Far Out

by Damon Knight

  “Oh!” said Fish, and he kicked another crate hard. Slats gave, and something fell out, a little yellow booklet. Fish glimpsed more black-enamelled machinery inside. He bent wildly to pick up the booklet and tried to tear it across, but it hurt his hands. He threw it across the room, shouting, “Well, then!” He danced from one crate to another, kicking. Slats littered the floor. Gleaming machines stood up from the mess, some with dials, some without. Fish stopped, out of breath, and stared at them with a new bewilderment.

  A trick—no, it couldn’t be. Big industrial machines like that—it wasn’t like ordering something from a department store. But then what? A mistake. Fish sat down on the arm of a chair and frowned, scrubbing his beard with his fingers. In the first place, now, he hadn’t signed anything. Even if they came back tomorrow, if he could manage to get rid of say one piece, he could always claim there had been eight instead of nine. Or suppose he even got rid of all of it, discreetly of course, then when they came back he could simply deny the whole thing. Say he never heard of any machinery. Fish’s nerves began to twitch. He jumped up, looked around, sat down again. Speed, speed, that was the thing. Get it over with. But what kind of machinery was it?

  Fish frowned, squirmed, got up and sat down. Finally he went to the phone, looked up a number and dialled. He smoothed down his vest, cleared his throat musically. “Ben? This is Gordon Fish, Ben… Just fine. Now, Ben—” his voice dropped confidentially—“I happen to have a client who wants to dispose of a Teckning Maskin. Eight—What? Teckning Maskin. It’s machinery, Ben. T-E-C-K-N-I-N-G—No? Well, that’s the name they gave me. I have it written down right here. You never—Well, that’s funny. Probably some mistake. I tell you, Ben, I’ll check back and see. Yes, thanks a lot. Thanks, Ben, bye-bye.”

  He hung up, chewing his whiskers in vexation. If Ben Abrams had never heard of it, then there couldn’t be any market for it, not in this part of the country anyhow… Something funny. He was beginning to have a hunch about this thing now. Something… He prowled around the machines, looking at them this way and that. Here was another engraved white plate; it said “TECKNING MASKIN”, and under that “BANK 1”, and then two columns of numbers and words: “3 Folk, 4 Djur, 5 Byggnader”, and so on, a lot more. Crazy words; it didn’t even look like any language he’d ever heard of. And then those maniacs in the purple uniforms… Wait a minute! Fish snapped his fingers, stopped, and stood in a pose of thought. Now what was it that fellow had said just as he was leaving? It had made him mad, Fish remembered—something like, “Boy, are you a dvich.” Made him mad as a hornet; it sounded insulting, but what did it mean?

  And then that kind of earthquake just before they got here—woke him up out of a sound sleep, left him feeling all funny. And then another one after they left—only riot an earthquake, because he remembered distinctly that the palm trees didn’t even tremble.

  Fish ran his finger delicately over the shining curved edge of the nearest machine. His heart was thumping; his tongue came out to lick his lips. He had a feeling—no, he really knew—nobody would be coming back for the machines.

  They were his. Yes, and there was money in them, somewhere; he could smell it. But how? What did they do?

  He opened all the crates carefully. In one of them, instead of a machine, there was a metal box full of creamy-thick sheets of paper. They were big rectangular sheets, and they looked as if one would just about fit onto the flat centre space on the biggest machine. Fish tried one, and it did.

  Well, what could go wrong? Fish rubbed his fingers nervously, then turned the switch on. The dials lighted and the hooked arms drifted out, as before, but nothing else happened.

  Fish leaned nearer again and looked at the other controls. There was a pointer and a series of marks labelled “Av”, “Bank 1”, “Bank 2”, and so on down to “Bank 9”. He moved the pointer cautiously to “Bank 1”. The arms moved a little, slowly, and stopped.

  What else? Three red buttons marked “Utplåna”, “Torka” and “Avslå” . He pressed one down, but nothing happened. Then a series of white ones, like on an adding machine, all numbered. He pressed one down at random, then another, and was about to press a third when he leaped back in alarm. The hooked arms were moving, rapidly and purposefully. Where they passed over the paper, thin darkgrey lines were growing.

  Fish leaned closer, his mouth open and his eyes bulging. The little points under the ends of the arms were riding smoothly over the paper, leaving graceful lines behind them. The arms moved, contracted on their little pivots and springs, swept this way and that, lifted slightly, dropped again and moved on. Why, the machine was drawing—drawing a picture while he watched! There was a face forming under the arm over on the right, then a neck and shoulder—kind of a sappy-looking man, it was, like a Greek statue. Then over here on the left, at the same time, another arm was drawing a bull’s head, with some kind of flowers between the horns. Now the man’s body—he was wearing one of those Greek togas or whatever you call them—and the back of the bull curving around up on top. And now the man’s arm, and the bull’s tail, and now the other arm, and the bull’s hind legs.

  There it was. A picture of a man throwing flowers at this bull, who was kind of leaping and looking at the man over his shoulder. The arms of the machine stopped moving, and then pulled back out of sight. The lights went out, and the switch clicked by itself back to “På” .

  Fish took the paper and looked it over, excited but a little disappointed. He didn’t know anything about art, of course, but he knew this was no good—all flat looking and kind of simple, like a kid would draw. And that bull—whoever saw a bull dancing like that? With flowers between its horns? Still, if the machine would draw this, maybe it would draw something better; he couldn’t quite see the angle. Where would you sell drawings, even good ones? But it was there, somewhere. Exhibit the machine, like in a fair of science and industry? No, his mind hurriedly buried the thought—too exposed, too many questions. Heavens, if Vera found out he was still alive, or if the police in Scranton…

  Drawings. A machine that made drawings. Fish looked at it, all eight lumpy black-enamelled massive pieces of it scattered around his living room. It seemed like a lot of machinery just to make drawings. He admitted it: he was disappointed. He had expected, well, metal stampings or something like that, something real. Crash, bang, the big metal jaw comes down, and tink, the bright shaped piece falls out into the basket. There was machinery for you; but this…

  Fish sat back and pondered, twitching the paper disapprovingly between his fingers. Things were always letting him down like this. Really, his best line was marriage. He had been married five times, and always made a little profit out of it. He smoothed the vest down over his suety front. Between times, he turned to whatever was handy—marital counselling some years, or gave life readings if he could get enough clients, or naturopathy. It all depended. But somehow every time it looked as if he had a real gold mine, it slipped out from under his hand. He reddened with discomfort as he thought of the one winter he had been forced to go to work in a shoe store… Having this house had softened him up, too, he had been getting lazy—just a client or two a week for life readings. He ought to be getting busy, working up new contacts before his money ran out.

  The thought of poverty made him ravenously hungry, as it always did. He kneaded his stomach. Time for lunch. He got his jacket hurriedly, and, as an afterthought, rolled up the drawing—it would not fold—and tucked it under his arm.

  He drove to the barbecue place three blocks down the boulevard where he had been eating a lot of his meals lately, to save funds. The counterman was a young fellow named Dave, lean and pale, with a lock of straight dark hair falling over his forehead. Fish had got into friendly conversation with him and knew he was going to art school nights, over in Pasadena. Fish had tried to get him over for a life reading, but the youngster had said frankly that he “didn’t believe in it” in such an honest and friendly way that Fish bore him no ill-will.

  “
Bowl o’ chile, Dave,” he said cheerfully, hoisting himself up on a stool with the rolled drawing precariously on his lap. His feet dangled; the paper was squeezed tight between his vest and the counter.

  “Hello, Doc. Coming up.” Fish hunched forward over the bowl, loosening his collar. The one other customer paid and left.

  “Say, Dave,” said Fish indistinctly, munching, “like to get your opinion of something. Unh.” He managed to get the rolled paper free and opened it on the counter. “What do you think—is it any good?”

  “Say,” said Dave, coming nearer. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Mm. Nephew of mine,” Fish answered readily. “He wants me to advise him, you know, if he should go on with it, because—”

  “Go on with it! Well, say. Where’s he been studying, anyhow?”

  “Oh, just by himself, you know—back home.” Fish took another mouthful. “Ver” bright boy, you understand, but—”

  “Well, if he learned to draw like that all by himself, why he must be a world-beater.”

  Fish forgot to chew. “You really mean it?”

  “Why, sure. Listen, are you sure he drew this himself, Doc?”

  “Oh, certainly.” Fish waved the imputation of dishonesty away. “Ver’ honest boy, I know’m well. No, ’f he tells me he drew it, why—” he swallowed—“he drew it. But now don’t fool me, is it—do you really think it’s as good—”

  “Well, I tell you the truth, when I first saw it, I thought Picasso. You know, his classical period. Of course I see now it’s different, but, my gosh, it’s good. I mean, if you want my opinion, why—”

  Fish was nodding to indicate that this only confirmed his own diagnosis. “M-hm. M-hm. Well, I’m glad to hear you say it, son. You know, being a relative of the boy, I thought—Of course, i’m very impressed. Very impressed. I thought of Picasso, too, same as you. Of course, now from the money end of it—” he wagged his head dolefully—“you know and I know…” .

  Dave scratched his head under the white cap. “Oh, well, he ought to be able to get commissions, all right. I mean, if I had a line like that—” He traced in air the outline of the man’s lifted arm.

  “Now, when you say commissions,” Fish said, squirming with eagerness.

  “Oh, well, you know, for portraits, or industrial designs or, you know, whatever he wants to go in for.” Dave shook his head in admiration, staring at the drawing. “If this was only in colour.”

  “How’s that, Dave?”

  “Why, I was just thinking—see, there’s a competition up in San Gabriel for a civic centre mural. Ten-thousand-dollar prize. Now I don’t know, it might not win, but why don’t you have him render this in colour and send it in?”

  “Colour,” said Fish blankly. The machine wouldn’t colour anything, he was sure. He could get a box of water colour paints, but… “Well, now, the fact is,” he said, hastily revolving ideas, “you know, the boy is laid up. Hurt his hand—oh, not serious,” he said reassuringly (Dave’s mouth had fallen into an O of sympathy), “but won’t be able to draw any more pictures for a while. It’s a shame, he could use the money, you know, for doctor bills.” He chewed and swallowed. “Tell you, this is just a wild idea, now, but why couldn’t you colour it up and send it in, Dave? Course if it doesn’t win, I couldn’t pay you, but—”

  “Well, gee, I don’t know how he’d like that, Doc. I mean suppose he’d have something else in mind, like some other colour scheme altogether. You know, I wouldn’t like to—

  “I’ll take full responsibility,” said Fish firmly. “Don’t you worry about that, and if we win, why I’Il see that you’re paid handsomely for your work, Dave. Now there, how’s that?”

  “Well, sure, then, Doc. I mean, sure,” said Dave, nodding and blushing. “I’ll do it tonight and tomorrow, and get it right off in the mail. Okay? Then—oh, uh, one thing, what’s your nephew’s name?”

  “George Wilmington,” said Fish at random. He pushed the cleaned chile bowl away. “And, uh, Dave, I believe I’ll have an order of ribs, with French fries on the side.”

  Fish went home with a vastly increased respect for the machine. The civic centre competition, he was positive, was in the bag. Ten thousand dollars! For one drawing! Why, there was millions in it! He closed and locked the front door carefully behind him, and pulled down the Venetian blinds to darken the gloomy little living room still further. He turned on the lights. There the machine still was, all eight gleaming pieces of it, scattered around on the floor, the furniture, everywhere. He moved excitedly from one piece to another, caressing the slick black surfaces with his palm. All that expensive machinery—all his!

  Might as well put it through its paces again, just to see. Fish got another sheet of creamy paper from the stack, put it in position, and turned the switch to “På”. He watched with pleasure as the dials lighted, the hooked arms drifted out and began to move. Lines grew on the paper: first some wavy ones at the top—could be anything. And farther down, a pair of long, up-curved lines, kind of like handlebars. It was like a puzzle, trying to figure out what it was going to be,

  Under the wavy lines, which Fish now perceived to be hair, the pointer drew eyes and a nose. Meanwhile the other one was gliding around the outline of what, it became clear in a moment, was a bull’s head. Now here came the rest of the girl’s face, and her arm and one leg—not bad, but kind of beefy—and now the bull’s legs, sticking out all different ways, and then, whoops, it wasn’t a bull: there was the whatyoumaycallum with the teats swinging; it was a cow. So, a girl riding on a cow, with flowers between its horns like before.

  Fish looked at the drawing in disappointment. People and cows—was that all the thing could do?

  He scrubbed his beard in vexation. Why, for heaven’s sake, suppose somebody wanted a picture of something besides bulls and people? It was ridiculous—eight big pieces of machinery…

  Wait a minute. “Don’t go off half cocked, Gordon,” he told himself aloud. That was what Florence, his second, always used to say, except she always called him “Fishy”. He winced with discomfort at the memory. Well, anyway, he noticed now that the same buttons he had pressed down before were still down. That must have something to do with it. Struck by another thought, he trotted over and looked at the machine marked “Bank 1”. Now this list here; number 3 was “Folk”, and number 4 was “Djur”. Those were the numbers he had pressed on the big machine, so… maybe “folk” meant people, and “djur,” why, that might be some crazy word for bulls. Then if he pressed a different set of buttons, why, the machine would have to draw something else.

  In fifteen minutes he verified that this was the case. Pressing down the first two buttons, “Land” and “Planta”, gave him drawings of outdoor scenes, just hills and trees. “Folk” was people, and “Djur” seemed to be animals; now he got goats or dogs instead of bulls. “Byggnader” was buildings.

  Then it got more complicated.

  A button marked “Arbete” gave him pictures of people at work; one labelled “Kärlek” produced scenes of couples kissing—all in the kind of Greek-looking clothes—and the landscapes and buildings were sort of vague and dreamy. Then there was a whole row of buttons under the heading “Plats”, and another headed “Tid”, that seemed to control the time and place of the pictures. For instance, when he pressed “Egyptisk” and “Gammal”, along with “Folk”, “Byggnader” and, on a hunch, the word he had decided meant religion, he got a picture of some priests in Egyptian headdresses bowing in front of a big statue of Horus. Now there was something!

  The next day he nailed up the crates again, leaving the 41 j tops loose so that he could remove them whenever he wanted to use the machines. In the process, he came across the little yellow booklet he had thrown away. There were diagrams in it, some of which made sense and some didn’t, but the printing was all in the same unfamiliar language. Fish put the booklet away in a bureau drawer, under an untidy heap of clothes, and forgot about it. Grunting and sweating, he managed to push the
smaller crates into corners and rearranged the furniture so there was room to put the big one against the wall. It still looked terrible, but at least he could get around, and have clients in, and he could see the TV again.

  Every day he ate lunch at the barbecue place, or at least stopped in, and every day, when Dave saw him .come in, he shook his head. Then all afternoon he would sit with a glass of beer, or maybe a plate of nuts or fudge, watching the machine draw. He used up all the paper in the stack and started turning them over to use the other sides.

  But where was the money coming from? After some thought, Fish built a simple magic-writing box, and used it with his Egyptian drawings—he had a dozen, all of different gods, but after the first one the machine didn’t draw any priests—to show clients what they had been up to in previous incarnations. He began to get a little more business, and once or twice his instinct told him he could raise the fee on account of the drawings, but that was only pocket money. He knew there was millions in it, he could almost taste it, but where?

  Once it occurred to him that maybe he could take out a patent on the machine and sell it. Trouble with that was, he didn’t have any idea how the thing worked. It seemed like the little machines must have pictures inside, or pieces of pictures, and the big machine put them together—how? Fuming with impatience, Fish took the big crate apart again, moved furniture out of the way, and fumbled at the smooth black side of the machine to see if there was any way of opening it up.

  After a moment his fingers found two shallow depressions in the metal; he pushed experimentally, then pressed upward, and the side plate of the machine came off in his hands.

  It weighed almost nothing. Fish put it aside, staring doubtfully into the interior of the machine. It was all dark in there, nothing but a few very tiny specks of light, like mica dust banging motionless. No wires, no nothing. Fish got a sheet of paper arid put it in position, and turned the machine on. Then he squatted down. The tiny specks of light seemed to be moving, circling slowly around one another in time to the motion of the drawing arms. It was darker in there, and looked farther away, somehow, than it had any right to.