No Life of Their Own: And Other Stories

by Clifford D. Simak

  “Closest shave I’ve ever had,” he confessed.

  “Cave bear,” said Pascal. “Just one of the big life-forms you will find here.”

  Cameron stepped down from the tractor.

  “You’ll find out these animals aren’t the gun-shy brutes you two have been hunting,” he stated. “These babies don’t fear man. They figure man isn’t dangerous, if in fact they’ve ever seen a man. The Neanderthalers that are living somewhere in this country right now are no match for a brute like that.”

  Yancey wiped his brow again.

  “This is the damnest place I ever saw,” he declared. “Jack and me just step out for a smoke and a look-around. We aren’t gone five minutes and a bear jumps us.”

  Cameron guffawed.

  “Picked you out for breakfast,” he said.

  Yancey grimaced, but made no reply.

  Suddenly Cabot hunched forward, finger pointing to a patch of tall grass beyond the dead bear.

  “There’s something in there!” he whispered harshly.

  A tawny shape raced from the grass, landed on top of the bear’s brown body. With glinting claws and powerful teeth it laid back the hide on the great shoulder. Then, seeing the men, it backed away, its face twisted into a blood stained snarl.

  Yancey’s .45 leaped out of its holster and exploded almost as it cleared. One explosion blending with another, the gun set up a roll of thunder that beat against the ears of the four men.

  Still snarling, the tawny beast jerked to the impact of the heavy slugs. Then it sprawled and tumbled as Yancey’s gun clicked on an empty cartridge.

  But it was not dead. Snarling and spitting, it regained its feet, slunk low in a deadly slouch, razor-sharp, foot-long fangs bared in a murderous sneer.

  Cabot whipped out his revolver as Yancey rapidly clicked new cartridges into the cylinder. Cameron snapped the elephant gun to his shoulder. The rifle bellowed and the cat rolled over. Cabot slid his gun back into the holster.

  “Saber-tooth,” said Pascal coolly.

  “He sure carries lead,” Yancey commented, breathing hard.

  Cameron cradled the rifle in his arm and stared at the two animals.

  “Hunting,” he said. “Hell, this isn’t hunting. This is an eternal Custer’s last stand—a continuous battle in self-defense.”

  “Those critters sure are blood-thirsty,” agreed Yancey.

  “And,” he added, “not afraid of us.”

  Cameron blew smoke through the gun barrel.

  “Wonder how cave bear steaks taste,” he mused.

  Yancey looked the huge animal over.

  “Probably tougher than hell,” he said appraisingly.

  CHAPTER II

  The Centaurians

  From the office of Time Travel, Inc., on the 600th story of the Berkley stratosphere building, New York lay stretched below, a fairy city. Under the soft glow of millions of lights it took on an unearthly beauty. It was a city of slender pinnacles of pure white beauty, looping arches of rainbow hues, formal gardens and parks, gleaming towers of argent, black domes.

  Steve Clark liked the view. He often came here at night to sit and talk with his friend, Andy Smith, one of the ace pilots of the Time Travel service.

  Smith was reading the last edition of the Daily Rocket. Steve Clark had brought it in only a moment before, fresh from the press, and thrown it on the desk. Smith had it spread in the white circle thrown by the lone light. The rest of the office was in darkness. Beyond the desk lockers, other desks and record files loomed darkly. The time-machines themselves were in an adjoining room, ready for launching from the face of the building.

  “How’s business?” asked Clark, with his feet fixed firmly on top of the desk.

  Andy Smith grunted.

  “Not so good. It’s the fifty-sixth century, time-travel isn’t a novelty any more and our rates are too high. Didn’t have more than a dozen or two trips all week.” He jabbed his finger at the purple headlines. “Times seem to be all right for you newspaper fellows,” he said. “Lots of big news this afternoon.”

  “Yeah,” Steve Clark agreed. “The Centaurians again. They’re always good for a banner-line any day. Made a real haul this time.”

  “I should say so,” Smith said. “Martian bongo stones, eh? Fourteen of them. Largest and most perfect collection in the entire Solar System.”

  “That’s it,” said Clark. “The old man almost busted a blood vessel when that story came in an hour ago. Wanted to scoop the city.”

  Clark chuckled.

  “We did,” he said.

  Andy Smith folded the paper carefully.

  “Steve,” he said, “what are the Centaurians? Nobody seems to know.”

  “They’re super-crooks for one thing,” Clark said, “and when you’ve said that, you’ve said about all that anyone knows about them for sure. They’ve laughed at the best brains in the police business for the last five hundred years. And I figure they’ll still be laughing five hundred years from now if they live that long and there’s no reason to think they won’t. Unless they’re keeping it a secret, the flatfeet don’t even know where their hideout is located. They’ve made monkeys out of everyone. Hell, didn’t they steal a gold shipment out from under the nose of the Interplanetary Police, and keep it, too, in spite of the fact that every damn IP man in the System was turned loose on the case?”

  “You figure, then,” asked Smith, “that the Centaurians are real? That they are something that isn’t human. A super-gang of unearthly bandits?”

  “You know,” Clark replied, “a newspaperman doesn’t take to fables very easy. He breaks more myths than any other kind of critter I know. But, as a newspaper man, I’m telling you that these Centaurians aren’t human. Probably a lot of jobs have been blamed on them that they never had a thing to do with. But there are cases on record of eye-witnesses who saw them. Only two or three such instances in the last five hundred years, but they check up well.

  “All agree on vital points. They got tails and they’re covered with scales and instead of feet they have hoofs. Whatever they are, they don’t go in for penny-ante stuff. When they make a haul, it’s one that’s worthwhile. Those bongo stones. They were worth ten billion if they were worth a dime. And the shipload of IP gold.”

  Smith whistled.

  “Then you figure they came from Alpha Centauri?” he asked.

  “Either Alpha Centauri or some other place outside the System. Nothing like them have been found on any of the planets here. I always sort of figured they were fugitives from their own System. Maybe things got too hot for them, wherever they were, and they had to take it on the lam. Whatever they are or wherever they come from they sure have easy pickings here. They walk off with just about whatever they want to and nobody’s even come close to catching up with them.

  “I read some place, long time ago, that it is believed they came to Earth in some sort of a crazy space ship. Wrecked when it struck. The ship was smashed up and two or three of its occupants were killed—but I guess they never did find out much about them from that. The ship was all in pieces and the things in it were crushed to pulp. Maybe it was something or somebody else, not the Centaurians at all.”

  Steve Clark lighted a Venus-weed cigar and puffed.

  “Whatever they are,” he said, “they make damn good news copy.”

  Smith glanced at this watch.

  “I’ll be off in a few minutes,” he said. “What say we hop over to Paris and buy us a round of drinks?”

  “Sounds all right,” agreed Clark.

  Smith rose from his chair, stuffing the paper into his pocket. And standing there, beside the desk, he froze in astonishment.

  The office door was open and inside it stood a group of black-shrouded figures that seemed to blend with the darkness. Something gleamed in the light reflected from the polished
table-top.

  A voice spoke out of the darkness, a voice that spoke the English tongue with slurred accent.

  “You will please resume your seat,” it suggested.

  Smith sat down again and Clark, dropping his feet from the desk, jerked his chair around.

  “You also, sir,” said the voice.

  Clark obeyed. There was some metallic menace in those short, clipped, incredibly accented words which held a definite note of threat.

  Slowly, majestically, one of the black-shrouded figures strode forward, leaving his companions by the door. He stopped before the desk, still in the darkness, but better defined now in the reflections from the desk-top. The man wore dark glasses and he was shrouded in a dark cape, the edge of which trailed to the floor, covering his feet. A black cowl, a part of the cape, covered his head and draped over his face, hiding most of his features.

  Steve Clark felt the hair crawl at the back of his neck as he studied the visitor.

  Smith made his voice pleasant.

  “Anything I can do for you?” he asked.

  “Yes, there is,” said the strange, black-draped figure, and in the faint light Smith saw the quick, smooth flash of white teeth in the shadowed face. He couldn’t make out the face. Couldn’t see anything, in fact, except the flash of teeth when he spoke and the occasional dull shine of reflected light from the man’s eyes.

  The teeth flashed again.

  “I want a time-condensor,” he said.

  Andy Smith managed to choke back a gasp of astonishment, but his face was blank when he answered.

  “We don’t sell parts,” he said.

  “No,” said the black-robed one, and the single word sounded more like a challenge than a question.

  “There is no call for them,” Smith explained. “Time Travel has the only time-machines in existence. They operate under strict governmental supervision. No one else owns a time-machine. Naturally, the only ones who would have use for spare parts would be our own company.”

  “But you have an extra condensor?”

  “Several of them,” Smith admitted. “We have need of replacements frequently. It’s dangerous to go into time with a faulty condensor.”

  “I know that,” the other replied. “Contrary to what you may believe, there is at least one time machine in existence other than the ones you own. I have one.”

  Something like a chuckle sounded from his lips.

  “Strangely enough I obtained it from your company. Many years ago. I came here to get a condensor,” said the man. The ugly muzzle of some sort of a weapon poked from the folds of his cape. “I can take it by force if need be. I would prefer not to. On the other hand, if you would cooperate, I would be willing to pay.”

  He leaned closer to the desk. A hand flashed out of the cape, was visible for only an instant and then disappeared inside the cape again. But the hand had tossed several small round objects on the desk-top, objects that seemed to spin in a blaze of color under the lamp-light.

  “Bongo stones,” said the white teeth. “Not the ones stolen this afternoon. No way to identify them. But bongo stones. Worth a fortune.”

  Steve Clark stared at the stones, his mind spinning.

  Bongo stones! He counted them. Ten of them! In a flash he knew who this visitor was, knew that the myth of the Centaurians was true. For he had glimpsed that hand during the swift instant it had tossed the stones on the desk-top. A scaly hand, like the paw of a reptile. And the clicking of the thing’s feet when it walked was like the sound of cloven hoofs.

  Through his buzzing mind came the voice.

  “And now suppose I take a condensor under my arm and walk out. Leaving the stones behind.”

  Smith hesitated.

  The muzzle of the weapon gestured imperiously, impatiently.

  “Otherwise,” said the cold voice, “I shall kill you and take the condensor in any event.”

  Smith rose and walked mechanically to a locker. Steve Clark heard the rasp of a key as his friend opened the door to take out a condensor.

  But he still stared at the bongo stones.

  Now he knew why the police had never found the Centaurians’ hiding place. They had no hiding place! They were bandits in time! The whole scope of space and time for their operations! They could sack the Queen of Sheba’s mines one day and the next day move on to snatch treasures out of the remote future, treasures yet undreamed of!

  “Clever,” he said. “Damn clever.”

  Andy Smith was standing beside him, looking at the stones. They were alone in the room.

  “You gave them the condensor?” Clark asked.

  Smith nodded, dry-lipped.

  “There wasn’t anything else I could do, Steve.”

  Clark motioned toward the stones.

  “What about these, Andy?”

  “I was thinking,” Smith said. “We couldn’t sell them here—or anywhere else. They’d ask us how we got them. They’d lock us up. Probably before they got through with it, they’d prove we stole them and send us to the Moon-mines.”

  “There’s a way,” Clark suggested. He nodded toward the hangar where the time-machines were ranged.

  Smith wet his lips.

  “I thought of that,” he said. “After all, those fellows stole a time-machine from the company once. Probably the company never reported the loss. Afraid of what the government might do.”

  Silence hung like a breathing menace over the room.

  “Those were the Centaurians, weren’t they?” Andy Smith asked.

  Clark nodded. Then waited.

  “The company will throw me out for this,” said Smith bitterly. “After ten years of working with them.”

  Pounding feet sounded in the corridor outside.

  Clark’s hand shot out and scooped up the stones.

  “Can’t let anyone find us with these on us,” he whispered huskily. “Let’s duck into the hangar.”

  Swiftly the two leaped through the doorway into the darkened room. Crouched under the wing of one of the time-fliers, they saw figures come into the room they had just quitted. Figures in police uniforms.

  The police stood stock-still in the center of the room, staring.

  “What’s going on here?” shouted one of them.

  Silence fell more heavily.

  “What do you think that fellow meant, telling us he saw some funny looking birds coming out of here?” one of them asked the other two.

  “Let’s look in the hangar,” one of the policemen said. He leveled a flash and a spear of light cut the deep gloom, just missing the two men crouched under the wing of the time-flier.

  Clark felt Smith tugging at him.

  “We got to get out of here,” Smith hissed in his ear.

  Clark nodded in the darkness. And he knew there was only one way to get out of there.

  Together they tumbled through the door of the time-flier.

  “Here we go,” said Smith. “We’re criminals now, Steve.”

  The machine lurched out through the suddenly opened lock.

  The time mechanism hummed and two men, one with ten bongo stones in his pocket, fled through time.

  CHAPTER III

  Anachronic Treasure

  Old One-Eye was fighting his last battle. His great stone-ax lay out of reach, its handle broken, swept from his hand by a blow aimed at him by the mighty cat. His body was mauled and across one shoulder was a deep wound from which a stream of crimson trickled down his hairy chest.

  To flee was useless. One-Eye knew that he could not out-distance Saber-Tooth. There was only one thing to do—stand and fight. So with shoulders hunched, with his hands poised and ready for action, with his one eye gleaming balefully, the Neanderthal man faced the cat.

  The animal snarled and spat, its tail twitching, crouched for a leap. Its long, curv
ed fangs slashed angrily at the air.

  One-Eye had no delusions about what was going to happen. He had killed many saber-tooths in his life. In company with others of his kind, he had faced the charge of the great cave-bear. He had trailed and brought down the mighty mammoth. In his day One-Eye had been a great hunter, an invincible warrior. But now he had reached the end of life. A man’s two hands were no weapon against the tooth and claw of a saber-toothed tiger. One-Eye knew he was going to be killed.

  Dry brush crackled back of the cat and the saber-tooth pivoted swiftly at this threat of new danger from the rear. One-Eye straightened and froze in his tracks.

  Conrad Yancey, standing at the edge of the brush, slowly raised his rifle.

  “I reckon this has gone about far enough,” he said. “A man’s got to stick by his own kind.”

  Startled, the great cat’s snarls rose into a siren of hate and fear.

  Yancey lined the sights on the ugly head and squeezed the trigger. The saber-tooth leaped into the air, screaming in rage and terror. Again the rifle blazed and the cat straightened, reared on its hind legs, fell backward to the ground, coughing great streams of blood.

  Across the body of the beast One-Eye and Yancey exchanged glances.

  “You put up a swell battle,” Yancey told the Neanderthaler. “I watched you for quite a spell. Glad I was around to help.”

  Petrified by terror, One-Eye stood stock-still, staring. His nostrils twitched as he sniffed the strange smells which had come with the stranger and his shining spear. The spear, when it spoke in a voice of thunder, had a smell all its own, a smell that stung One-Eye’s sensitive nostrils and his throat and made him want to cough.

  Yancey took a slow, tentative step toward the Neanderthaler. But when the sub-man stirred as if to flee, he stopped short and stood almost breathless.

  Yancey saw that the Neanderthaler’s left eye at some time had been scooped out of his head by the vicious blow of a cruelly taloned paw. Deep scratches and a tortuous malformation of the region above the cheek-bone told a story of some terrible battle of the wilderness.

  Short of stature and slightly stooping of posture, the Neanderthaler was a model of awkward power. His head was thrust forward at an angle between his shoulders. His neck was thick as a tree boll. The long arms hung almost to the knees of the bowed legs and the body was completely covered with hair. The heavy bristle of hair on his enormously projecting eyebrows was snowy white and throughout the heavy coat of hair which covered the man were other streaks and sprinklings of gray and white.