“Hang on!” Paxton yelled idiotically, rushed forward and grabbed a corner of the rising disk of earth. It dipped steeply, stopped for a moment, and began to rise again. By then Herrera had his knife out, and was slashing the grass around his ankles. Stellman came unfrozen when he saw Paxton rising past his head.
Stellman seized him by the ankles, arresting the flight of the disk once more. Herrera wrenched one foot free and threw himself over the edge. The other ankle was held for a moment, then the tough grass parted under his weight. He dropped headfirst to the ground, at the last moment ducking his head and landing on his shoulders. Paxton let go of the disk and fell, landing on Stellman’s stomach.
The disk of earth, with its cargo of roast beef, whiskey and diamonds, continued to rise until it was out of sight.
The sun had set. Without speaking, the three men entered their cave, blasters drawn. They built a roaring fire at the mouth and moved back into the cave’s interior.
“We’ll guard in shifts tonight,” Herrera said.
Paxton and Stellman nodded.
Herrera said, “I think you’re right, Paxton. We’ve stayed here long enough.”
“Too long,” Paxton said.
Herrera shrugged his shoulders. “As soon as it’s light, we return to the ship and get out of here.”
“If,” Stellman said, “we are able to reach the ship.”
Drog was quite discouraged. With a sinking heart he had watched the premature springing of his trap, the struggle, and the escape of the Mirash. It had been such a splendid Mirash, too. The biggest of the three!
He knew now what he had done wrong. In his eagerness, he had overbaited his trap. Just the minerals would have been suffifcient, for Mirash were notoriously mineral-tropic. But no, he had to improve on pioneer methods, he had to use food stimuli as well. No wonder they had reacted suspiciously, with their senses so overburdened.
Now they were enraged, alert, and decidedly dangerous.
And a thoroughly aroused Mirash was one of the most fearsome sights in the Galaxy.
Drog felt very much alone as Elbonai’s twin moons rose in the western sky. He could see the Mirash campfire blazing in the mouth of their cave. And by direct perception he could see the Mirash crouched within, every sense alert, weapons ready.
Was a Mirash hide really worth all this trouble?
Drog decided that he would much rather be floating at the five-thousand-foot level, sculpturing cloud formations and dreaming. He wanted to sop up radiation instead of eating nasty old solid food. And what use was all this hunting and trapping, anyhow? Worthless skills that his people had outgrown.
For a moment he almost had himself convinced. And then, in a flash of pure perception, he understood what it was all about.
True, the Elbonaians had outgrown their competition, developed past all danger of competition. But the Universe was wide, and capable of many surprises. Who could foresee what would come, what new dangers the race might have to face? And how could they meet them if the hunting instinct was lost?
No, the old ways had to be preserved, to serve as patterns; as reminders that peaceable, intelligent life was an unstable entity in an unfriendly Universe.
He was going to get that Mirash hide, or die trying!
The most important thing was to get them out of that cave. Now his hunting knowledge had returned to him.
Quickly, skillfully, he shaped a Mirash horn.
* * *
“Did you hear that?” Paxton asked.
“I thought I heard something,” Stellman said, and they all listened intently.
The sound came again. It was a voice crying, “Oh, help, help me!”
“It’s a girl!” Paxton jumped to his feet.
“It sounds like a girl,” Stellman said.
“Please, help me,” the girl’s voice wailed. “I can’t hold out much longer. Is there anyone who can help me?”
Blood rushed to Paxton’s face. In a flash he saw her, small, exquisite, standing beside her wrecked sports-spacer (what a foolhardy trip it had been!) with monsters, green and slimy, closing in on her. And then he arrived, a foul alien beast.
Paxton picked up a spare blaster. “I’m going out there,” he said coolly.
“Sit down, you moron!” Herrera ordered.
“But you heard her, didn’t you?”
“That can’t be a girl,” Herrera said. “What would a girl be doing on this planet?”
“I’m going to find out,” Paxton said, brandishing two blasters. “Maybe a spaceliner crashed, or she could have been out joy-riding, and —”
“Siddown!” Herrera yelled.
“He’s right,” Stellman tried to reason with Paxton. “Even if a girl is out there, which I doubt, there’s nothing we can do.”
“Oh, help, help, it’s coming after me!” the girl’s voice screamed.
“Get out of my way,” Paxton said, his voice low and dangerous.
“You’re really going?” Herrera asked incredulously.
“Yes! Are you going to stop me?”
“Go ahead.” Herrera gestured at the entrance of the cave.
“We can’t let him!” Stellman gasped.
“Why not? His funeral,” Herrera said lazily.
“Don’t worry about me,” Paxton said. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes – with her!” He turned on his heel and started toward the entrance. Herrera leaned forward and, with considerable precision, clubbed Paxton behind the ear with a stick of firewood. Stellman caught him as he fell.
They stretched Paxton out in the rear of the cave and returned to their vigil. The lady in distress moaned and pleaded for the next five hours. Much too long, as Paxton had to agree, even for a movie serial.
A gloomy, rain-splattered daybreak found Drag still camped a hundred yards from the cave. He saw the Mirash emerge in a tight group, weapons ready, eyes watching warily for any movement.
Why had the Mirash horn failed? The Scouter Manual said it was an infallible means of attracting the bull Mirash. But perhaps this wasn’t mating season.
They were moving in the direction of a metallic ovoid which Drog recognized as a primitive spatial conveyance. It was crude, but once inside it the Mirash were safe from him.
He could simply trevest them, and that would end it. But it wouldn’t be very humane. Above all, the ancient Elbonaians had been gentle and merciful, and a Young Scouter tried to be like them. Besides, trevestment wasn’t a true pioneering method.
That left ilitrocy. It was the oldest trick in the book, and he’d have to get close to work it. But he had nothing to lose.
And luckily, climatic conditions were perfect for it.
* * *
It started as a thin ground-mist. But, as the watery sun climbed the gray sky, fog began forming.
Herrera cursed angrily as it grew more dense. “Keep close together now. Of all the luck![15]”
Soon they were walking with their hands on each others’ shoulders, blasters ready, peering into the impenetrable fog.
“Herrera?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?”
“Sure. I took a compass course before the fog closed in.”
“Suppose your compass is off?”
“Don’t even think about it.”
They walked on, picking their way carefully over the rock-strewn ground.
“I think I see the ship,” Paxton said.
“No, not yet,” Herrera said.
Stellman stumbled over a rock, dropped his blaster, picked it up again and fumbled around for Herrera’s shoulder. He found it and walked on.
“I think we’re almost there,” Herrera said.
“I sure hope so,” Paxton said. “I’ve had enough.”
“Think your girl friend’s waiting for you at the ship?”
“Don’t rub it in.”
“Okay,” Herrera said. “Hey, Stellman, you better grab hold of my shoulder again. No sense getting separated.”
“I am holding your shoulder,” Stellman said.
“You’re not.”
“I am, I tell you!”
“Look, I guess I know if someone’s holding my shoulder or not.”
“Am I holding your shoulder, Paxton?”
“No,” Paxton said.
“That’s bad,” Stellman said, very slowly. “That’s bad, indeed.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m definitely holding someone’s shoulder.”
Herrera yelled, “Get down, get down quick, give me room to shoot!” But it was too late. A sweet-sour odor was in the air. Stellman and Paxton smelled it and collapsed. Herrera ran forward blindly, trying to hold his breath. He stumbled and fell over a rock, tried to get back on his feet —
And everything went black.
The fog lifted suddenly and Drog was standing alone, smiling triumphantly. He pulled out a long-bladed skinning knife and bent over the nearest Mirash.
* * *
The spaceship hurtled toward Terra at a velocity which threatened momentarily to burn out the overdrive. Herrera, hunched over the controls, finally regained his self-control and cut the speed down to normal. His usually tan face was still ashen, and his hands shook on the instruments.
Stellman came in from the bunkroom and flopped wearily in the co-pilot’s seat.
“How’s Paxton?” Herrera asked.
“I dosed him with Drona-3,” Stellman said. “He’s going to be all right.”
“He’s a good kid,” Herrera said.
“It’s just shock, for the most part,” Stellman said. “When he comes to, I’m going to put him to work counting diamonds. Counting diamonds is the best of therapies, I understand.”
Herrera grinned, and his face began to regain its normal color. “I feel like doing a little diamond-counting myself, now that it’s all turned out okay.” Then his long face became serious. “But I ask you, Stellman, who could figure it? I still don’t understand!”
* * *
The Scouter Jamboree was a glorious spectacle. The Soaring Falcon Patrol, number 22, gave a short pantomime showing the clearing of the land on Elbonai. The Brave Bisons, number 31, were in full pioneer dress.
And at the head of Patrol 19, the Charging Mirash Patrol, was Drog, a first-class Scouter now, wearing a glittering achievement badge. He was carrying the Patrol flag – the position of honor – and everyone cheered to see it.
Because waving proudly from the flagpole was the firm, fine-textured, characteristic skin of an adult Mirash, its zippers, tubes, gauges, buttons and holsters flashing merrily in the sunshine.
A Thief in Time
Thomas Eldridge was all alone in his room in Butler Hall when he heard the faint scraping noise behind him. It barely registered on his consciousness. He was studying the Holstead equations, which had caused such a stir a few years ago, with their hint of a non-Relativity universe. They were a disturbing set of symbols, even though their conclusions had been proved quite fallacious.
Still, if one examined them without preconceptions, they seemed to prove something. There was a strange relationship of temporal elements, with interesting force-applications. There was – he heard the noise again and turned his head.
Standing in back of him was a large man dressed in ballooning purple trousers, a little green vest and a porous silver shirt. He was carrying a square black machine with several dials and he looked decidedly unfriendly.
They stared at each other. For a moment, Eldridge thought it was a fraternity prank. He was the youngest associate professor at Carvell Tech, and some student was always handing him a hardboiled egg or a live toad during Hell Week.
But this man was no giggling student. He was at least fifty years old and unmistakably hostile.
“How’d you get in here?” Eldridge demanded. “And what do you want?”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Going to brazen it out, eh?[16]”
“Brazen what out?” Eldridge asked, startled.
“This is Viglin you’re talking to,” the man said. “Viglin. Remember?”
Eldredge tried to remember if there were any insane asylums[17] near Carvell. This Viglin looked like an escaped lunatic.
“You must have the wrong man,” Eldridge said, wondering if he should call for help.
Viglin shook his head. “You are Thomas Monroe Eldridge,” he said. “Born March 16, 1926, in Darien, Connecticut. Attended the University Heights College, New York University, graduating cum laude[18]. Received a fellowship to Carvell last year, in early 1953. Correct so far?”
“All right, so you did a little research on me for some reason. It better be a good one or I call the cops.”
“You always were a cool customer. But the bluff won’t work. I will call the police.”
He pressed a button on the machine. Instantly, two men appeared in the room. They wore lightweight orange and green uniforms, with metallic insignia on the sleeves. Between them they carried a black machine similar to Viglin’s except that it had white stenciling on its top.
“Crime does not pay,” Viglin said. “Arrest that thief!”
For a moment, Eldridge’s pleasant college room, with its Gauguin prints, its untidy piles of books, its untidier hi-fi, and its shaggy little red rug, seemed to spin dizzily around him. He blinked several times, hoping that the whole thing had been induced by eyestrain. Or better yet, perhaps he had been dreaming.
But Viglin was still there, dismayingly substantial.
The two policemen produced a pair of handcuffs and walked forward.
“Wait!” Eldridge shouted, leaning against his desk for support. “What’s this all about?”
“If you insist on formal charges,” Viglin said, “you shall have them.” He cleared his throat. “Thomas Eldridge, in March, 1962, you invented the Eldridge Traveler. Then —”
“Hold on!” Eldridge protested. “It isn’t 1962 yet, in case you didn’t know.”
Viglin looked annoyed. “Don’t quibble. You will invent the Traveler in 1962, if you prefer that phrasing. It’s all a matter of temporal viewpoint.”
It took Eldridge a moment to digest this.
“Do you mean – you are from the future?” he blurted.
One of the policemen nudged the other. “What an act!” he said admiringly.
“Better than a groogly show,” the other agreed, clicking his handcuffs.
“Of course we’re from the future,” Viglin said. “Where else would we be from? In 1962, you did – or will – invent the Eldridge Time Traveler, thus making time travel possible. With it, you journeyed into the first sector of the future, where you were received with highest honors. Then you traveled through the three sectors of Civilized Time, lecturing. You were a hero, Eldridge, an ideal. Little children wanted to grow up to be like you.”
With a husky voice, Viglin continued. “We were deceived. Suddenly and deliberately, you stole a quantity of valuable goods. It was shocking! We had never suspected you of criminal tendencies. When we tried to arrest you, you vanished.”
Viglin paused and rubbed his forehead wearily. “I was your friend, Tom, the first person you met in Sector One. We drank many a bowl of flox together. I arranged your lecture tour. And you robbed me.”
His face hardened. “Take him, officers.”
As the policemen moved forward, Eldridge had a good look at the black machine they shared. Like Viglin’s, it had several dials and a row of push buttons. Stamped in white across the top were the words: Eldridge Time Traveler – property of THE EASKILL POLICE DEPT.
The policeman stopped and turned to Viglin. “You got the extradition papers?”
Viglin searched his pockets. “Don’t seem to have them on me. But you know he’s a thief!”
“Everybody knows that,” the policeman said. “But we got no jurisdiction in a pre-contact sector without extradition papers.”
“Wait here,” Viglin said. “I’ll get them.” He examined his wristwatch carefully, muttered something about a half-hour gap, and pressed a button on the Traveler. Immediately, he was gone.
The two policemen sat down on Eldridge’s couch and proceeded to ogle the Gauguins.
Eldridge tried to think, to plan, to anticipate. Impossible. He could not believe it. He refused to believe it. No one could make him believe —
“Imagine a famous guy like this being a crook,” one of the policemen said.
“All geniuses are crazy,” the other philosophized. “Remember the stuggie dancer who killed the girl? He was a genius, the readies said.”
“Yeah.” The first policeman lighted a cigar and tossed the burned match on Eldridge’s shaggy little red rug.
All right, Eldridge decided, it was true. Under the circumstances, he had to believe. Nor was it so absurd. He had always suspected that he might be a genius.