This one is not a takeoff on any particular author; it is a takeoff on the so-called “beat generation” of the late Fifties—a generation which was soon to be replaced by the “hippies,” who are now as defunct as the “beatniks.”
{Ever wonder where the word “beatnik” came from? It was a takeoff on the word “sputnik”—the Earth’s first orbital satellite, sent up by the Russians. The word “sputnik” means “fellow traveler.” Work that one out in your home computer.)
By Randall Garrett
“That’s very odd,” said Lady Curvert.
The sound that accompanied her voice was that of her egg spoon taking the top off her egg in its cup, so it is not remarkable that Lord Curvert, without lowering his copy of the Times, merely inquired: “Something wrong with the egg, my dear?”
“What? Egg? No, silly; it’s this night club in New York.”
Lord Curvert, well aware that his wife never remarked on anything of that sort without good reason, reluctantly lowered his newspaper and looked at her. She was absently spooning up egg with her right hand while her left held the tabloid upon which her gaze was fastened.
“What is it, Evelyn?” his lordship asked. “Something?”
“I’m not certain,” she said. “Listen to this: ‘The Village’s newest and farthest-out espressoteria, the Venus Club, is the latest subject of a quiet investigation by the Musician’s Union, according tb the B’way scuttlebutt. Seems that the weirdly-dressed musicos who are pulling in the jazz-lovers by the horde are too good to be believed. The management claims they’re unpaid amateurs and don’t need a union card, but the big-name pros who’ve heard them don’t believe any amateur group could be that good. The “Venusian” get-ups they wear, which make them look as though the instruments they play are part of their bodies, make the players unrecognizable, and Union officials can’t find out who they are. Since a combo as good as the “Venusians” could get hi-pay spots easily, according to Union officials, it doesn’t make sense for them to keep on at the Venus Club unless they actually are getting something under the counter. If they are, the Union wants its cut.”‘ Lady Curvert looked up at her husband through glorious deep blue eyes. “Isn’t that odd?”
His lordship blinked thoughtfully. “Odd, yes,” he said after a moment, “but hardly world-shattering. I scarcely see how it concerns us.”
Lady Curvert tapped the paper. “Venusians.”
Lord Curvert elevated an eyebrow a fraction of a millimeter. “My dear old girl,” he said in a voice tinged with sarcasm, “the last time I was on Venus, back in 1948, nothing on that vast overheated Turkish bath had evolved any higher than the sponges. I hardly think that the succeeding fifteen years could have produced the intelligence required to beat out a hot rhythm on a set of bongo drums in a beatnik coffee house-though that is admittedly not such a tremendous leap in intelligence.”
“I’m quite aware of that, Charles,” his wife said coolly. “It’s merely that this article has apparently started an intuitive chainweb in my mind. Something will come of it, I’m sure.”
“Ah, I see.” Lord Curvert was well aware of his wife’s mental abilities. “Very well, my dear; when you’ve formed a full intuition, let me know. Meantime, I’ll have some more kippers.”
Lord Curvert finished the kippers, the Times, and the coffee, excused himself, and headed toward the library, leaving his wife to continue her reading. She had already finished the American papers and had begun on Pravda. Within an hour, she would have all the salient points of the day’s news filed away in her capacious and accurate memory, where her subconscious could get at them in its ceaseless work of forming the “hunches” that made Evelyn Curvert so useful in her position as Assistant to the Galactic Observer.
Fesswick, the butler—tall, broad shouldered, a pluperfectly correct expression on his very human-looking face—was waiting for his lordship in the library.
“Good morning, Fesswick. Anything interesting this morning?”
“Very little, my lord,” said Fesswick in his precise voice. “The instrument readings are normal. The Russians attempted to launch another of their new rockets at 0517 this morning. It exploded at 0521.”
“They won’t publish this failure, either,” said Lord Curvert.
“Very likely not, my lord,” said Fesswick. “According to the neutrino emission detectors, the new reactor at Tel-Aviv suffered a slight misfunction at 1143 last night. Nothing serious, but it was damped at 1144 and has remained so.”
“Down for repairs, eh?” his lordship commented.
“Precisely so, my lord. Solar emission,” Fesswick continued, “remains normal. The...”
Fesswick took nearly seven minutes more to deliver his report of the happenings of the past twenty-four hours as they had been recorded on the special instruments concealed within the depths of Castle Curvert. They had been reporting their data precisely since they had been built into the castle, six hundred years before, and they would go on doing so until they were shut off-or destroyed.
All in all, everything was quite normal.
Lord Curvert sat down behind his desk and sighed gently. “Rather dull, isn’t it, Fesswick? I mean, we haven’t had any real excitement since that squadron of Mizarian ships got off course and tried to land, back in ‘47.” He gazed reminiscently at the ceiling. “Had the devil’s own time with them for a while, there.”
“A masterful piece of work on your part, if I may say so.”
“Thank you,” his lordship said absently. “Fesswick, has it occurred to you that our work may soon be completed on this planet?”
“The thought has crossed my mind, my lord.”
“They’ve come up fast, Fesswick. In another half century, they may be ready to go to the stars, and a hidden Observer will no longer be necessary. Still, it’s been interesting, hasn’t it?”
“Very interesting, my lord.”
There was a note in Fesswick’s voice that made Lord Curvert look curiously at his butler. He had always regarded Fesswick as—well, as part of the machinery. He was simply there. He had always been there. To imagine Castle Curvert without Fesswick was to imagine Egypt without the pyramids. And yet
“You’ve been with the family for a long time, haven’t you, Fesswick?”
Instead of answering immediately, Fesswick turned to look at the shield on the wall, upon which was emblazoned the Curvert arms—Vert, on a pale or, a heart of the field.
There was pride in Fesswick’s voice when he spoke. “In a sense, my lord, I have only been with the family four generations. I was sent in as a new model to replace my predecessor in the year 1155, shortly after your great-grandfather was created the first Baron du Coeur Vert by Henry II for his services following the overthrow of the unhappy usurper, Stephen. Those were exciting times, my lord.” He turned to face his master again.
“In another sense, my lord,” he went on, “I have been with the family much longer. Since all the pertinent memories were transferred from the brain of my predecessor to my own, I have a sense of continuity that goes back to the establishment of the Observership, more than eight thousand years ago.”
Lord Curvert, who had scarcely entered his twelfth decade, felt suddenly humble before the majesty of eighty centuries of time.
There was a rap at the door. “Charles!” The door opened before either Fesswick or Lord Curvert could answer, and Lady Curvert swept in. “ Ah, there you are. Good morning, Fesswick. Charles, I have arrived at a full intuition. The Thregonnese. We should investigate at once.”
“The metamorphs of Thregonn? Good heavens, you don’t say so”‘ Lord Curvert stood up from his chair. “But how could they have come here?”
Lady Curvert shook her head. “I can’t tell you that.”
His lordship looked at Fesswick. “How about that, Fesswick, old man? Could a spaceship have landed recently without registering on the detectors?”
“Highly unlikely, my lord.”
Lord Curvert looked back at his wife. “Fesswick says it’s highly unlikely, my dear.”
“My intuition is never wrong, Charles, “ Lady Curvert replied with dignity.
“That’s true, eh, Fesswick?”
“Quite true, my lord. Her ladyship has never been known to err in matters of intuition.”
“Very well, then; given the datum that there are Thregonnese on the planet, the question is: how did they get here? That seems to me to be logically deducible, which puts it in your department.”
“I shall endeavor to give satisfaction, my lord.” His high speed robotic brain was capable of working such problems in minute fractions of a second, so he continued without a pause: “It is obvious, my lord, that, in order to get from Thregonn, the metamorphs must have come by interstellar vessel. The only way such a vessel could have entered the Solar System without registering on the detectors would be to utilize a screen that would prevent the telltale wake from the drive energies from reaching us.”
“But there is no such screen, Fesswick,” Lady Curvert objected.
“With all due apologies, my lady,” said Fesswick, “there is such a screen. The Sun itself. Interstellar drive energies cannot penetrate through the core of a star without absorption.”
“Then their ship must have entered the Solar System by coming in from the opposite side of the Sun from Earth?” Lady Curvert said.
“Precisely so, my lady .”
“But look here, Fesswick,” said his lordship, “that’s all very well for getting them into the Solar System, but it doesn’t answer at all for getting them to Earth itself. So far, you’ve gotten them a hundred million miles from Earth, with the Sun between us. The question is: How did they get here?”
“The Viper, my lord,” said Fesswick imperturbably.
“The Viper?”
“Exactly, my lord. The Venus Interplanetary Probe ElectroRocket. It was, if you will recall, an unmanned automatic probe rocket designed to make an orbit close to Venus, take photographs, and return to Earth-an orbit which necessitated its being, for a time, on the opposite side of the Sun from Earth.”
“Oh, yes. I remember seeing the photographs in the Times. Quite good ones they were, too,” Lord Curvert said musingly. “Then, while the Viper was on the other side of the Sun, the Thregonnese simply attached a capsule to the side of it and rode it back to Earth.”
“Exactly, my lord. It could have been done in no other way.”
“The timing is exactly right, too,” said Lord Curvert thoughtfully. “Naturally, we had no reason to suspect anything at the time; it was simply another American rocket returning home. It landed in the Pacific, as I recall, and the American Navy didn’t find it for nearly an hour-plenty of time for the Thregonnese to detach their capsule and be on their way. Probably used a distorter to foul up the Navy’s radar a bit, so that it would take more time to find the Viper.
“Without doubt, my lord,” Fesswick agreed.
“Very ingenious of them,” said his lordship. “Very. But you see what this implies, don’t you? They have been on Earth for nearly a year—for what purpose we have, as yet, no notion. And now, suddenly, they advertise their presence almost blatantly.
“Their very method of entry shows that they are aware of the presence of a Galactic Observer on this planet, so one would think that they would do their best to remain in concealment.”
“Do you fear a trap, Charles?” Lady Curvert asked calmly.
“Let us say that, at the very least, they are attempting to draw the attention of the Galactic Observer, and that they have succeeded. Why? They want to find out who the Galactic Observer is; they want to be able to put their finger on me, as it were.
“On the other hand, this is almost too blatant to be. a trap. They not only advertise their presence, but practically tell me how they got here. It’s almost as if they wanted me to recognize it as a trap. Still, that seems a little too much, doesn’t it? We don’t have all the data as yet, and, as a chap I used to know once remarked, ‘It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgement.’”
“Shall I begin preparations, my lord?” asked Fesswick.
“Immediately. That’s where they’ve baited their hook very nicely, you see; we have no choice but to investigate. However, we shall take every precaution.” He frowned suddenly. “By the by, Fesswick, I am scheduled to address the House of Lords tomorrow. We’ll have to send a proxy. Fortunately, I’ve already written the speech.”
“Shall I attend to it personally, my lord?”
“By no means! I want you here-at the controls.”
“Certainly, my lord. I’ll send Elsie, the upstairs maid; she should be able to carry out the deception competently.”
“Quite. Now, let’s get with it, Fesswick. The game, as my friend used to remark, is afoot.”
During the reign of Queen Victoria, when the British Empire was at its peak, Lord Curvert had had the opportunity of chuckling inwardly-though deploring outwardly-when he was told of the horrible fate that might face an Englishman stationed in some far-off place. Accompanied by a sad shake of the head, the story usually went something like this: “Terrible thing about Lord Greystoke. Hadn’t you heard? Greystoke’s gone native. Africa, you know. Deplorable. Doesn’t even dress for dinner any more, so I hear.”
What caused Lord Curvert’s inward mirth was, of course, that the first thing a Galactic Observer did when stationed on a planet was to “go native.” One not only had to blend in, one had to change with the times. One had to age one’s appearance slowly and bring up “children”—parts played by one or more of the robots—and then, at the right time, one became one’s own son while a robot played the older man and finally “died.” Such things required a chameleon-like ability to adapt, to change one’s personality as one might change one’s hat.
Thus it is not to be considered remarkable that Ben and Cordelia Holler, who stepped out of a dark alley near Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco, bore no resemblance whatever to Lord and Lady Curvert, either in appearance or manner.
“Do we make the scene here for a bit,” Cordelia asked, “or do we cut out for New York soonest?”
“We cut out for N.Y., chick,” Ben said. “Those squares might have pegged us if we’d used a teleporter into the Village, but they won’t dig the G.O. making it on a jet plane. Let’s get this wild gig going, chicky.”
They walked out into the fog-filled light that spilled from the street lamps.
Ben chuckled. “Let’s grab a cab. I mean, like we got bread to blow, so let’s blow it.”
She grinned up at him. “Crazy, man! I mean, real crazy!”
A few hours later, they were in Manhattan. The roundabout method of arrival had been absolutely necessary. If Fesswick, at the controls of the teleportation projector, had put them directly in New York, there was a slight chance that the Thregonnese detectors might have registered the activity of the materialization field. On the other hand, it was necessary to get into the United States without going through the formality of passing through Immigration and Customs.
“First thing, baby,” Ben said as they came out of the subway exit at Waverly Place, “is to tag us a pad. Dig? Then we make the scene at the Kettle and a couple of the other cool spots for kicks.”
Ben and Cordelia made the scene in the Village for seven days before they went anywhere near the Venus Club. They didn’t want to seem anxious, so they played it cool. They strolled into the Venus Club late one Friday evening, and the joint was really swinging. The kookiest-looking quartet this side of an H-kick nightmare were blowing out a beat crazy enough to make any cat flip his gasket.
Ben and Cordelia sat down, ordered a couple espressos, and kept playing it cool, just digging the whole bit.
The four musicians were hot; there was no question of that. And cool at the same time. But both Ben and Cordelia could tell at a glance that they were not-definitely not-human beings dressed up in fancy suits. They varied in color from pale pink to deep purple-a drummer, a trumpeter, a clarinetist, and a bass viol player. The lips of the trumpeter and the’ clarinetist formed the instruments they played. The bass player’s belly formed the sounding box of his instrument, with the strings running from his nose to a point below where his navel should have been. The drummer’s belly ballooned out like a kettledrum, with a flat drumhead just below his sternum.
It was easy to see why they had been able to pass themselves off as dressed-up humans; the “costumes” looked too outré, too artificial to be real. But the dead giveaway was the drummer.
He had four arms.
Try that with a costume sometime!
“Frantically cool,” said Cordelia.
Ben scratched thoughtfully at his beard. “I’m hip,” he agreed.
They were Thregonnese, all right. There was no other race in the known Galaxy that could change the shape of their bodies that way.
The bass player stepped out from the others and began chanting in time to the music. At first, it seemed to be nothing but nonsense syllables of the rooty-ooty-yeek-yeek-boo-da-da type, then both Ben and Cordelia recognized that he was chanting in a jazzed-up version of Basic Galactic, the lingua franca of space.
“Hey, Observer, give us a buzz!
We’re in trouble like never was!
Every night we sing this bit,
Hoping you’ll be digging it.
Listen, G.O., to our moan;
Kindly call us on the phone!
Listen to our wailing yelp;
What we mean is: Man, like—help!”
There was a long wailing note on the trumpet and a little flurry of sobs from the coronet, and the piece ended with a teeth-rattling roll from the drum.
“Cool,” said Cordelia, crushing out her cigarette.
“Frantically cool,” agreed Ben. He looked at his wristwatch. “Time to cut out now, but we will definitely have to make this scene tomorrow.”
They finished their coffee and strolled out. By then, the musicians had left the bandstand and were nowhere to be seen.
Cordelia waited until they were a full block away before she spoke. “Do we give them a buzz? What kind of crazy hassle do you figure they’re hung up in?”
“You got no hunch?”
“Man, like I dig them the least. Can it hurt to phone?”
“Don’t know, chick. Maybe we ought to—”
He thought it over for a minute. Which would be best-to sneak up on them quietly, without letting them know he was anywhere around, and hit all four of them fast-or to take them at their word and call them on the phone?
The trouble was that it was impossible to trust a Thregonnese any farther than you could throw a bonfire by the smoke. The metamorphs of Thregonn weren’t vicious, but they were characterized by a low sense of humor and a way of thinking that was definitely weird by human standards.
He decided he’d chance it. He said, “Come on, chick,” and went into a drug store on the next corner. He got the number of the Venus Club and dialed it.
“Venus Club,” said a voice.
“You are under arrest,” said the Observer in clipped Galactic.
“Are you the Observer?” asked the voice in the same language.
“That’s right. And you know you’re not supposed to be on this planet. It’s still under quarantine.”
“Believe me,” said the other, “I wouldn’t be here at all if I could get away. None of us would. For a while, there, we were afraid maybe you’d never notice us.”
“So far,” said the Observer, “you haven’t attracted the attention of the local authorities, but if you do, I’ll slap a charge against you that will—”
“Hey, now!” the Thregonnese interrupted. “We know the law! This was only a misdemeanor. Landing for refueling without authorization, is all.”
“I’ll tell you what the law is,” the Observer said. “Now, what’s all this fuss about, anyhow?”
“Well, first of all, it started out as a joke. You know?”
“Sure. I know all about it,” the Observer said sarcastically. “That’s why I’m spending my time asking you questions. What the hell happened?”
“Well, there was this bet, see. Lubix, Forbin, Alisnokine, and I had bet some friends of ours that we could come in here, land, pick up a—uh—a souvenir, and come back without your catching us. Without even knowing we’d been here. See?”
“So far, yes,” said the Observer in a very cold voice.
“Well, the guys we were betting against must’ve got cute,” the Thregonnese went on. “They bollixed up our space capsule, and we couldn’t take off again. And now that the U.S. Navy has the capsule, we can’t do anything about it at all.”
“The U.S. Navy? Now wait a minute; you can’t…”
Then he heard sudden loud noises from the phone, a voice in English said, “Chiggers! The cops!” and the line went dead.
Cordelia, who had been standing near the doorway of the drugstore, where she could watch the door of the Venus Club, walked over to the phone booth and said, in a low voice, “Like, some cops just went in. Wonder what they’re bugged about?”
“I hope,” Ben said fervently, “that those cats don’t goof now. Otherwise, we’ll all be in the soup!”
Lord Curvert glared at his copy of the New York Daily News in a medium dudgeon. There, looking out from the front page with idiotic grins, were four of the most disreputable-looking men his lordship had ever had the misfortune to gaze upon.
“At least,” he said grudgingly, “they managed to metamorphose into reasonably human shape before they were arrested. I hate to think what might have happened if the police had arrested them while they were still in the outlandish shapes they were wearing when we saw them last.”
Lady Curvert sipped at her tea and looked at the headlines.
VENUS CLUB OWNERS NABBED IN
NARCOTICS RAID
$10,000 Heroin Cache Found in Coffee House
“It’s ridiculous,” said her ladyship rather peevishly. “It makes no sense at all! Why should four Thregonnese want to do anything so silly as use or sell heroin? They couldn’t have become addicted to it, could they, Charles?”
“I think not. Incompatible metabolism, eh, Fesswick?”
Fesswick placed more buttered toast on the small tray next to the marmalade pot. “Quite incompatible, my lord. Heroin would kill a Thregonnese within three minutes if injected into the bloodstream. Sniffing it, as I believe is often done by addicts, would cause unconsciousness very rapidly.”
“Then why should they do anything so silly?” her ladyship repeated.
“I confess, my lady, that I am thus far unable to deduce the machinations lying behind these highly peculiar circumstances,” Fesswick admitted.
Lord Curvert poured himself another cup of tea. “All the data we have thus far aren’t worth a ha’penny for the lot. The story they gave me over the telephone was that they had come to Earth on a bet, to pick up a souvenir of some kind, that one of the Thregonnese betting against them had done something to their space capsule, and that somehow—Heaven only knows how!—the United States Navy has gained possession of the capsule. All of which could be a tissue of lies from one end to the other, damn it.” He looked searchingly at his butler. “What’s your opinion, Fesswick?”
“The story as it stands, my lord, is not consistent with the facts as we know them, but that is merely to say that we have no conclusive evidence of any kind.”
Lord Curvert snorted at that and looked at his wife. “ And how is your intuition this morning, my dear?”
“Well, Charles,” she said, smiling rather timidly, “I have a feeling you ought to do something—but I’m not at all sure what.”
“Well, damn it all, we have to do something! The family has held the Observership perfectly for eight thousand years—guarded Earthmen from interference, so that they could develop their own civilization. I’m not going to have that record spoilt by four Thregonnese clowns!”
“Couldn’t we just help them to escape with the teleporter?” Lady Curvert asked helpfully. “Then you could put the collars on them and ship them off.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” his lordship growled, staring into his teacup.
Lady Curvert looked hurt.
“It can’t be done, my lady,” Fesswick said quietly. “We used to be able to do such things easily, but, in these days, when the cells of a modern gaol are made of steel, we find ourselves hampered by the fact that a teleporter field is badly distorted if one attempts to project it into a metal-enclosed space.”
“Dear me,” said Lady Curvert. She looked at her husband, saw that he was far too deep in thought to be disturbed, and turned back to Fesswick. “Is there anything at all I can do?”
“Not, I’m afraid, at the moment, my lady ,” said the robot with dignity. “When both Logic and Intuition have failed, we must resort to Action and Ingenuity, and those are in his lordship’s department.” He poured Lady Curvert another cup of tea. “I am quite sanguine, my lady, over the prospect of his lordship’s solving the problem very shortly. He always has.”
The police chemist who took the small package of heroin from the safe to analyze it was very careful with the stuff. His job was to run it through an analysis so that he could testify in court that it really was heroin. He didn’t let the package out of his sight for more than thirty seconds.
Which was plenty long enough.
He was setting up his testing apparatus, so he didn’t see a long-fingered, aristocratic hand appear out of nowhere, take the package, and replace it with an exactly similar one.
When the contents of the package turned out to be sugar, the chemist was surprised. The District Attorney was more than surprised; he was furious.
But there was nothing that either of them could do.
There was even more surprise in Castle Curvert when Fesswick reported his own analysis of the powder to his master .
“The substance, my lord,” he said in his precise voice, “is not heroin.”
“Not heroin?” said his lordship.
“No, my lord. It is Varesh powder.”
“Ah-hah!” his lordship expostulated. ‘I And they brought plenty of it, didn’t they?”
“Yes, my lord. Enough, shall we say, to hypnotize every government official on Earth, if that became necessary. It only needs to be activated.”
“Things are beginning to fall into place, Fesswick.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Lost their equipment, didn’t they, Fesswick?” he said, grinning.
“It would appear so, my lord,” said Fesswick, returning the grin.
“The next step, Fesswick, is to appear to fall in with their nefarious plan.”
“Yes, my lord. I shall begin preparation immediately.”
Omboser, Lubix, Forbin, and Alsnokine stepped out of the court building and walked down the imposing-looking steps toward the sidewalk.
“It’s about time they let us out,” Omboser snarled in Thregonnese. “I knew that as soon as they analyzed the Varesh powder they would realize that it was not one of their local drugs-but I didn’t know it would take the primitive fools that long to analyze it.”
Lubix patted the pocket of the suit he was wearing. “Well, we got it back, and that’s what’s important.”
“You idiots!” Forbin hissed, “cease your chatter! The Galactic Observer could be anywhere around.”
They all glanced around apprehensively. Alsnokine whispered, “Do you think he can speak or understand Thregonnese?”
“Probably not,” said Forbin, “but there’s .no need of talking loud enough for everyone to hear.”
“What I want to know ,” Lubix said as they headed toward the subway entrance, “is, who’s the creep who called the cops on us?”
“That character from the Musician’s Union, obviously,” said Omboser. “If Alsnokine hadn’t acted so guilty when he came into the office, nothing would have happened.”
“What was I supposed to do? Leave it out there for him to look at?” Alsnokine asked defensively. “How could I know he wasn’t the Observer himself?”
“Quit arguing, you two!” Forbin snapped. “We haven’t lost anything but a little time. Let’s get back to the club and hope that the Observer will contact us again.”
“If Omboser hadn’t been such a blockhead,” Alsnokine began, “we wouldn’t…”
“Ahh, shut up!” said Forbin.
When they reached the Venus Club, a little more than a mile north of the station at Centre Street, Omboser produced his key, unlocked the front door, and went in, followed by his three coconspirators. They stopped suddenly at the sight of a tall, rather handsome, impeccably dressed gentleman who was seated at a table in the middle of the room, sipping at a small cup of espresso.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said with utter aplomb. “That machine of yours makes quite excellent coffee.” He was speaking very cultivated Galactic.
“The Observer,” the four Thregonnese said in a ragged chorus.
“Exactly,” said Lord Curvert. “You may refer to me as Mr. Smith. Not as original an alias, perhaps, as, say, ‘Sebastian Tombs,’ but it will suffice. Now, to which of you was I speaking when the local constabulary so precipitately interrupted?”
“That was me,” said Omboser.
“Then pray sit down, make yourselves comfortable, and tell me all about your troubles. Consider me your Father Confessor, and tell all.”
They sat down slowly, all four pairs of eyes focused steadily on the intruder.
Finally, Omboser smiled. “Well, sir, as I was saying,” he began, “we had this little bet, you see. We knew it was illegal, but it was just a harmless prank. We were to come here, and then go back, that’s all. Nobody would be hurt, nobody would be the wiser, and we would win our bet. See?”
“I understand so far,” Lord Curvert said agreeably. “Then what happened?”
“Well...” Omboser began very hesitantly.
“This idiot,” said Forbin, pointing a thumb at Omboser, “was supposed to stay behind with our capsule. Instead, he went swimming.”
“It gets pretty boring, doing nothing,” said Omboser pettishly.
“He went swimming,” Forbin repeated. “We had the capsule underwater, in a little bay at Lukiuni Atoll, out in the Pacific.”
“There was nobody on the atoll at all,” Omboser said. “It looked perfectly all right to go swimming.”
“Nevertheless,” Forbin continued, “while Omboser was out cavorting-he’d changed himself into a porpoise for the purpose -a United States Navy patrol plane spotted the capsule from the air.”
“I told you we should have sunk it in deeper water,” Omboser said.
Forbin ignored him. “By the time Omboser got back from his spree, the U.S. Navy was in charge-with a light cruiser. Since we’d left most of our equipment in the capsule, we didn’t even have the instruments we needed to sneak in and get the capsule back.”
“The Navy thinks the capsule is a Russian job,” Lubix supplied helpfully. “They haven’t opened it yet, because they’re afraid there might be a thermonuclear bomb inside it. But they’ve sure got it surrounded while they try to figure out what to do.”
“So,” Forbin finished, “we figured we’d better get in touch with you and tell you what happened. We rented this place and put on a show that we thought would attract your attention without revealing ourselves to the natives. It took us a long time to get the hang of how things are done on this planet, though. Otherwise, we’d’ve done this sooner.”
Then all four of them sat there in silence, watching the Observer, waiting for his decision.
Lord Curvert thought the matter over carefully, then came to a decision. “Very well, my fumble-fingered friends, we’ll see what can be done. He looked up into the air a foot or so above his head. “Rally round, Mr. Jones,” he said, “there’s work to be done.”
The calm voice or Fesswick came out of the air; “Anytime you’re ready, Mr. Smith.”
Sergeant Thaddeus McClusky, USMC, shrugged his shoulder a little to adjust the weight of the heavy machine rifle that was slung there. So did Corporal Quinn. Both of them looked with respectful eyes at Lieutenant fig) Fordham, USN, and listened silently as he spoke.
“Remember, men; that may be an atomic bomb down there, so keep on your toes. Absolutely no one is allowed to pass inside this perimeter after dark. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Sargeant McClusky.
“Yes, sir,” said Corporal Quinn.
“Very well. Carryon.”
Salutes were exchanged, and the two Marines waited silently while the Naval officer went on down the line to the next post. As soon as he was out of earshot, McClusky muttered a dirty word. “...deckape shavetail,” he added.
“That’s the way the goddam Navy operates,” said Quinn philosophically. “We been here six months watching that gizmo while the Navy sits on its duff and wonders what to do about it. And what do they do? Why, they send us a fresh jaygee from Stateside who tells us to do exactly what we been doin’ all along. That takes real brains, that does.”
Sergeant McClusky nodded his agreement. “‘Remember, that may be an atomic bomb, down here, so keep on your toes,”‘ he mimicked. “Well, you can just bet your stripey little shoulder boards we will, sir. Yes, sir. We’ll watch very closely, sir, and if that thing goes off, we’ll call you right up on the telephone, sir. Won’t we, Corporal Quinn?”
“Just as fast as ever we can,” agreed Corporal Quinn. “We will be moving very rapidly, Sergeant McClusky.”
They turned to look at the little, shallow lagoon which held the unknown thing. There were no lights illuminating it; the Navy didn’t want to attract the attention of any high-flying Russian planes that might be looking the area over. But the light of a tropical full moon cast its silvery radiance over the glittering waters of the lagoon.
The thing itself had been surrounded with a steel net to keep large fish from approaching it and-possibly-setting it off. underwater sonar constantly probed the depths to make sure that Russian frogmen didn’t try to sneak in. The Navy didn’t think the Russians knew where their toy was, but they were taking no chances.
“You know ,” said McClusky, “when I was a kid, I used to love those movies of the South Seas. Remember? They had scenes in ‘em just like this.”
“Yeah,” Quinn agreed softly. “Tropical moon—sea breezes—palm trees gently waving—waves rolling softly against the warm sands.”
“That’s very poetic,” McClusky said in mild astonishment.
“I remember it from an old movie ad,” Quinn said.
“All we need is some guitar music,” McClusky said. “Yeah. And Dorothy Lamour in a sarong.”
“Will I do?” asked a soft, throaty contralto voice from behind them.
Both men spun around, unslinging their rifles with the easy grace of long practice.
Then they froze, as if someone had doused them with a few gallons of liquid air. Their eyes glazed, and their mouths hung agape.
It was not Dorothy Lamour, they decided, because she was not wearing a sarong. She was not even wearing a grass skirt.
Sergeant McClusky recovered his voice. “You ain’t supposed to be here, dressed like that, ma’am,” he said to the vision of loveliness.
“Undressed like that,” Corporal Quinn corrected automatically.
“Even if you was dressed,” said McClusky, “you hadn’t ought to be here. Women aren’t allowed on this island.” He was still trying to figure out what to do when a voice bellowed out from the next post down the shore.
“Corporal of the guard! Post Number Five! I got a woman on my post—a nekkid woman! Whadda I do now?”
Before Corporal Quinn could answer, two more posts called out that they had the same trouble.
“Why all the fuss?” asked the girl, wide-eyed. “We just want to go swimming in your pretty lagoon.”
“No, you don’t,” said McClusky, recovering his wits at last. “You’re under arrest, lady.” He reached out to grab her with one brawny fist, but his hand closed on empty air. The girl was deceptively fast. She backed away, still smiling, and McClusky made another lunge for her.
He missed and lost his balance as she danced back out of the way. As he fell forward, he heard Quinn yell: “Halt! Halt or I fire!”
He broke his fall with the butt of his rifle, and twisted to an upright sitting position. The girl, he noticed, was running ~way from the lagoon, toward the sea, with Quinn after her in hot pursuit, still calling for her to halt.
All around, there were similar cries. Sergeant McClusky wondered how many unclad females there were running around on Lukiuni Atoll—where there couldn’t possibly be any women.
Not a man there noticed what was going on out in the lagoon itself. The figure of a man suddenly materialized from nowhere a few inches above the surface of the water. Then he dropped in with scarcely a splash.
Since Fesswick did not breathe, there was no necessity for him to wear any of the usual diving equipment. All he had to do was swim to the steel net, cut through it, and head for the little Thregonnese space capsule. He wasn’t the least bit worried about the Navy’s probing sonar beams; the nullifiers operated by Lord Curvert would take care of them. As far as the sonar operators could tell, there was nothing at all unusual in the lagoon.
Fesswick got busy opening the airlock of the little capsule.
Up on shore, Sergeant McClusky yelled at Corporal Quinn, who was several yards away, at the sea’s edge, staring into the waves. Lights were coming on allover the tiny atoll. Pounding footsteps could be heard from every quarter as confused men ran every which way.
“She just dived into the sea and never came up,” Corporal Quinn was saying wonderingly.
“Why didn’t you shoot?” bellowed McClusky.
“Who the hell do you think I am?” Quinn bellowed back. “Mike Hammer?”
So far, nobody else had fired a shot, either, and by that time, all four of the Thregonnese had dived into the sea, changed into porpoises, and were swimming rapidly away from the atoll.
The final surprise came when, with a great geyser of erupting water, the Thregonnese space capsule shot up out of the lagoon and vanished rapidly into the moonlit sky.
There would be a lot of explaining to do that night and for many nights to come, in Navy circles.
But there would never be any explanation.
“And now,” said Lord Curvert gently, “the question arises as to what to do with you gentlemen.”
They were sitting in the Venus Club again. The space capsule, indetectable to any Earth science, was sitting on the roof of the building.
“Why, just make your report and let us go,” Forbin said politely. “It was only a misdemeanor. We haven’t done anything felonious. We didn’t expose anything to the natives or interfere in any way. Just let us go, and we’ll pay the fine according to the law.”
Lord Curvert was nodding slowly, and there was an oddly sleepy look in his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Certainly. Just let you go.”
The Thregonnese looked at each other with delight, and then looked back at the Observer.
“Or, better yet,” said Forbin insidiously, “just let us stay for a while. How about that?”
“Yes. Yes,” his lordship said rather glassily. “I could just let you stay for a while.”
“As a matter of fact,” Forbin went on in the same tone, “we have a few favors we’d like you to do for us.”
“Favors,” said Lord Curvert. “Certainly. What favors?”
“Well, for instance, why don’t you stand on your head?”
“Certainly.”
“And click your heels together ,” added Omboser, ignoring the scowls that Forbin and the others shot him.
“Certainly,” agreed his lordship. Placing hands and head on the floor, Lord Curvert solemnly upended himself, balanced carefully, and clapped his heels together.
“We’ve done it!” Forbin said gleefully. “We’re in!”
“You sure that assistant of his-that Mr. Jones can’t reach us here?” Alsnokine asked, a trifle apprehensively. “Or see us?”
“Not a chance,” Forbin said. “I turned on the nullifiers in our ship myself.”
“We’ve done it,” Lubix gloated. “In spite of all the setbacks, we have our ship, and we have the Observer. Now we can start having a little fun.”
“Are you gentlemen just going to leave me like this?” Lord Curvert asked politely.
They all turned to look at him.
He did a neat handspring-and-flip, and landed on his feet. “A confession of intent,” he said mildly, “is bad enough. When combined with an actual attempt, it becomes very bad indeed.”
None of them said anything.
“Oh, no,” his lordship went on, “I’m not hypnotized. In the first place, the substance you have been thinking is Varesh powder is nothing but powdered sugar. I saw you put it in the activator in your capsule, and I saw you put a pinch of it into the air. But I’m afraid sugar just doesn’t have the proper effect.
“In the second place, even if it had been Varesh powder, nothing would have happened, because I am wearing filter plugs in my nostrils, just as you are. The one difference is that my plugs function, while yours don’t..
“I’m afraid that while my assistant, Mr. Jones, was in your capsule, he put a few rather clever little gimmicks into your controls. In addition, he sprayed a little genuine Varesh powder through the teleporter just a few seconds ago. And it’s having its effect, isn’t it?”
It was. Robbed of their conscious volition, the human body shapes which the Thregonnese had assumed were beginning to look oddly lumpy as they tended to return to their normal shapes.
“I am sending you back to Thregonn for punishment,” he said. “I’ll tell you what the conspiracy was, and you correct me if I’m wrong, so that everything will be nice and legal.
“You intended to use this Venus Club set-up to trap me first. Then, after I had been hypnotized, you intended to take over the various governments of Earth. Now, there, I’m a little hazy-just what was your reason for wanting to take over? Were you going to set yourselves up as supreme dictators, so that you could push everybody around?” He looked at Forbin as he spoke.
“For a while,” admitted the thoroughly hypnotized Forbin. “Then, if we got bored, we thought it might be fun to start an atomic war among these primitive people.”
“Worse than I thought,” said Lord Curvert distastefully. “‘I hope they straighten you out thoroughly on Thregonn.”
By this time, the four Thregonnese had returned to their “normal” shape. They looked like four fat, pink kewpie dolls.
“All right,” said Lord Curvert, “let’s go. You’ll get in your ship and go straight to Thregonn, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” they chorused. “Straight to Thregonn.”
“And just to make sure you do, you’ll give yourselves another dose of Varesh powder every twenty-four hours. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” they chorused.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
They went up to the roof, and the four fat kewpies climbed into the vessel. The airlock closed, and a few seconds later the little spaceship fired skywards.
“Take me home, Fesswick,” said Lord Curvert.
“That’s very odd,” said Lady Curvert.
Lord Curvert looked up apprehensively from his Times. “Not another one, I hope.”
“Oh, no, Charles. Not another case. I was just thinking that it was very odd that the paper should come out with an editorial on the Teddy boys today. The editor says that juvenile delinquency is getting worse and something must be done to stop it.”
“I’ll write a letter to the Times, my dear,” said Lord Curvert.
Fesswick shimmered in through the doorway. “I beg to report, my lord, that Thregonn acknowledges the landing of the capsule. The four have been placed in arrest by the authorities. Their parents have been notified.”
“Good,” said Lord Curvert. “People here on Earth complain about juvenile delinquency, Fesswick. Just wait until they find out what it’s like on a Galactic scale.”