park pulled the little handle on the door. Something went bong, bong inside. The reporters crowded around, asking questions. Park, trying to look the way a bishop should, held up a hand. “I’m very tired, gentlemen, but I’ll have a statement for you in a few days.”
They were still pestering him when the door opened. Inside, a small monkeylike fellow opened his mouth.
“Hallow Colman keep us from harm!” he cried.
“I’m sure he will,” said Park gravely, stepping in. “How about some food?”
“Surely, surely,” said Monkey-face. “But — but what on earth has your hallowship been doing? I’ve been fair sick with worry.”
“Peering the kilters, old boy, peering the kilters.” Park followed Monkey-face upstairs, as if he had intended going that way of his own accord. Monkey-face doddered into a bedroom and busied himself with getting out clean clothes. Park looked at a mirror. He was — as he had been throughout his metamorphoses — a stocky man with thinning light hair, in the middle thirties. While he was not Allister Park, neither was he very different from him.
The reddish stubble on his face would have to come off. In the bathroom Park found no razor. He stumbled on a contraption that might be an electric razor. He pushed the switch experimentally, and dropped the thing with a yell. It had bitten a piece out of his thumb. Holding the injured member, Park cut loose with the condemnatory vocabulary that ten years of work among New York City’s criminal class had given him.
Down in The Bottomlands (and Other Places) Page 14
