A Star Above It and Other Stories

by Chad Oliver

  Jimmy Walls looked thoughtful. Then: “No,” he said suddenly. His blue eyes glistened. “I want to be a—”

  A horrible thought crossed Harry Royal’s mind and he cut Jimmy short. “Let’s talk about baseball,” he boomed heartily. “Grand old game, baseball. I’ll bet you like baseball, eh, Jimmy?” He wouldn’t have bet much, he assured himself.

  “It’s all right, I guess.” Jimmy wasn’t very enthused.

  “I’ll bet you get real excited when you listen to a game, don’t you?” continued Harry doggedly.

  “No,” said Jimmy, “It’s not near as much fun as—”

  “Football,” supplied Harry Royal. “Football. Grand old game.” He looked grimly at the studio clock. Two minutes to go.

  “I didn’t mean—” Jimmy began patiently.

  “Ha, ha. Of course you didn’t mean all that about killing people, Jimmy. Boys will be boys, yes, sir! Old Uncle Harry understands. You don’t have to explain to him, no, sir.”

  For once in his life, Harry Royal didn’t know what to say. He winked again at the studio audience and decided to end it before Jimmy started off on another grisly tangent. “Well, Jimmy!” he said cheerfully, “I’ve sure enjoyed having you up here on The Boy Next Door, and I’m sure that all your little friends have enjoyed listening to you, too. I’m sorry that the little old clock tells me that our time is up. Good-by, Jimmy Walls! We hope that you’ll be back with us again real soon.” Over my dead body, thought Harry.

  “Good-by, Mr. Royal,” said Jimmy politely.

  “Yes, sir,” Harry continued. “Ha, ha. We had quite a time this evening here on The Boy Next Door, and I hope that all of you enjoyed Jimmy Walls as much as your Uncle Harry did. Yes, sir. You all want to be on hand again tomorrow, same time, same station, when old ZNOX, here in the Hotel Murphy, will again present your favorite program and mine, The Boy Next Door. Until then, this is your old friend, Harry Royal, wishing each and every one of you a very pleasant good evening.”

  Harry signaled the engineer and cut off the microphone. He sighed shortly. What a mess! How could he ever explain it? Of course, it wasn’t his fault; he had done all he could. But try to tell that to the brass in the office! He wasn’t looking forward to the occasion.

  The studio was almost empty now. The silence began to hang heavily over the sound-proofed room, with the only sounds drifting in from the hall outside. As he watched, the last of the audience filed through the door, and the door closed behind him. Even the engineer had left. The silence was complete.

  “Mr. Royal?” questioned a small voice.

  Harry turned around slowly, hoping against hope that he hadn’t identified that voice correctly. But he had. It was Jimmy Walls, sitting in one of the metal chairs on the stage. “What are you doing here?” demanded Harry. He felt distinctly uncomfortable. “Haven’t you got a ride home?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But it hasn’t come yet, is that it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, it’ll be along shortly,” Harry Royal assured him. “It was nice knowing you.” He started to leave.

  “Mr. Royal?”

  Harry stopped. “Yes?” he questioned sharply.

  “Mr. Royal, will you wait here with me until my ride comes? I’d be scared in here.” Jimmy Walls looked small and afraid in the bright studio lights.

  Harry Royal hesitated. He didn’t like studios, especially empty ones. They gave him the creeps; they were too quiet. But he was in enough hot water now—if he left the kid in there alone, and the big wigs found out about it, it wouldn’t help things any. After all, he told himself, it’s just a little kid.

  “You scared?” he laughed nervously. “That’s a good one.”

  “I’d be scared all by myself, honest, Mr. Royal. Don’t leave me here.” Jimmy Walls looked up at him imploringly with big, blue eyes.

  “Your parents coming here for you?” Harry asked, somewhat mollified.

  “No, sir.”

  “I thought you said you had a ride home.”

  “I do, sir. Uncle George is coming.”

  That icy centipede tripped down Harry’s spine again. He became acutely aware of the deserted studio, with its empty rows of staring seats. They were utterly alone. No one could hear through those sound-proofed walls. He looked narrowly at the small figure before him—young, blue-eyed.

  He’s just a kid. Relax!

  “Uncle George,” said Harry slowly. “That’s the one who fixes things up for you?”

  “Gosh, yes! He tells me just what to do. He sure is smart!”

  “The one who looks like a man, but isn’t?” Harry Royal wanted to hear his voice say that. It made him feel better; the whole thing was so ridiculous.

  “Oh, you can tell.”

  “You certainly have some imagination, Jimmy.” Harry hoped that it was imagination. It had better be imagination. He looked at Jimmy Walls speculatively. Jimmy Walls looked at him the same way.

  “You’ll be good,” Jimmy said suddenly,

  Harry felt the silence close in around him. He couldn’t laugh, somehow. It wasn’t funny any more. He decided that it was time for him to leave, ride or no ride.

  Footsteps,

  “Here comes Uncle George now,” Jimmy said.

  The steps paused outside the studio door. Uncle George walked in. “See?” inquired Jimmy Walls proudly. “He looks human.”

  Harry Royal took a deep breath of relief. Uncle George was human. Of course he was! A nice little fat man with a red face who wheezed as he walked. Harry noted the conservative gray suit, the old hickory walking stick.

  Jimmy Walls waved happily. “Hi, Uncle George!”

  The cheery little fat man grinned at Harry Royal and patted Jimmy affectionately. “Hello, Jimmy my boy! Hello there!” He turned to Harry Royal and extended his hand.

  “I’m George Johnson,” he chuckled. He had a rich, mellow voice that bubbled with good nature. “I hope I haven’t detained you? I heard the broadcast, but was unavoidably detained.”

  “Uncle George never goes out while the sun is up,” Jimmy explained.

  George Johnson laughed heartily, shaking Harry’s hand. He had a firm, pleasant grip. “I hope Jimmy’s talk hasn’t upset you,” he said solicitously.

  “Not at all,” lied Harry. “The boy has quite an imagination.”

  “Yes, yes! Jimmy’s quite a talker, aren’t you, Jimmy?”

  Jimmy Walls squirmed nervously.

  “Ha, ha,” laughed Harry Royal. “Jimmy’s been telling me that you help him kill people.” He winked at George Johnson.

  “He does,” insisted Jimmy. “Don’t you, Uncle George?”

  George Johnson straightened Jimmy’s tie for him and laughed jovially. “Now, Jimmy,” he admonished. “You say good-by to Mr. Royal.”

  “Good-by, Mr. Royal,” Jimmy said, a gleam of delight in his blue eyes.

  “Good-by, Jimmy!” answered Harry Royal, unheeding. He felt fine now. “See you around, Mr. Johnson!”

  “Quite possibly, quite possibly,” bubbled Uncle George. He steered Jimmy Walls to the door and out of the studio. The happy little fat man turned back to Harry Royal, his red face beaming.

  Harry Royal laughed and winked prodigiously.

  Uncle George smiled and turned away again.

  What is he doing? What is—

  Harry Royal’s heart pounded treacherously. His face paled suddenly and he clutched desperately at the dead microphone.

  Uncle George was backing toward him from the studio door. That wasn’t so bad. No. But in the exact center of the back of his balding head was a large, blue eye. And it winked at him with a hideous regularity, over and over again. Wink—step—wink—step—wink—

  Harry Royal caught a fleeting glimpse of little Jimmy Walls. His small, eager face peered intently from the studio doorway, shining blue eyes wide in anticipation.

  A STAR ABOVE IT

  There’s no road has not a star above it.

  —Emerso
n

  I

  The room around them was big and solid and familiar. It had a hardwood maple floor, brightened considerably by several genuine antique Navajo rugs in patterns of warm reds, blacks, and grays. It had soft pine walls, with the knots showing. There were five good paintings, four of them modern and one a Gauguin almost two centuries old. The chairs were comfortable, the one desk substantial.

  Wade Dryden leaned forward in his chair. His first reaction was only one of incredulity, but already the back of his mind was grateful for the no-nonsense style of the room. It gave him something to hang onto, and he had a feeling he was going to need it.

  “They found what?” he asked, knowing well enough that he had heard it correctly the first time.

  “Horses,” Heinrich Chamisso repeated. His rather thin hand was flat on the desk, motionless except for his thumb. The thumb tapped rapidly, nervously. It was a mannerism that Wade was used to, but it wasn’t unduly soothing to the nervous system. “H-o-r-s-e. Equus caballus. Old Paint.”

  Wade kept talking, determined not to allow the silence to fall in on him. “Maybe I got the date wrong, Hank. When did you say they spotted them?”

  “The month was June, if you want it in terms of our own calendar.” The circles around Chamisso’s eyes were heavy, but the eyes themselves were clear and alert. The thumb kept rapping. “The year was 1445. There’s no question about the date, Wade—the horses were reported by a regular Survey party, and we double-checked by sending a Security team back. Dave Toney turned in the final certification—you know him?”

  “I know him.” Wade felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

  “Permit me to anticipate your next request,” Chamisso said with a faint smile. “The horses were found in Mexico. Central Mexico, to be precise. And don’t, please, ask me if I’m trying to be funny. I’ve got half the World Council on my neck now, and I am not amused.”

  “What have you done about it?”

  Chamisso shrugged. “What can I do? I’ve got Security teams checking the line from 1300 right on up to the present. All new requests for time permits are being stalled. There are over four hundred screened scholars already in the field, some of them way back in the Mesozoic, and three of ’em even in the Paleozoic; we can’t just yank them back, but we’re keeping an eye on them.”

  “All of which is fine and dandy,” Wade said. “Of course, it won’t solve the problem, will it?”

  “Mostly window dressing,” Chamisso admitted. “It sounds good to the Council; that’s about all.”

  “Do they know how serious it is?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt it—but it’s only a matter of time, naturally, and please excuse the pun.”

  “Let me guess the rest,” Wade said sourly. “You’ve held an emergency meeting with the Time Security Commission, and you and Senator Winans have decided that I’ll volunteer for the job.”

  “I’m afraid that’s about the size of it, Wade. Maybe we’ll squeeze through an appropriation to raise your pension if you get back.”

  “I’ll go alone, I suppose?”

  “Sorry—but that is the best way to handle it.”

  Wade Dryden reached down into his coat pocket and extracted a singularly unlovely pipe. He slid a cube of cheap tobacco into it, waited the necessary five seconds for it to ignite, and then blew a shaky smoke ring at nothing in particular. He stood up and began to pace the room, his feet slipping slightly when the Navajo rug skidded on the maple floor. His tall, lanky body seemed to be relaxed, but his narrow, pleasantly ugly face was tense.

  “Horses,” he said slowly. “Who would do a thing like that?”

  Chamisso took a folder out of his desk. He pulled out a three-dimensional photograph and handed it to Wade. He didn’t say anything.

  Wade Dryden looked at the picture, and shivered.

  It was a good photograph, taken for a time passport. The face was sharp and clear in the print; it was like holding a head in your hands.

  The face that confronted Wade was smiling, just a little. It was a strong face—firm features, clear blue eyes, an air of comfortable amiability. The hair was white, and neatly combed.

  If there was evil in that face, it was too subtle for any camera to catch. The face, trite as it seemed, was a nice face.

  That was the chilling part.

  “What’s his name?”

  The thumb tapped on. “Not a very sinister one, I’m afraid. His name is Daniel Hughes; everyone calls him Dan. He’s sixty years old, and he’s back there on a regular permit, issued by our Cincinnati office. He was screened, of course, and found eminently responsible—too responsible, maybe, but that’s hindsight. Daniel Hughes is a historian by trade—got a Ph.D. from Harvard, the usual monographs, and the rest of the standard equipment. He’s never been in any real trouble. He’s well thought of in his profession. He’s a specialist on the early high cultures of Middle and South America, particularly Central Mexico.”

  “Ummm.” Wade looked at the picture again. “He’s got all his marbles, I presume?”

  “He’s sane.” Chamisso frowned. “He has a reputation for being on an even keel—very stable, easy-going, something of a plodder.”

  “He sure doesn’t look like a guy who would try a stunt like that.”

  “How do you know?” Chamisso smiled coldly. “No one ever tried a stunt like this before, or even one remotely resembling it. Different kinds of crimes attract different sorts of personalities.”

  “You’d call this a crime?”

  “Legally, yes. What else can I call it?”

  Wade laughed. “I guess you’d call a guy who sets fire to the world a pyromaniac.”

  “I guess I would.”

  He looked at Chamisso, who met his gaze squarely. Wade shook his head. He’d known Chamisso for thirty years, and the man still surprised him.

  Wade dropped the photograph back in the folder, returned to his chair, and sat down. He inspected his pipe to make certain that the fine ash in the bowl had disintegrated, then stuck the pipe in his pocket.

  “Where did he get the horses?” he asked. “How many does he have?”

  “He’s got about fifty,” Chamisso said. “Both mares and stallions. That number is not absolutely certain, but it’s close. We don’t know where he got them. We’ve been running down the line trying to find out, naturally—but no luck so far.”

  “He couldn’t have had them with him when he left, could he? I don’t think even the Cincinnati office could overlook fifty head of horses.”

  Chamisso changed hands, and his other thumb took up the incessant rapping. “No, he didn’t have them at this end. There’s been some fiddle-faddle somewhere along the line, of course, and somebody’s head is going to roll for it, but that’s not your problem. He must have stopped off somewhere—it might have been 1900, 1800, anywhere—and picked ’em up on the way back. How that could have happened without any report being filed on it I don’t know—but I will know.”

  “He could have gotten them in Europe in 1445,” Wade suggested.

  “Possible, yes. Probable, no. Columbus was still half a century away, and I’m sure he didn’t swim those horses across the damn ocean.”

  Wade frowned. “There were even horses in America once, weren’t there? Native ones. I mean?”

  “That’s a thought. There were horses in the New World, but they were extinct around the end of the Pleistocene. He might have picked up some horses back there, but it would have been almost impossible—he would have to had to domesticate wild stallions all by his lonesome, and then haul them maybe twenty thousand years from the end of the Pleistocene to 1445. I can’t see that, frankly. Anyway, how he got them there isn’t the question. The horses are there. That’s all you need to know.”

  Wade leaned forward. “Hank, how serious do you think it is? On the level?”

  The thumb stopped tapping. “We’ve been living with the cobalt bomb for over a century,” Chamisso said. His rather frail body suddenly loo
ked old behind his desk. “It hasn’t gone off, thank God—but it could go off. Those horses are a time bomb, Wade, and I use the term intentionally. They may fizzle on their own—even with Daniel Hughes monkeying with the fuse. Their effect may be localized, and cancel itself out before it gets to us. But 1445 in Central Mexico is just about the right distance away from 1520, and that means Cortes. If we don’t wipe this thing out now—wipe it out completely—there’s a very good chance that our civilization will disappear, and us with it. That’s how serious I think it is.”

  The words deepened the anxiety that Wade already felt. “You don’t think a team would work better? Suppose I make a mistake?”

  “Don’t make a mistake,” Chamisso said flatly. The thumb resumed its tapping. “In a situation like this, the less disturbance we make the greater our chances for success are. That means one man, at least at first. We’ve got human lives to think about, Wade; we can’t fool around with personal preferences. You know that.”

  Wade took a deep breath. He knew. “Okay, Hank. We’ll play it your way. Where do I start?”

  “Right here.” Chamisso nodded at the folder. “First, you digest what we’ve got on Hughes. After that, I want you to go to some people who knew him—his wife is still here, by the way—and get your own impressions, Daniel Hughes is the key to this whole thing, and you’ll have to know how to handle him. When you think you’re ready—and take all the time you need, so long as it isn’t over two weeks—we’ll set you down smack on his roof in 1445, if he’s got a roof. Then you’re on your own. We’ll have a Security squad standing by, but don’t call on them unless it’s absolutely necessary. If you slip up we’ll have to send a really big team in to patch things up and remold the culture—and that just might not work at all.”

  Wade looked again at the smiling, white-haired man in the photograph.

  Chamisso nodded. “Kill him if you have to,” he said.

  Wade scooped up the folder, left the room, and hurried outside to his copter.