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diff --git a/68250-0.txt~ b/68250-0.txt~ new file mode 100644 index 0000000..32fd141 --- /dev/null +++ b/68250-0.txt~ @@ -0,0 +1,931 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68250 *** + + HAPPY ENDING + + By HENRY KUTTNER + + Out of the Future emerge the Robot and + Tharn—while James Kelvin fights them + blindly, knowing not friend from foe! + + [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from + Thrilling Wonder Stories, August 1948. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that + the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] + + +[Illustration: The android uttered a protesting cry as Kelvin sent a +wave of mental energy at him] + +This is the way the story ended: + +James Kelvin concentrated very hard on the thought of the chemist with +the red mustache who had promised him a million dollars. It was simply a +matter of tuning in on the man’s brain, establishing a rapport. He had +done it before. Now it was more important than ever that he do it this +one last time. He pressed the button on the gadget the robot had given +him, and thought hard. + +Far off, across limitless distances, he found the rapport. + +He clamped on the mental tight beam. + +He rode it.... + +The red-mustached man looked up, gaped, and grinned delightedly. + +“So there you are!” he said. “I didn’t hear you come in. Good grief, +I’ve been trying to find you for two weeks.” + +“Tell me one thing quick,” Kelvin said. “What’s your name?” + +“George Bailey. Incidentally, what’s yours?” + +But Kelvin didn’t answer. He had suddenly remembered the other thing the +robot had told him about that gadget which established rapport when he +pressed the button. He pressed it now—and nothing happened. The gadget +had gone dead. Its task was finished, which obviously meant he had at +last achieved health, fame and fortune. The robot had warned him, of +course. The thing was set to do one specialized job. Once he got what he +wanted, it would work no more. + +So Kelvin got the million dollars. + +And he lived happily ever after.... + + * * * * * + +This is the middle of the story: + +As he pushed aside the canvas curtain something—a carelessly hung +rope—swung down at his face, knocking the horn-rimmed glasses askew. +Simultaneously a vivid bluish light blazed into his unprotected eyes. He +felt a curious, sharp sense of disorientation, a shifting motion that +was almost instantly gone. + +Things steadied before him. He let the curtain fall back into place, +making legible again the painted inscription: horoscopes—learn +your future—and he stood staring at the remarkable horomancer. + +It was a—oh, impossible! + +The robot said in a flat, precise voice, “You are James Kelvin. You are +a reporter. You are thirty years old, unmarried, and you came to Los +Angeles from Chicago today on the advice of your physician. Is that +correct?” + + * * * * * + +In his astonishment Kelvin called on the Deity. Then he settled his +glasses more firmly and tried to remember an exposé of charlatans he had +once written. There was some obvious way they worked things like this, +miraculous as it sounded. + +The robot looked at him impassively out of its faceted eye. + +“On reading your mind,” it continued in the pedantic voice, “I find this +is the year Nineteen Forty-nine. My plans will have to be revised. I had +meant to arrive in the year Nineteen Seventy. I will ask you to assist +me.” + +Kelvin put his hands in his pockets and grinned. + +“With money, naturally,” he said. “You had me going for a minute. How do +you do it, anyhow? Mirrors? Or like Maelzel’s chess player?” + +“I am not a machine operated by a dwarf, nor am I an optical illusion,” +the robot assured him. “I am an artificially created living organism, +originating at a period far in your future.” + +“And I’m not the sucker you take me for,” Kelvin remarked pleasantly. “I +came in here to—” + +“You lost your baggage checks,” the robot said. “While wondering what to +do about it, you had a few drinks and took the Wilshire bus at +exactly—exactly eight-thirty-five post meridian.” + +“Lay off the mind-reading,” Kelvin said. “And don’t tell me you’ve been +running this joint very long with a line like that. The cops would be +after you. _If_ you’re a real robot, ha, ha.” + +“I have been running this joint,” the robot said, “for approximately +five minutes. My predecessor is unconscious behind that chest in the +corner. Your arrival here was sheer coincidence.” It paused very +briefly, and Kelvin had the curious impression that it was watching to +see if the story so far had gone over well. + +The impression was curious because Kelvin had no feeling at all that +there was a man in the large, jointed figure before him. If such a thing +as a robot were possible, he would have believed implicitly that he +confronted a genuine specimen. Such things being impossible, he waited +to see what the gimmick would be. + +“My arrival here was also accidental,” the robot informed him. “This +being the case, my equipment will have to be altered slightly. I will +require certain substitute mechanisms. For that, I gather as I read your +mind, I will have to engage in your peculiar barter system of economics. +In a word, coinage or gold or silver certificates will be necessary. +Thus I am—temporarily—a horomancer.” + +“Sure, sure,” Kelvin said. “Why not a simple mugging? If you’re a robot, +you could do a super-mugging job with a quick twist of the gears.” + +“It would attract attention. Above all, I require secrecy. As a matter +of fact, I am—” The robot paused, searched Kelvin’s brain for the right +phrase, and said, “—on the lam. In my era, time-traveling is strictly +forbidden, even by accident, unless government-sponsored.” + +There was a fallacy there somewhere, Kelvin thought, but he couldn’t +quite spot it. He blinked at the robot intently. It looked pretty +unconvincing. + +“What proof do you need?” the creature asked. “I read your brain the +minute you came in, didn’t I? You must have felt the temporary amnesia +as I drew out the knowledge and then replaced it.” + +“So that’s what happened,” Kelvin said. He took a cautious step +backward. “Well, I think I’ll be getting along.” + +“Wait,” the robot commanded. “I see you have begun to distrust me. +Apparently you now regret having suggested a mugging job. You fear I may +act on the suggestion. Allow me to reassure you. It is true that I could +take your money and assure secrecy by killing you, but I am not +permitted to kill humans. The alternative is to engage in the barter +system. I can offer you something valuable in return for a small amount +of gold. Let me see.” The faceted gaze swept around the tent, dwelt +piercingly for a moment on Kelvin. “A horoscope,” the robot said. “It is +supposed to help you achieve health, fame and fortune. Astrology, +however, is out of my line. I can merely offer a logical scientific +method of attaining the same results.” + +“Uh-huh,” Kelvin said skeptically. “How much? And why haven’t _you_ used +that method?” + +“I have other ambitions,” the robot said in a cryptic manner. “Take +this.” There was a brief clicking. A panel opened in the metallic chest. +The robot extracted a small, flat case and handed it to Kelvin, who +automatically closed his fingers on the cold metal. + +“Be careful. Don’t push that button until—” + +But Kelvin had pushed it.... + + * * * * * + +He was driving a figurative car that had got out of control. There was +somebody else inside his head. There was a schizophrenic, double-tracked +locomotive that was running wild and his hand on the throttle couldn’t +slow it down an instant. His mental steering-wheel had snapped. + +Somebody else was thinking for him! + +Not quite a human being. Not quite sane, probably, from Kelvin’s +standards. But awfully sane from his own. Sane enough to have mastered +the most intricate principles of non-Euclidean geometry in the nursery. + +The senses get synthesized in the brain into a sort of common language, +a master-tongue. Part of it was auditory, part pictorial, and there were +smells and tastes and tactile sensations that were sometimes familiar +and sometimes spiced with the absolutely alien. And it was chaotic. + +Something like this, perhaps.... + +“—Big Lizards getting too numerous this season—tame threvvars have the +same eyes not on Callisto though—vacation soon—preferably +galactic—solar system claustrophobic—byanding tomorrow if square +rootola and upsliding three—” + +But that was merely the word-symbolism. Subjectively, it was far more +detailed and very frightening. Luckily, reflex had lifted Kelvin’s +finger from the button almost instantly, and he stood there motionless, +shivering slightly. + +He was afraid now. + +The robot said, “You should not have begun the rapport until I +instructed you. Now there will be danger. Wait.” His eye changed color. +“Yes ... there is ... Tharn, yes. Beware of Tharn.” + +“I don’t want any part of it,” Kelvin said quickly. “Here, take this +thing back.” + +“Then you will be unprotected against Tharn. Keep the device. It will, +as I promised, ensure your health, fame and fortune, far more +effectively than a—a horoscope.” + +“No, thanks. I don’t know how you managed that trick—sub-sonics, maybe, +but I don’t—” + +“Wait,” the robot said. “When you pressed that button, you were in the +mind of someone who exists very far in the future. It created a temporal +rapport. You can bring about that rapport any time you press the +button.” + +“Heaven forfend,” Kelvin said, still sweating a little. + +“Consider the opportunities. Suppose a troglodyte of the far past had +access to your brain? He could achieve anything he wanted.” + +It had become important, somehow, to find a logical rebuttal to the +robot’s arguments. “Like St. Anthony—or was it Luther?—arguing with +the devil?” Kelvin thought dizzily. His headache was worse, and he +suspected he had drunk more than was good for him. But he merely said: + +“How could a troglodyte understand what’s in my brain? He couldn’t apply +the knowledge without the same conditioning I’ve had.” + +“Have you ever had sudden and apparently illogical ideas? Compulsions? +So that you seem forced to think of certain things, count up to certain +numbers, work out particular problems? Well, the man in the future on +whom my device is focused doesn’t know he’s en rapport with you, Kelvin. +But he’s vulnerable to compulsions. All you have to do is concentrate on +a problem and then press the button. Your rapport will be +compelled—illogically, from his viewpoint—to solve that problem. And +you’ll be reading his brain. You’ll find out how it works. There are +limitations, you’ll learn those too. And the device will ensure health, +wealth and fame for you.” + +“It would ensure anything, if it really worked that way. I could do +anything. That’s why I’m not buying!” + +“I said there were limitations. As soon as you’ve successfully achieved +health, fame, and fortune, the device will become useless. I’ve taken +care of that. But meanwhile you can use it to solve all your problems by +tapping the brain of the more intelligent specimen in the future. The +important point is to concentrate on your problems _before_ you press +the button. Otherwise you may get more than Tharn on your track.” + +“Tharn? What—” + +“I think an—an android,” the robot said, looking at nothing. “An +artificial human ... However, let us consider my own problem. I need a +small amount of gold.” + +“So that’s the kicker,” Kelvin said, feeling oddly relieved. He said, “I +haven’t got any.” + +“Your watch.” + + * * * * * + +Kelvin jerked his arm so that his wrist-watch showed. “Oh, no. That +watch cost plenty.” + +“All I need is the gold-plating,” the robot said, shooting out a reddish +ray from its eye. “Thank you.” The watch was now dull gray metal. + +“Hey!” Kelvin cried. + +“If you use the rapport device, your health, fame and fortune will be +assured,” the robot said rapidly. “You will be as happy as any man of +this era can be. It will solve all your problems—including Tharn. Wait +a minute.” The creature took a backward step and disappeared behind a +hanging Oriental rug that had never been east of Peoria. + +There was silence. + +Kelvin looked from his altered watch to the flat, enigmatic object in +his palm. It was about two inches by two inches, and no thicker than a +woman’s vanity-case, and there was a sunken push-button on its side. + +He dropped it into his pocket and took a few steps forward. He looked +behind the pseudo-Oriental rug, to find nothing except emptiness and a +flapping slit cut in the canvas wall of the booth. The robot, it seemed, +had taken a powder. Kelvin peered out through the slit. There was the +light and sound of Ocean Park amusement pier, that was all. And the +silvered, moving blackness of the Pacific Ocean, stretching to where +small lights showed Malibu far up the invisible curve of the coastal +cliffs. + +So he came back inside the booth and looked around. A fat man in a +swami’s costume was unconscious behind the carved chest the robot had +indicated. His breath, plus a process of deduction, told Kelvin that the +man had been drinking. + +Not knowing what else to do, Kelvin called on the Deity again. He found +suddenly that he was thinking about someone or something called Tharn, +who was an android. + +Horomancy ... time ... rapport ... _no!_ Protective disbelief slid +like plate armor around his mind. A practical robot couldn’t be made. He +knew that. He’d have heard—he was a reporter, wasn’t he? + +Sure he was. + +Desiring noise and company, he went along to the shooting gallery and +knocked down a few ducks. The flat case burned in his pocket. The dully +burnished metal of his wrist-watch burned in his memory. The remembrance +of that drainage from his brain, and the immediate replacement burned in +his mind. Presently bar whiskey burned in his stomach. + +He’d left Chicago because of sinusitis, recurrent and annoying. Ordinary +sinusitis. Not schizophrenia or hallucinations or accusing voices coming +from the walls. Not because he had been seeing bats or robots. That +thing hadn’t really been a robot. It all had a perfectly natural +explanation. Oh, sure. + +Health, fame and fortune. And if— + +_THARN!_ + +The thought crashed with thunderbolt impact into his head. + +And then another thought: I _am_ going nuts! + +A silent voice began to mutter insistently, over and over. +“Tharn—Tharn—Tharn—Tharn—” + +And another voice, the voice of sanity and safety, answered it and +drowned it out. Half aloud, Kelvin muttered: + +“I’m James Noel Kelvin. I’m a reporter—special features, leg work, +rewrite. I’m thirty years old, unmarried, and I came to Los Angeles +today and lost my baggage checks and—and I’m going to have another +drink and find a hotel. Anyhow, the climate seems to be curing my +sinusitis.” + +_Tharn_, the muffled drum-beat said almost below the threshold of +realization. _Tharn, Tharn._ + +_Tharn._ + +He ordered another drink and reached in his pocket for a coin. His hand +touched the metal case. And simultaneously he felt a light pressure on +his shoulder. + +Instinctively he glanced around. It was a seven-fingered, spidery hand +tightening—hairless, without nails—and white as smooth ivory. + +The one, overwhelming necessity that sprang into Kelvin’s mind was a +simple longing to place as much space as possible between himself and +the owner of that disgusting hand. It was a vital requirement, but one +difficult of fulfilment, a problem that excluded everything else from +Kelvin’s thoughts. He knew, vaguely, that he was gripping the flat case +in his pocket as though that could save him, but all he was thinking +was: + +I’ve got to get away from here. + +The monstrous, alien thoughts of someone in the future spun him insanely +along their current. It could not have taken a moment while that +skilled, competent, trained mind, wise in the lore of an unthinkable +future, solved the random problem that had come so suddenly, with such +curious compulsion. + + * * * * * + +Three methods of transportation were simultaneously clear to Kelvin. Two +he discarded; motorplats were obviously inventions yet to come, and +quirling—involving, as it did, a sensory coil-helmet—was beyond him. +But the third method— + +Already the memory was fading. And that hand was still tightening on his +shoulder. He clutched at the vanishing ideas and desperately made his +brain and his muscles move along the unlikely direction the future-man +had visualized. + +And he was out in the open, a cold night wind blowing on him, still in a +sitting position, but with nothing but empty air between his spine and +the sidewalk. + +He sat down suddenly. + +Passersby on the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Cahuenga were not +much surprised at the sight of a dark, lanky man sitting by the curb. +Only one woman had noticed Kelvin’s actual arrival, and she knew when +she was well off. She went right on home. + +Kelvin got up laughing with soft hysteria. “Teleportation,” he said. +“How did I work it? It’s gone ... Hard to remember afterward, eh? I’ll +have to start carrying a notebook again.” + +And then—“But what about Tharn?” + +He looked around, frightened. Reassurance came only after half an hour +had passed without additional miracles. Kelvin walked along the +Boulevard, keeping a sharp lookout. No Tharn, though. + +Occasionally he slid a hand into his pocket and touched the cold metal +of the case. Health, wealth and fortune. Why, he could— + +But he did not press the button. Too vivid was the memory of that +shocking, alien disorientation he had felt. The mind, the experiences, +the habit-patterns of the far future were uncomfortably strong. + +He would use the little case again—oh, yes. But there was no hurry. +First, he’d have to work out a few angles. + +His disbelief was completely gone.... + +Tharn showed up the next night and scared the daylights out of Kelvin +again. Prior to that, the reporter had failed to find his baggage +tickets, and was only consoled by the two hundred bucks in his wallet. +He took a room—paying in advance—at a medium-good hotel, and began +wondering how he might apply his pipe-line to the future. Very sensibly, +he decided to continue a normal life until something developed. At any +rate, he’d have to make a few connections. He tried the _Times_, the +_Examiner_, the _News_, and some others. But these things develop +slowly, except in the movies. That night Kelvin was in his hotel room +when his unwelcome guest appeared. + +It was, of course, Tharn. + +He wore a very large white turban, approximately twice the size of his +head. He had a dapper black mustache, waxed downward at the tips like +the mustache of a mandarin, or a catfish. He stared urgently at Kelvin +out of the bathroom mirror. + +Kelvin had been wondering whether or not he needed a shave before going +out to dinner. He was rubbing his chin thoughtfully at the moment Tharn +put in an appearance, and there was a perceptible mental lag between +occurrence and perception, so that to Kelvin it seemed that he himself +had mysteriously sprouted a long moustache. He reached for his upper +lip. It was smooth. But in the glass the black waxed hairs quivered as +Tharn pushed his face up against the surface of the mirror. + +It was so shockingly disorienting, somehow, that Kelvin was quite unable +to think at all. He took a quick step backward. The edge of the bathtub +caught him behind the knees and distracted him momentarily, fortunately +for his sanity. When he looked again there was only his own appalled +face reflected above the wash-bowl. But after a second or two the face +seemed to develop a cloud of white turban, and mandarin-like whiskers +began to form sketchily. + +Kelvin clapped a hand to his eyes and spun away. In about fifteen +seconds he spread his fingers enough to peep through them at the glass. +He kept his palm pressed desperately to his upper lip, in some wild hope +of inhibiting the sudden sprouting of a moustache. What peeped back at +him from the mirror looked like himself. At least, it had no turban, and +it did not wear horn-rimmed glasses. He risked snatching his hand away +for a quick look, and clapped it in place again just in time to prevent +Tharn from taking shape in the glass. + + * * * * * + +Still shielding his face, he went unsteadily into the bedroom and took +the flat case out of his coat pocket. But he didn’t press the button +that would close a mental synapse between two incongruous eras. He +didn’t want to do that again, he realized. More horrible, somehow, than +what was happening now was the thought of reentering that _alien_ brain. + +He was standing before the bureau, and in the mirror one eye looked out +at him between reflected fingers. It was a wild eye behind the gleaming +spectacle-lens, but it seemed to be his own. Tentatively he took his +hand away.... + +This mirror showed more of Tharn. Kelvin wished it hadn’t. Tharn was +wearing white knee-boots of some glittering plastic. Between them and +the turban he wore nothing whatever except a minimum of loin-cloth, also +glittering plastic. Tharn was very thin, but he looked active. He looked +quite active enough to spring right into the hotel room. His skin was +whiter than his turban, and his hands had seven fingers each, all right. + +Kelvin abruptly turned away, but Tharn was resourceful. The dark window +made enough of a reflecting surface to show a lean, loin-clothed figure. +The feet showed bare, and they were less normal than Tharn’s hands. And +the polished brass of a lamp-base gave back the picture of a small, +distorted face not Kelvin’s own. + +Kelvin found a corner without reflecting surfaces and pushed into it, +his hands shielding his face. He was still holding the flat case. + +Oh, fine, he thought bitterly. Everything’s got a string on it. What +good will this rapport gadget do me if Tharn’s going to show up every +day? Maybe I’m only crazy. I hope so. + +Something would have to be done unless Kelvin was prepared to go through +life with his face buried in his hands. The worst of it was that Tharn +had a haunting look of familiarity. Kelvin discarded a dozen +possibilities, from reincarnation to the _déjà vu_ phenomenon, but— + +He peeped through his hands, in time to see Tharn raising a cylindrical +gadget of some sort and leveling it like a gun. That gesture formed +Kelvin’s decision. He’d _have_ to do something, and fast. So, +concentrating on the problem—_I want out!_—he pressed the button in +the surface of the flat case. + +And instantly the teleportation method he had forgotten was perfectly +clear to him. Other matters, however, were obscure. The smells—someone +was thinking—were adding up to a—there was no word for that, only a +shocking visio-auditory ideation that was simply dizzying. Someone named +Three Million and Ninety Pink had written a new flatch. And there was +the physical sensation of licking a twenty-four-dollar stamp and +sticking it on a postcard. + +But, most important, the man in the future had had—or would have—a +compulsion to think about the teleportation method, and as Kelvin +snapped back into his own mind and time, he instantly used that +method.... + +He was falling. + +Icy water smacked him hard. Miraculously he kept his grip on the flat +case. He had a whirling vision of stars in a night sky, and the +phosphorescent sheen of silvery light on a dark sea. Then brine stung +his nostrils. + +Kelvin had never learned how to swim. + +As he went down for the last time, bubbling a scream, he literally +clutched at the proverbial straw he was holding. His finger pushed the +button down again. There was no need to concentrate on the problem; he +couldn’t think of anything else. + +Mental chaos, fantastic images—and the answer. + +It took concentration, and there wasn’t much time left. Bubbles streamed +up past his face. He felt them, but he couldn’t see them. All around, +pressing in avidly, was the horrible coldness of the salt water.... + +But he did know the method now, and he knew how it worked. He thought +along the lines the future mind had indicated. Something happened. +Radiation—that was the nearest familiar term—poured out of his brain +and did peculiar things to his lung-tissue. His blood cells adapted +themselves.... + +He was breathing water, and it was no longer strangling him. + +But Kelvin had also learned that this emergency adaptation could not be +maintained for very long. Teleportation was the answer to that. And +surely he could remember the method now. He had actually used it to +escape from Tharn only a few minutes ago. + + * * * * * + +Yet he could not remember. The memory was expunged cleanly from his +mind. So there was nothing else to do but press the button again, and +Kelvin did that, most reluctantly. + +Dripping wet, he was standing on an unfamiliar street. It was no street +he knew, but apparently it was in his own time and on his own planet. +Luckily, teleportation seemed to have limitations. The wind was cold. +Kelvin stood in a puddle that grew rapidly around his feet. He stared +around. + +He picked out a sign up the street that offered Turkish Baths, and +headed moistly in that direction. His thoughts were mostly +profane.... + +He was in New Orleans, of all places. Presently he was drunk in New +Orleans. His thoughts kept going around in circles, and Scotch was a +fine palliative, an excellent brake. He needed to get control again. He +had an almost miraculous power, and he wanted to be able to use it +effectively before the unexpected happened again. Tharn.... + +He sat in a hotel room and swigged Scotch. Gotta be logical! + +He sneezed. + +The trouble was, of course, that there were so few points of contact +between his own mind and that of the future-man. Moreover, he’d got the +rapport only in times of crisis. Like having access to the Alexandrian +Library, five seconds a day. In five seconds you couldn’t even start +translating.... + +Health, fame and fortune. He sneezed again. The robot had been a liar. +His health seemed to be going fast. What about that robot? How had he +got involved, anyway? He said he’d fallen into this era from the future, +but robots are notorious liars. Gotta be logical.... + +Apparently the future was peopled by creatures not unlike the cast of a +Frankenstein picture. Androids, robots, so-called men whose minds were +shockingly different.... _Sneeze._ Another drink. + +The robot had said that the case would lose its power after Kelvin had +achieved health, fame and fortune. Which was a distressing thought. +Suppose he attained those enviable goals, found the little push-button +useless, and _then_ Tharn showed up? Oh, no. That called for another +shot. + +Sobriety was the wrong condition in which to approach a matter that in +itself was as wild as delirium tremens, even though, Kelvin knew, the +science he had stumbled on was all theoretically quite possible. But not +in this day and age. Sneeze. + +The trick would be to pose the right problem and use the case at some +time when you weren’t drowning or being menaced by that bewhiskered +android with his seven-fingered hands and his ominous rod-like weapon. +Find the problem. + +But that future-mind was hideous. + +And suddenly, with drunken clarity, Kelvin realized that he was +profoundly drawn to that dim, shadowy world of the future. + +He could not see its complete pattern, but he sensed it somehow. He knew +that it was _right_, a far better world and time than this. If he could +be that unknown man who dwelt there, all would go well. + +Man must needs love the highest, he thought wryly. Oh, well. He shook +the bottle. How much had he absorbed? He felt fine. + +Gotta be logical. + +Outside the window street-lights blinked off and on. Neons traced goblin +languages against the night. It seemed rather alien, too, but so did +Kelvin’s own body. He started to laugh, but a sneeze choked that off. + +All I want, he thought, is health, fame and fortune. Then I’ll settle +down and live happily ever after, without a care or worry. I won’t need +this enchanted case after that. Happy ending. + +On impulse he took out the box and examined it. He tried to pry it open +and failed. His finger hovered over the button. + +“How can I—” he thought, and his finger moved half an inch.... + +It wasn’t so alien now that he was drunk. The future man’s name was +Quarra Vee. Odd he had never realized that before, but how often does a +man think of his own name? Quarra Vee was playing some sort of game +vaguely reminiscent of chess, but his opponent was on a planet of +Sirius, some distance away. The chessmen were all unfamiliar. +Complicated, dizzying space-time gambits flashed through Quarra Vee’s +mind as Kelvin listened in. Then Kelvin’s problem thrust through, the +compulsion hit Quarra Vee, and— + + * * * * * + +It was all mixed up. There were two problems, really. How to cure a +cold—coryza. And how to become healthy, rich and famous in a +practically prehistoric era—for Quarra Vee. + +A small problem, however, to Quarra Vee. He solved it and went back to +his game with the Sirian. + +Kelvin was back in the hotel room in New Orleans. + +He was very drunk or he wouldn’t have risked it. The method involved +using his brain to tune in on another brain in this present twentieth +century that had exactly the wave-length he required. All sorts of +factors would build up to the sum total of that wave-length—experience, +opportunity, position, knowledge, imagination, honesty—but he found it +at last, after hesitating among three totals that were all nearly right. +Still, one was righter, to three decimal points. Still drunk as a lord, +Kelvin clamped on a mental tight beam, turned on the teleportation, and +rode the beam across America to a well-equipped laboratory where a man +sat reading. + +The man was bald and had a bristling red moustache. He looked up sharply +at some sound Kelvin made. + +“Hey!” he said. “How did you get in here?” + +“Ask Quarra Vee,” Kelvin said. + +“Who? _What?_” The man put down his book. + +Kelvin called on his memory. It seemed to be slipping. He used the +rapport case for an instant, and refreshed his mind. Not so unpleasant +this time, either. He was beginning to understand Quarra Vee’s world a +little. He liked it. However, he supposed he’d forget that too. + +“An improvement on Woodward’s protein analogues,” he told the +red-moustached man. “Simple synthesis will do it.” + +“Who the devil are you?” + +“Call me Jim,” Kelvin said simply. “And shut up and listen.” He began to +explain, as to a small, stupid child. (The man before him was one of +America’s foremost chemists.) “Proteins are made of amino acids. There +are about thirty-three amino acids—” + +“There aren’t.” + +“There are. Shut up. Their molecules can be arranged in lots of ways. So +we get an almost infinite variety of proteins. And all living things are +forms of protein. The absolute synthesis involves a chain of amino acids +long enough to recognize clearly as a protein molecule. That’s been the +trouble.” + +The man with the red moustache seemed quite interested. “Fischer +assembled a chain of eighteen,” he said, blinking. “Abderhalden got up +to nineteen, and Woodward, of course, has made chains ten thousand units +long. But as for testing—” + +“The complete protein molecule consists of complete sets of sequences. +But if you can test only one or two sections of an analogue you can’t be +sure of the others. Wait a minute.” Kelvin used the rapport case again. +“Now I know. Well, you can make almost anything out of synthesized +protein. Silk, wool, hair—but the main thing, of course,” he said, +sneezing, “is a cure for coryza.” + +“Now look—” said the red-moustached man. + +“Some of the viruses are chains of amino acids, aren’t they? Well, +modify their structure. Make ’em harmless. Bacteria too. And synthesize +antibiotics.” + +“I wish I could. However, Mr.—” + +“Just call me Jim.” + +“Yes. However, all this is old stuff.” + +“Grab your pencil,” Kelvin said. “From now on it’ll be solid, with +riffs. The method of synthesizing and testing is as follows—” + +He explained, very thoroughly and clearly. He had to use the rapport +case only twice. And when he had finished, the man with the red +moustache laid down his pencil and stared. + +“This is incredible,” he said. “If it works—” + +“I want health, fame and fortune,” Kelvin said stubbornly. “It’ll work.” + +“Yes, but—my good man—” + +However, Kelvin insisted. Luckily for himself, the mental testing of the +red-moustached man had included briefing for honesty and opportunity, +and it ended with the chemist agreeing to sign partnership papers with +Kelvin. The commercial possibilities of the process were unbounded. +Dupont or GM would be glad to buy it. + +“I want lots of money. A fortune.” + +“You’ll make a million dollars,” the red-moustached man said patiently. + +“Then I want a receipt. Have to have this in black and white. Unless you +want to give me my million now.” + + * * * * * + +Frowning, the chemist shook his head. “I can’t do that. I’ll have to run +tests, open negotiations—but don’t worry about that. Your discovery is +certainly worth a million. You’ll be famous, too.” + +“And healthy?” + +“There won’t be any more disease, after a while,” the chemist said +quietly. “That’s the real miracle.” + +“Write it down,” Kelvin clamored. + +“All right. We can have partnership papers drawn up tomorrow. This will +do temporarily. Understand, the actual credit belongs to you.” + +“It’s got to be in ink. A pencil won’t do.” + +“Just a minute, then,” the red-moustached man said, and went away in +search of ink. Kelvin looked around the laboratory, beaming happily. + +Tharn materialized three feet away. Tharn was holding the rod-weapon. He +lifted it. + +Kelvin instantly used the rapport case. Then he thumbed his nose at +Tharn and teleported himself far away. + +He was immediately in a cornfield, somewhere, but undistilled corn was +not what Kelvin wanted. He tried again. This time he reached Seattle. + +That was the beginning of Kelvin’s monumental two-week combination binge +and chase. + +His thoughts weren’t pleasant. + +He had a frightful hangover, ten cents in his pocket, and an overdue +hotel bill. A fortnight of keeping one jump ahead of Tharn, via +teleportation, had frazzled his nerves so unendurably that only liquor +had kept him going. Now even that stimulus was failing. The drink died +in him and left what felt like a corpse. + +Kelvin groaned and blinked miserably. He took off his glasses and +cleaned them, but that didn’t help. + +What a fool. + +He didn’t even know the name of that chemist! + +There was health, wealth and fame waiting for him just around the +corner, but what corner? Some day he’d find out, probably, when the news +of the new protein synthesis was publicized, but when would that be? In +the meantime, what about Tharn? + +Moreover, the chemist couldn’t locate him, either. The man knew Kelvin +only as Jim. Which had somehow seemed a good idea at the time, but not +now. + +Kelvin took out the rapport case and stared at it with red eyes. Quarra +Vee, eh? He rather liked Quarra Vee now. Trouble was, a half hour after +his rapport, at most, he would forget all the details. + +This time he used the push-button almost as Tharn snapped into bodily +existence a few feet away. + +The teleportation angle again. He was sitting in the middle of a desert. +Cactus and Joshua trees were all the scenery. There was a purple range +of mountains far away. + +No Tharn, though. + +Kelvin began to be thirsty. Suppose the case stopped working now? Oh, +this couldn’t go on. A decision hanging fire for a week finally +crystallized into a conclusion so obvious he felt like kicking himself. +Perfectly obvious! + +Why hadn’t he thought of it at the very beginning? + +He concentrated on the problem: How can I get rid of Tharn? He pushed +the button.... + +And, a moment later, he knew the answer. It would be simple, really. + +The pressing urgency was gone suddenly. That seemed to release a fresh +flow of thought. Everything became quite clear. + +He waited for Tharn. + +He did not have to wait long. There was a tremor in the shimmering air, +and the turbaned, pallid figure sprang into tangible reality. + +The rod-weapon was poised. + +Taking no chances, Kelvin posed his problem again, pressed the button, +and instantly reassured himself as to the method. He simply thought in a +very special and peculiar way—the way Quarra Vee had indicated. + +Tharn was flung back a few feet. The moustached mouth gaped open as he +uttered a cry. + +“Don’t!” the android cried. “I’ve been trying to—” + +Kelvin focused harder on his thought. Mental energy, he felt, was +pouring out toward the android. + +Tharn croaked, “Trying—you didn’t—give me—chance—” + + * * * * * + +And then Tharn was lying motionless on the hot sand, staring blindly up. +The seven-fingered hands twitched once and were still. The artificial +life that had animated the android was gone. It would not return. + +Kelvin turned his back and drew a long, shuddering breath. He was safe. +He closed his mind to all thoughts but one, all problems but one. + +How can I find the red-moustached man? + +He pressed the button. + + * * * * * + +This is the way the story starts: + +Quarra Vee sat in the temporal warp with his android Tharn, and made +sure everything was under control. + +“How do I look?” he asked. + +“You’ll pass,” Tharn said. “Nobody will be suspicious in the era you’re +going to. It didn’t take long to synthesize the equipment.” + +“Not long. Clothes—they look enough like real wool and linen, I +suppose. Wrist watch, money—everything in order. Wrist watch—that’s +odd, isn’t it? Imagine people who need machinery to tell time!” + +“Don’t forget the spectacles,” Tharn said. + +Quarra Vee put them on. “Ugh. But I suppose—” + +“It’ll be safer. The optical properties in the lenses are a guard you +may need against dangerous mental radiations. Don’t take them off, or +the robot may try some tricks.” + +“He’d better not,” Quarra Vee said. “That so-and-so runaway robot! +What’s he up to, anyway, I wonder? He always was a malcontent, but at +least he knew his place. I’m sorry I ever had him made. No telling what +he’ll do, loose in a semi-prehistoric world, if we don’t catch him and +bring him home.” + +“He’s in that horomancy booth,” Tharn said, leaning out of the +time-warp. “Just arrived. You’ll have to catch him by surprise. And +you’ll need your wits about you, too. Try not to go off into any more of +those deep-thought compulsions you’ve been having. They could be +dangerous. That robot will use some of his tricks if he gets the chance. +I don’t know what powers he’s developed by himself, but I do know he’s +an expert at hypnosis and memory erasure already. If you aren’t careful +he’ll snap your memory-track and substitute a false brain-pattern. Keep +those glasses on. If anything should go wrong, I’ll use the +rehabilitation ray on you, eh?” And he held up a small rod-like +projector. + +Quarra Vee nodded. + +“Don’t worry. I’ll be back before you know it. I have an appointment +with that Sirian to finish our game this evening.” + +It was an appointment he never kept. + +Quarra Vee stepped out of the temporal warp and strolled along the +boardwalk toward the booth. The clothing he wore felt tight, +uncomfortable, rough. He wriggled a little in it. The booth stood before +him now, with its painted sign. + +He pushed aside the canvas curtain and something—a carelessly hung +rope—swung down at his face, knocking the horn-rimmed glasses askew. +Simultaneously a vivid bluish light blazed into his unprotected eyes. He +felt a curious, sharp sensation of disorientation, a shifting motion +that almost instantly was gone. + +The robot said, “You are James Kelvin.” + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68250 *** |