Originally appeared in Other Worlds, August 1952.
In all the world about him there was not one thing he recognized—not one face that was familiar. He was not even certain that the organisms of the beings he saw were similar to those he should know about. In fact he was certain of—absolutely nothing!
He stood with his eyes staring straight ahead, his features twisted with tortured interrogation, and his body rigid with frozen, abnormal tension. Each impact of the outside world would beat upon his consciousness with the stark fear of the unknown.
A one-eyed beggar limped toward him, mumbling in a strange language.
The sound of the beggar’s words was picked up by his auditory system and channeled into his brain. He felt a subtle, intangible meshing of thought processes, as though waiting cogs were slipping into place. And he understood what the beggar was saying.
“Alms. Alms.”
His hand responded to the words—with no directive from the brain. He reached into a side pocket and removed a round metallic disc. He placed the coin in the beggar’s outstretched hand.
The beggar palmed the coin, touched his forehead and showed toothless gums.
The words of the mendicant had fitted into prepared channels and he had reacted to them. A simple process of practiced response to stimulus. Vaguely he understood this, but beyond that his reasoning stopped. To reason he must have the tools of reason: Words. And he had only one—Alms. It was not enough.
Desperately he sought for some small segment of facts from which to reconstruct his past. Who was he? What was he? What could he do to find out?
A great nameless terror threatened to engulf him. He was impotent—terribly, starkly impotent! He could not even think.
Now he fought the blackness of despair. Fought to bring the intricate excitations within himself under his control. He drew three deep breaths, concentrating on the respiratory function. He sensed that this would hold back the terror by diversion. He let his intuitions assume full sway.
By the time he had expelled the third breath a plan of action had crystallized. He must manufacture his own tools of thought. And he understood what they must be: Word pictures.
He looked about him and let the flood of impressions pour in upon him. He dissected the stream into its components and categorized each detail. He made no attempt to ascribe significances yet.
Concrete objects first. A stream of opaque liquid flowed by a short distance away. He let its picture register. Though he had no way of conceiving the abstraction of distance. Next a tree. The solid matter he stood on was colored an off-shade of the liquid in the stream. Beside the stream stood a structure. There were several of them, but he did not know it. He had no comprehension of quantity.
He saw another creature. It resembled the beggar. His reasoning took a tremendous bound with the conception of comparison. Also it brought his attention back to himself.
Looking down he saw that he, too, was shaped in the same form as that of the beggar. Except that less of his flesh was exposed. He was clothed from the shoulders to his waist with a colored garment. Another garment covered the lower half of his body. And the flesh of his hands was lighter than that of the beggar.
After a few moments of this study he had sufficient rudimentary tools to continue his first embryonic reasoning in abstraction. He desired to move. He watched the locomotion of the two visible creatures. His first attempt was successful. He walked readily and easily.
He passed a street sign which read: CALCUTTA, INDIA, British Section. The words meant nothing to him.
His system of numbers evolved simply. There was either one, or more than one. Thus he knew he was passing several buildings. He even realized that they were structures rather than natural objects.
With this simple, but great, progress came confidence. He did not know who he was or even what he was, but certainly he was equipped with a great survival factor—reason. Given time to develop it, before he became overwhelmed by the complexities of this strange existence, there would be a possibility of his being able to cope with the unascertained forces of his-heterogeneous environment.
A primitive cunning impelled him to seek a position of observation; one where he would be called upon to do a minimum of adjusting.
He was passing a building with great frames of transparent material forming much of its front. Another meaningless sign read: Bachelor’s Club-Hotel. Within sat creatures dressed like himself and with the same pale flesh coloring. He went inside and sat in a grooved object which stood in a row of its kind facing the outside. He saw that one of the creatures rested his head against the back of the object in which he sat and with his eyes closed. None of the others paid any attention to him, while they did pay attention to each other. He rested his head hack also and closed his eyes.
Eagerly he listened to the conversation about him and let each word make its impression on his united brain. Each added its mite of wider and deeper concepts.
He did not realize what a magnificent job of assimilation his mind was doing—he had no means of comparison—but at the end of two hours he could understand much of what was being said, and he could have carried on a limited conversation, if necessary.
An inborn caution warned him to accept only as much contact with these creatures as was absolutely necessary at this stage of the course of events. To him it was still a strange adventure—a very strange adventure!
Inside his coat pocket—by now he understood about the garments he wore, though he was still not certain of their purpose—he found a leather wallet. Inside was a white card, lettered in black. He read the name printed there: ROBERT GRAVES. Underneath was the notation 1212 Aukland Road. He surmised that this connoted his place of residence. The name he presumed was his own.
That gave him a destination—something definite to work toward. He could not correlate the letters with the sounds of words he had heard, but he should be able to recognize the street and the numbers by comparison.
Carefully he planned his next actions, taking advantage of everything he had learned that would help him. When he had given his plan the best application of thought of which he was capable he left the hotel.
Each street, he found, bore rectangular marking plates supported by a metal pole. The sixth marker was lettered AUKLAND RD. He followed one way, studying closely the numbers on each building. Within a relatively short time he had figured out the pattern of the numbering system. Ten units to a group. He glanced at his hands. Ten digits. He did not know how he arrived at the reciprocal relation of the two, but it was a logical surmise.
Before leaving the hotel he had decided on one intermediate step that must be taken before he reached 1212 Aukland. He had almost passed the place he sought before he recognized it.
Three of the pale-skinned creatures stood inside the bookshop examining bound tablets of thin-sheeted substance. Several of the tablets were on display in the window. He went inside and found the tablets to be called books. He picked one at random and leafed through it as he saw others doing. No one paid any attention to him.
Within a short time he found what he sought. Now to attempt a transaction. This might be difficult. What were the steps necessary to secure ownership of the object? Did he posess anything of commensurate value with which to barter? Did they have a medium of exchange?
One of the creatures carried a book to a counter and deposited a metal disc in front of a second creature standing behind the counter. A smaller one was given in exchange and the purchaser walked out of the building with his book under his arm.
With luck he could duplicate the procedure. He walked to the table. He knew that he had several of the metal discs in his pocket. He placed them all on the table. The clerk selected five of them and shoved the remainder back. He put the change into his pocket and left with his book.
1212 Aukland was small and bore signs of deterioration. He found what must be its place of ingress and experimented with a round hard knob that protruded from it. He turned the knob and the door opened readily. Inside he found another door. Metal this time. There was the print of a hand in the metal. He placed his own hand in the print and the second door opened.
He stepped inside and found himself in a completely metal room. The room did not follow the outside contours of the building. Instantly he deducted that the wooden structure had been superimposed over the metal. Thus he stood in what must be a hollow machine.
In a corner of the room he saw one of the objects similar to that in which he had sat in the hotel. Wearily he let his body slump into it. Haven! Perhaps temporary, but at least it gave him some time to plan his future actions. He had not realized how desperately tired he was. He had been under an exhausting strain for a long time. He was grateful now for the release this retreat offered him. But before he allowed himself to rest he must make certain that there was nothing here to harm him while he was unguarded.
He rose and walked about the room. There was another chair—he defined it with one of the word pictures in his mind—slighter in structure than the others he had seen, but obviously of the same functional purpose. A desk somewhat like the counter in the bookstore. A square metal box rested on the desk. On the top of the box was a series of lettering. The first letters were ROBERT GRAVES. For a time this held his curiosity, but he shrugged. He-would come back to it after he had had the opportunity to study his book.
Inside a drawer in the desk he found a bundle of slips of paper, darkly colored and engraved. The number 100 was printed on each corner.
A long fabric-covered frame stood against the far wall. He assumed it to be a place for reclining. He tested it gingerly. It yielded luxuriously to the contours of his body. Satisfied for the present, he closed his eyes and slept.
Robert Graves—he now associated the name-picture with himself—awoke abruptly. He was aware of a feeling of discomfort, almost of pain. After a moment he localized the source of the discomfort in his stomach. Although he had no recollection of ever having eaten he knew that he was hungry. Resolutely he subjugated the feeling to his more immediate necessity.
He rose, walked to the desk and, after giving the metal object a brief glance, picked up his book and sat in the larger of the room’s two chairs.
At first he had difficulty with the book. He read the word-picture on its front: DICTIONARY. Inside he studied the printed characters until he determined their system. It consisted of twenty-six alphabetic symbols. He gave each a picture-name. With their help, and a cognitive correlation between them and the words he had learned verbally by listening to the men in the hotel, he began slowly to grasp their meaning. Soon he went so far as to associate the verbal pronunciations with the printed word. Then, as quick as the thought was born, he substituted their sounds for his word-pictures.
Once again he was not aware of the magnitude of his intellectual performance. He had no way of knowing if his achievement was either above or below the norm of capabilities of the creatures on the outside.
He did not know either that his ability to read by encompassing and assimilating as many as forty words at a glance was unusual. Nor that his memory was eidetic.
However, he did have a calm feeling of satisfaction about himself. The sentiment was not egotistical.
He had none of the pride of possessing virtues which he had nothing to do with acquiring: His was not a self-esteem arising from his size, his strength, or his appearance. Rather it was an objective appreciation. Originally, knowing nothing about himself, he had no slightest perception of his make-up other than the superficial ones of physical attributes.
In the back of his mind he had feared that he would find himself mediocre—when he must be capable and competent. He had hesitated to reflect on his plight if he should find himself stupid, illogical, subject to panic. His reactions had gratifyingly proved otherwise. He had evidenced a remarkable facility for properly sizing up his circumstances and for coping with them with the best powers at his command. He sensed now that he had been as methodical and thorough as necessary; yet that his mind had worked with celerity and an ability, which was probably unique, to select the correct action and course of actions from the data at hand.
At the end of three hours he was half-way through the dictionary and the discomfort in his stomach had become an anguished demand.
A short block from the metal room Robert found the eating place he sought. He had no trouble ordering. Or eating. His hands manipulated the implements, as he saw the other diners do, with no difficulty.
When he paid for his meal with some of the few remaining coins in his pocket he noticed neat rows of confectionary on the counter. He bought a package of five thin, double-wrapped wafers. He unwrapped one and put it into his mouth. It was sweet to the taste but when he chewed it, it refused to be masticated or dissolved by the digestive juices. He knew that it would be indigestible. He spat it out. He wondered about its purpose.
S Robert was about to enter the metal room he saw a brown skinned man driving past in a cart drawn by two oxen.
Back in his room he returned to work on the dictionary. When he had finished he was ready for his next step.
Pulling the smaller of the two chairs to the desk, he sat on it and read the inscription printed on the boxlike object. He read:
ROBERT GRAVES. You may ask me any questions you wish. Just be certain that each question is pertinent to your circumstances or that the answer is very important to you. The number that you may ask is limited, and if wasted may leave you without information vital to your continued existence.
This then was it. The moment for which he had prayed. But now he found that he was strangely reluctant to learn about himself. Would he be happy knowing who or what he was? There was no doubt but that he had been placed in the present circumstances by the premeditated actions of some person or group of persons. What had been their purpose? What was his mission? And would he be adequate to the handling of it? Whatever he was, he knew one thing: His life was precious to him. He did not want to die. Yet the last sentence on the box had been filled with menace to himself. He sighed as he let his shoulders relax and faced the box.
There were no visible buttons, switches, or methods of control. There seemed nothing for him to do except ask his questions. There was no uncertainty as to what the first question must be.
“Who am I?” he asked.
From within the box a voice spoke, clearly, crisply.
“You are Shon Kage, a native of the world Dohmet.”
That told him nothing.
“Where is the world Dohmet?”
“It is contiguous to the planet you now inhabit. It is not apparent to you because it occupies a dimension ordinarily inaccessible from that sphere of existence.”
“Why am I here?”
“You are an operative, sent by us to track down and kill the Beast, a pathological criminal who escaped us by fleeing to your present world.”
Finally he knew. But he must have more information or the problem would be impossible of solution.
“Who is the Beast?”
“What form he has taken there we cannot know, as matter form can be changed when the passage between worlds is made—as you have been changed. We can only assume that he will be found in the guise of the dominant species on that world. Otherwise, his freedom of choice and action would, of course, be very restricted.”
“How will I know him when I find him?”
“Again we cannot be certain. Most of the burden of solving that must devolve on you. We can only offer clues, most of which will probably be useless to you. First, he is a killer. Before we tracked him down on our own world he had decimated our three billion population. However, though he must be killed, your mission is not punitive. We have sent you to prevent his actions bringing chaos to the sphere into which he fled. One caution we can give you. Do not look for anything readily apparent. His methods will be insidious.
“Second,” the voice went on, while Graves wondered if the box was a reasoning device, “the Machine you now occupy was sent from our world to yours. It has several unique properties. For one thing it is set to the Beast’s life-pulse emanations and will always be found in close proximity—never more than five miles, as distance is measured where you are stationed. That will narrow your search. In addition the Machine has an attraction for you. Wherever it goes you will be able to follow.”
“I understand,” Robert said. “Am I speaking directly to someone on my own world?”
“Yes. We sent this communication device through with the Machine this last trip. However, its capacity for communication is limited by the fact that it was necessary for us to maintain a delicately molecular balance in the Machine when it was sent.”
“Will it be possible for me to return?”
“Yes. In the wall above your desk is a button.” Robert verified the statement. “When your mission is completed press it and the Machine will do the rest.”
“How did it happen that I arrived here with no past memory, and yet why do I feel as though I have lived this kind of life before?”
There was a pause. “The answer to that is not necessary to your quest. Do you wish to use valuable tape to find out?”
For the first time he realized the tremendous force his emotions exerted. He fully acknowledged the logic of the recorder’s precaution yet he answered, “Yes.”
“Very well. How the Beast obtained entry there we do not know. He may have arrived in full command of all his faculties. We, however, could only send you through in such a way that your brain was wiped completely clean of all past memories. We do not believe that it was injured in any way. During past years we have been successful in making brief sketchy contacts with the world you are now in. We learned one language, some of its customs, and the body form of its people. When we discovered where the Beast had escaped to, we trained operatives in the use of this language and customs.
“As our worlds are in different time continuums no time necessarily passes in your world while it is passing here, and vice versa. Therefore, we were able to train our operatives for years, until the language and actions you are now using became second nature to their organisms—trained into their very muscles and nervous systems—without losing any time there in finding the Beast. That is why your innate essence responds so readily to what you are learning there. I must warn you now that your tape has nearly run out. You have probably one more question. Two at the most.”
The words hit like a blow. He knew he should weigh heavily his next question, that it must be vital. They would not be able even to warn him again. But once again his emotions dominated him. He must have the answer to this question.
“Am I alone?”
“Six operatives have been sent before you—in, and attuned to your present Machine. Your individual box, of course, was sent separately. Had the agents been successful they would have returned—instantly, due to the differences in our time continuums. But they have not returned. You are the last we will be able to send. Unless you are successful…”
The voice died, as though the speaker realized that he might be wasting valuable tape.
Graves bent forward, his face etched with frantic urgency. “How will I recognize them?”
“They will…” The voice died with a soft whir.
Graves grabbed the box, pounded it, and raised it to throw to the floor before reason again asserted itself. Then he sagged back into his chair. Alone!
* * * *
Robert slept once more. Before he left the Machine a second time he took the sheaf of green papers from the desk drawer. He knew now, from his study of the dictionary that they were large units of money. He counted them. Exactly twenty. A total of two thousand pounds—British denomination. This was evidently a large sum of money and should serve his purpose for some time.
He stepped outside. The cart driver and the oxen were still there. They had made no apparent progress since he entered. This struck him as odd, but he dismissed it from his mind after a moment’s puzzled thought.
At his former eating place he found the same table, which he had occupied before, empty. He sat down. His waiter returned. There was a confused expression on his face as he took Robert’s order. Robert remembered seeing the same man occupying the table next to him; eating the same food. He recognized other faces. Suddenly a permeating perplexity burst into acknowledged certainty. No time had passed on the outside while he had been in the Machine! That accounted for the same occupants of the eating place, for the puzzlement of his waiter, and for the driver of the oxen having made no progress while he was inside. Evidently the time continuum inside the Machine was still tied to that of Dohmet.
* * * *
When Robert opened the door of 1212 Aukland to enter the building, he experienced yet another excitation of his still unstable sensibilities. There was no inner-metal-door. The building was an empty husk. The Machine was gone!
He knew what must have happened. The Beast had left the city!
The voice in the box had assured him that he would be aware of the location of the Machine at all times.
But he felt nothing.
He walked while he waited for some indication of the Machine’s whereabouts. If he knew how recognition would come it would be easier.
When darkness fell and no sign came he began to worry.
He wondered if perhaps his mind was too keyed up to recognize the manifestation when it came. Perhaps it would come to him while he slept. He returned to the Bachelor’s Club he had entered when he first appeared in the city. By now he needed rest as well.
The clerk hesitated when he preferred a hundred-pound note, but accepted it. By the next morning he still had received no communication from the Machine but he had arrived at a clear-cut decision. He was obviously a resourceful man, he thought, or he would not have been sent on such a vital mission. They had expected him to solve this in his own way. And now he knew how it must be done.
A short study of the telephone directory in his room taught him how to use it. He called the operator and asked for information. He explained that he had to leave town and asked the best means of traveling. She suggested that he try the airlines. At his request she connected him with the airlines office. He was fortunate the first try. A plane had left the day before, during the hour between his leaving the Machine and returning. Its destination was New York.
He made a reservation on another plane leaving that same afternoon. Double-checking for certainty, he called steamship offices and railroads and was assured that none had departed during the crucial hour the day before.
On the plane the hostess treated him with a friendliness which he was certain was more than professional courtesy. He felt a pleasant discomfort when she was pleasant. To his mild surprise he recognized, for the first time, that she was a member of the opposite sex. His queer perturbation was merely his glands functioning in response to her presence.
His curiosity aroused, he looked around him. Another woman, hardly more than a girl, sat in the seat across the aisle from him. She was dark-haired with honey-colored skin. For some reason she was strangely interesting. He studied her every feature: Her blue moody eyes, her red lips, and the thin-flared nostrils which gave her features a classic profile. Through it all he felt a vitality and strength of personality. Beside her the hostess looked almost plain. He knew that she must be very beautiful. She looked up and met his observing gaze.
Unexpectedly a mood of gray obsession crept over him. Like a disinterested spectator he observed it, and wondered about its cause. Then he knew. The look she gave him was cool, completely disinterested. It told him more plainly than anything else could have done that he was not one of these people. He never would be. Perhaps his form, as it had been on Dohmet, would be freakish to them. Very probably he was still a freak among them, with merely the outer semblances of their humanity.
Would he ever be able to return? If forced to remain here would there be a place for him? Was there any possibility of biological cooperation with the sex he now observed? Or must he walk among them, unloved and unwanted, an important misfit?
Unexpectedly Robert felt that the man in the seat beside him was sad! Wonderingly he looked at the man. Some sense within himself, unapparent but as real and sharp as vision itself, was operating. There had been no sudden “ping” of discovery, rather it was like looking through a window which he had not noticed before.
Robert looked at a passenger sitting in front of him. Here he read a bottled-up frustration. A third man exuded fear. Startled, he read hate, with the intention to do someone great bodily harm, in the mind of another passenger.
He looked at the hostess. She was still watching him and gave him a calculated smile. He read her sexual interest. He sensed also that her emotional preferences were rather promiscuous.
With awakened interest he looked at the girl to his right until she returned the look. Her emotions were quiet, subdued, with none strong enough to gain precedence. Her interest in him was not great. Disappointed he looked away.
“I have to connect with a plane to Minneapolis at New York,” his seat partner said.
This time Robert was not surprised when he heard the name Minneapolis, and he knew, without the slightest doubt, where the Machine was located. Within his mind some soundless ticking, like a buried pocketpiece, was en rapport with the Machine itself.
“I am going to Minneapolis too,” he answered.
At the Minneapolis depot Robert hailed a taxi. Instantly he sensed that there was something about the driver that was odd. After a short pause he found that the strangeness was in the man’s eyes. They were predominantly brown but blotches of green stained their pigment. And they seemed to glare with the easy hate of a wild animal. Quickly Robert read the man’s emotions. He found them very commonplace.
He climbed into the cab. “Drive south,” he said. He sat back and listened to the ticking in his mind that spotted the Machine. It was so clear now, that he knew the exact location of the Machine, its distance, and knew also that he would be instantly aware of any movement it might make. It would not even be necessary for him to go to it until ready.
Thirty-three blocks later he leaned forward. “Turn east at the next corner,” he told the driver.
When he came in sight of the Mississippi River he paid his fare and alighted. He knew that he was very near to the Machine now—and also to the Beast!
From some deep source within him he was conscious of a motion of excitement and was amazed at the pleasure he felt now that the conflict would soon be joined. He knew then that he had a vein of savage ruthlessness running through him. He must bridle it with caution.
Across the street he read: BACHELOR’S CLUB, Resident Hotel The coincidence between the name and that of the hotel in Calcutta struck him as a good omen. He decided to stay there. He walked inside and registered. He took a short nap, and rose with the first shadows of night.
Now the search began. Somewhere here lurked the Beast! And he must be found.
While he ate in the Club’s lunchroom Robert observed his companions closely, using his new-found supersensory faculty. All the diners were of the male sex to which the hotel catered. The servants and kitchen help were female. Robert’s waitress smiled at him. By now he knew, without caring, that he was attractive to women. Oddly he read hate, in various stages, in most of the men around him.
After lunch he went down into the game room. There were several men here, most of them playing at the billiard or ping pong tables. Almost without exception they gave off their subtle efflux of hate. He must find out more about that.
Robert decided to strike up an acquaintance and see if he could learn the reason for that hate. But he must be discreet. A young man sitting alone in one of the elevated chairs overlooking a billiard table radiated a friendly disposition. There was also a strong suggestion of personal vanity. Robert decided to speak to him. He walked over to the young man and sat down in the next chair.
“Pardon me,” Robert said, “my name’s Robert Graves. I’m a stranger here.”
The young man turned. He showed large teeth in a sardonic but friendly smile. “Welcome to the last citadel of the embattled male,” he greeted, extending his hand. “My name’s Jacobson. Phil, but most everybody calls me Jakie. Are you divorced, or did you learn wisdom before you were trapped?” He laughed depreciatingly.
Robert smiled back. He liked the man. “How do you mean?”
“Didn’t you know? We’re all women haters here.”
“Not actually?”
“Seriously, most of our members are pretty sincere about it,” Jacobson replied. He watched one of the players methodically make three billiards in a row. “The club was started not too long ago and the owner rather fatuously gave it the name, Bachelor’s Club. Strangely, however, most of his clientele are deadly serious about it. They have pretty bitter feelings about women.”
“How about yourself?” Robert was really interested now.
Jacobson laughed his easy laugh. “I’m afraid I’m as bad as the rest. Maybe worse. You see, I’m the owner of the Club. If you have a few minutes to spare some time, drop into my room. I’ll give you a few facts about the so-called fair sex that will open your eyes.”
* * * *
The next day Robert bought a small compact hand weapon—an automatic pistol, it was called. For two davs he walked the streets making a hasty study of each pedestrian he met. In the evenings he studied the members of the Club. He suspected that this method might prove inadequate: The Beast probably would have his emotions well under control, and his crafty powers of simulation would be too cunning to be easily penetrated. But he had to start somewhere and, at least, he knew the Beast could not be far away. He intended gradually to widen his circle of investigation.
Robert hoped that the Beast would have something about him that would set him apart from the natives. Maybe his pattern of emotions would be different. Maybe he would show no emotions, and thus he easily detected. Robert hoped desperately for some such break.
In his spare time he studied the newspapers closely. He was a frequent visitor at the police station, investigating each criminal brought in who had committed a crime within a five-mile radius of the Club.
On the second day out he walked into a restaurant and stopped in pleased surprise. Alone at one of the tables sat the girl he had observed on the plane.
She looked up and saw him. She smiled in recognition. He walked over to her table.
“Aren’t you the passenger who sat across the aisle from me on the plane from India?” she asked.
“I was hoping you’d remember me,” Robert answered.
“Won’t you sit down?” she invited.
“Thank you.” He sat down. “I’m Robert Graves.”
“And I’m Alberta Thompson.” There was the friendly camaraderie about her that slight acquaintances, meeting in a new environment, always exhibited toward each other; he could feel warm friendship in her now. “Did you live in India?” she asked.
He thought quickly. “I was just returning from a sight-seeing trip,” he lied.
“Oh,” she readily accepted the explanation. “I was nursing at the Calcutta Memorial Hospital. I’m working for Tonneywell Manufacturing now. Still a nurse.”
Something made Robert look up. An old man with a gray mustache was standing looking at them. The hate that flowed from him was almost tangible.
Instantly the question rose to Robert’s mind. Could this be the Beast? The feeling died. The man’s hate was directed at Alberta. Other than the hate his only dominant trait seemed a marked nervous stupidity.
* * * *
That evening, while sitting with Jacobson in the latter’s club, Robert saw the mustached man again. There was a black streak in the old man.
“Who is that fellow, Jakie?” Robert asked.
“One of our charter members,” said Jacobson. “Name’s Schultz. Been paying alimony through the nose for years now.” That accounted for the old man’s sour disposition.
Jacobson seemed to know, and be friendly with, everyone. He was definitely the gregarious type.
“See that pool player over there,” Jacobson said, “the one with a face like a new-born baby? That’s Baldie Brown, another of our pioneers.”
Something about Brown fascinated Robert. His emotions were very unstable. And they ranged from high elation when he ‘sunk a shot’, to deep despair when the game went against him. Robert wondered if this was caused by an intoxicant.
* * * *
The sixth day Robert stood in front of the Tonneywell Manufacturing company studying the workers as they streamed out. His inspection revealed nothing out of the ordinary until a large man wearing a covert-cloth topcoat stepped out of the building. The wanton maliciousness he read in the man’s emotions sickened him. Greed, avarice, and selfishness rode him heavily like a malignant mantle. This was the way Robert had imagined the Beast would appear. He decided to investigate this lead immediately.
The man stepped into a long green automobile and drove off.
Robert briefly noted the license number.
He decided that he needed help for the routine parts of his search. He couldn’t let himself waste any valuable time on such checking.
In the city directory he found what he wanted.
He walked three blocks up Lake Street and entered a two-story, red brick building. On the second floor he found the number he sought. The glass pane in the door bore the simple notation: ROBERT HILL.
Nothing else.
Inside he found a slim wiry man of average height sitting at a desk reading a magazine.
“Mr. Hill?” Robert asked. The figure at the desk nodded. He put down his magazine. Swiftly Robert surveyed him. He liked what he saw there: Honesty, intelligence, no undue neurotic stress, and only minor emotional strife—having to do with insufficient money to satisfy the needs or wants of himself and his family. “My name is Robert Graves.”
Hill extended his hand. “What can I do for you?”
“From time to time I’ll need your services,” Robert said. “The work will be simple investigation, but its nature must be highly confidential. I will pay you one hundred dollars now,” he laid the money on the desk, “and you may bill me for any additional fees, or expenses. Agreed?”
Hill nodded again. He was not a very talkative man. This, also, Graves liked.
“First,” Robert said. “I want you to find the owner of a car bearing the license number 178-235. Get me all the information you can about him.”
“Minnesota license?” Hill asked.
“Yes.”
* * * *
By the end of the first week in Minneapolis Robert had added few definite suspects to his lists. However, every slightest action of each person he met was neatly annotated and classified in his memory. Someday, he hoped, the actions of some one of them would slip together into a neat pattern and he would have tracked down the Beast. When that time came he would be prepared to strike without mercy.
The seventh night he took Alberta to a movie. It was only their second date but they walked to her home hand in hand. Already they were silent when together with that silence of understanding. He knew that she liked him more each time they met. He knew also that he loved her. And that he was being very foolish. This was a diversion from the job ahead of him and he had no right to let himself be diverted—by anything. Furthermore, he would have to leave her as soon as he was successful.
And—his old gray obsession returned while he was the happiest he had ever been on this world—maybe I’m a freak to her, he thought.
When he left Alberta that night his animal tissues demanded action to dispel the frustration in his mind. He decided to find the Machine. He might need it at anytime.
Already he had a fairly good idea of its location.
He walked to the bank of the Mississippi. The rock cliffs were steep but he had found a path the third day he arrived. Now he followed the path down under the Lake Street bridge. The night was dark but by the faint light that reached him from the bridge lamps he could see the giant cement abutments out in the river.
A five-foot iron sewer-pipe burrowed back into the rock. He had come this far the third day but two youngsters standing at the mouth of the pipe, hallooing into it and listening to the reverberations of their voices, had made him decide to return at night. He knew he was very near.
Forty yards farther a side path branched upward. He followed it to a wide rock ledge. Grass and shrubs grew on the top of the ledge. It was a very lonely place this late at night. Somewhere on the bank above a dog kept up a steady barking. Unhesitatingly Robert walked through the high shrubs toward the cliff. He bent his body forward and walked into a natural cave. When he had left the last dim vestiges of light he felt along the walls with his hands.
The wall beneath his hand rounded and became smooth. He had arrived! He groped his way to the door and fitted his hand into the print. The door opened and a lance of light gashed the darkness. Briefly he wondered at the source of the light. He hadn’t paid attention to it before because he had been there in the daylight, but the Machine had no windows, and no openings other than the door. He stepped inside.
Cursorily he examined the room.
Everything appeared as he had left it. The communication box was still on the desk.
“What do I do now?” he asked the box. He did not expect an answer. Therefore he was not disappointed when none came.
Unexpectedly he realized that he was very tired. This, he reasoned, was because he had returned to his haven; the one place where he could relax the tense virility of his mind and feel very safe. In here reality paused.
He lay on the couch. Just as he was about to fall asleep a passage from one of the few books he had read since coming to this world drifted in front of his memory’s eye.
The book had been written by a man named Bertrand Russell.
My own belief is that a conscious thought can be planted in the unconscious if a sufficient amount of vigor and intensity is put into it.
I have found for example, that if I have to write upon some rather difficult topic, the best plan is to think about it with very great intensity—the greatest intensity of which I am capable—for a few hours or days, and at the end of that time give orders, so to speak, that the work is to proceed under ground. After some time I return to the topic, consciously, and find that the work has been done.
Lord knows I’ve given this matter enough intense thought, he smiled as he dropped off to sleep.
When he awoke he had the answer to part of his problem. Somewhere, sometime—since he had come to this city—he was certain that he had made contact with the Beast!
* * * *
Back in the Club Robert found a message waiting for him. It was from Hill asking him to call. He stepped into a booth and telephoned.
“Hill speaking,” the voice said.
“This is Graves.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Graves. Your man’s name is Adam Johnson. He’s the executive manager of Tonneywell. He holds several other important offices: Director of the First Bank; Regent of the University, and such. Do you want me to enumerate them?”
“No. What is his social background?”
“He’s married. Father of two children. Both boys. He was born in Minneapolis, and lived here all his life.”
“Is there any record of his ever having been in India?”
“None that I found. Do you want me to investigate that angle more thoroughly?”
“Yes, and call me back as soon as you have definite information.”
* * * *
Against his better judgment Robert continued seeing Alberta. He was certain now that she loved him. Especially after an incident that happened while they were walking along the Mississippi bank.
He had been looking at an ore boat in the river when some hyper-rational faculty of his intricate nervous system sounded an urgent alarm. He turned just in time to grab Alberta as she fell toward him. Her shoulder had been about to hit him in the back. The blow would have certainly knocked him over the bank and onto the rocks a hundred feet below. She would probably have fallen with him.
As he held her in his arms she sobbed brokenly. “Oh, Robert, I might have killed you!” she cried. “I might have killed you! I stumbled on a stone.”
He kissed away her tears, and held her until the horror of the near disaster wore off. They stood close together and the warmth of her flesh came through her clothes into his hands. “I love you,” she said. She kept her eyes averted, but he read within her how deeply she meant it.
Robert returned to his room elated. The elation did not last long.
Sometime during the night the throbbing clamor of his premonition awoke him and he lay with his eyes wide open, his brain tense and alert. He felt nothing and heard nothing, yet his very tissues cried with alarm. Then his stomach retched, and nausea filled him with sickness. He rose and turned on the light.
Swiftly he looked about him. The window which he had left open was plugged with an old overcoat. A red rubber tube led from the outside into the room. Instantly he knew what was happening. Someone was trying to poison him with gas.
The greater implication hit with a force that threatened to overwhelm him with its awful propensities. The Beast had found him!
His brain seemed divided into two parts. While one segment quivered with a tocsin fear that was worse because it could not see what it feared, the other part accepted the fear as a stimulation that quickened his reflexes. It planned swiftly ahead as it commanded him to dress, and to hold each breath as long as possible. He even took time to make his bed and to straighten the room, to give the appearance that it had not been used that night.
When he left he went down the back stairs. No one saw him. With luck the Beast would not realize that he knew about the attempt at his life. That gave him some small chance. God knows it was little enough. The Beast had spotted him while he in his turn had nothing except vague suspicions.
Outside the hotel he walked rapidly away from the Club—figuratively seeing the glint of the Beast eyes in every shadow. Tonight death breathed in the very air.
The time had come for him to act. But where to direct that action? There were two ways he could move. He could pick his likeliest suspect and strike swiftly, ruthlessly, and pray that he was right. That would mean Johnson.
Or he could start at the top and work down, giving each his best in as short a time as possible.
If the Beast was convinced that he had not returned to his room, that he was still unaware of being discovered, then he had some hope. He decided to take the latter choice of action.
As soon as the first light of day returned he called Hill—from a public booth.
“Did you find anything more on Johnson?” Robert asked.
“Nothing much,” Hill’s voice sounded sleepy. “As far as I could determine, he’s never been to India. Do you want me to continue?”
“No. There won’t be time. Now, listen closely. I want you to go to Mound. Stay in the lobby of the Mound Hotel until I contact you. Very probably I’ll send a man out to you. When he gets there, give him a package. I don’t care what you put into it. Just give it to him. Have you got that?”
“Yes.”
“Good luck.”
“Goodbye.”
Robert went to the Radisson Hotel and registered under the name of George Jones. There was nothing he could do except kill time until his suspects returned from work that evening. He lay back on his bed and rested. His body, not his mind.
* * * *
At six o’clock Robert rented an automobile at a drive yourself agency. He was supposed to take Alberta to a movie that evening. At first he had decided to call and ask for a postponement. On second thought, it would save explanations if he picked her up.
She came out when she saw him stop in front of her apartment.
“I’m going to have to ask you to trust me, and not ask any questions,” he said, without preliminaries, when she sat in the car. “I want you to go to the show without me. I have something that I must do. If I can make it I’ll join you in the movie. Trust me?”
She hesitated barely perceptibly. “Of course,” she said. She asked nothing more.
Wonderful girl, he thought. He rested his hand on her clenched ones for a moment. He parked the car on a side street. He watched her as she walked to the corner of Lake and turned to the right. The theater was a block down.
After a moment he followed to the corner and turned left toward the Club.
Down in the game room he spotted his man. He wasted no time.
“Mr. Schultz,” Robert said. “I’d like to ask you a favor. Are you busy this evening?”
Schultz met his gaze sourly. Small wrinkles deepened at the corners of his eyes. Robert read crafty suspicion.
“It’s worth fifty dollars to me,” Robert said, pulling out his wallet. “I’ll give you twenty-five to drive to Mound and pick up a package for me. When you return I’ll give you the other twenty-five.” He pulled out bills. If Schultz was human he would accept the offer. If he refused…then Robert would know.
“Where is your car?” Schultz asked. The insatiable greed for money that was almost universal guided him now.
“You’ll find it around the corner. A blue convertible.”
He had things in motion now. Next step was to get to the Machine. Mound was ten miles from here. If Schultz went to Mound—Hill would verify that—and the Machine did not move, then he was not the Beast.
Robert returned to his room. The explosion shook the building!
It took him only an instant to realize what had happened. The trap was closing. The Beast was coming in for the kill. It was not fear that froze him now. Rather it was a black frustration and the influx of a plethora of emotions that literally overwhelmed him with their complexities. It was almost five minutes before he could plan his next counteraction.
He took his revolver out of a bureau drawer and slipped it into his inside coat pocket. Then he went downstairs.
“What was that loud noise?” he asked the night clerk, the only person remaining in the lobby.
“There was an explosion around the corner. A bomb blew up an automobile. The driver was a resident—named Schultz.”
“Was he hurt?”
“Schultz is dead.”
Robert bowed his head. Schultz, after all, had been innocent. And he was dead. Other men might die before it was over, but there was no turning back.
Next on the list was Brown. He went down into the game room. Brown was standing at a window looking out. There was a billiard cue in his hand.
“Mr. Brown,” Robert said. “I know this is unusual, but I wonder if I could impose on you to do me a favor?”
“A favor?” The words weren’t registering too clearly. “Poor Schultz,” Brown said.
Robert took a fifty dollar bill out of his pocket. “Would this be worth your while to take a bus to Mound and pick up a package for me?”
Brown reacted instantly. There was nothing slow about his reflexes. He took the bill. “Be glad to do you a favor,” he said. “Where do I pick up this package?”
“You will get it from a man by the name of Hill at the Mound Hotel.”
After he saw Brown on the bus Robert went down to the Mississippi and crouched in the mouth of the cave where he could watch the Machine.
He allowed one hour. The Machine did not move.
Climbing to the top of the river bank he walked back toward the Club. He arrived just in time to see Brown getting off a bus. Robert stepped into a convenient doorway. Brown did not see him.
At a pay-booth he called the Mound Hotel and asked to have Hill paged.
Hill’s modulated voice said, “Yes?”
“Graves. Did a man pick up the package?”
“He did. A short man. Exactly twenty-seven minutes ago.”
“Thank you. I won’t need you again for a while. But I’d like to have you return to your office and wait, just in case I want you in a hurry.”
That eliminated the outstanding suspects. In fact it left him in a position where any one of a hundred would be as likely as another. He needed time. And a place to hide. He knew where to get them both.
* * * *
Back in the Machine Robert stared at the ceiling, wide awake, but at a dead end. Perhaps Johnson was still in town. He could have left a trail indicating that he’d gone out of town. Or even Brown could have sent someone else to pick up the package. He would act in some such subtle way if he were really the Beast. Robert wished he had thought to ask Hill for a more complete description. Before he left here again he must be certain of his every future move, and—if at all possible—the individual he must move against.
At the end of several hours he still had arrived at no definite course of action. And he had thought so long and so hard that his brain was no longer functioning at its usual peak efficiency. He decided to sleep. He had all the time in the world while he was in here.
Maybe the Russell method would work for him again.
* * * *
It did. When he awoke he knew who the Beast was. There would have to be a minimum of checking, but the pieces fit together so neatly that he had no doubt but that he was right.
The fierceness which he had discovered in himself thrilled to the anticipation of the fight to come, and it was strengthened by a coldblooded determination.
Outside he phoned Hill. He waited for his return call in the drugstore from which he phoned.
He was half-way through a second malted when the telephone rang.
When he walked out of the drugstore the last vestiges of doubt were gone.
But this time he needed help. Hill would not do. He returned to the Club.
Jacobson was in his room and invited him up when Robert rang.
Robert used the stairway. He reviewed exactly the way his account must be given so that Jacobson would believe.
“Jakie,” Robert said, “I’m going to tell you a story. I want you to set your mind to believe it even though it will sound so fantastic to you that it would ordinarily be absurd. But it will be true.”
Jacobson let the smile fade from his cheeks, but his pumpkin-shaped face still gave the impression of smiling. He peered intently at Robert through his thick-sensed glasses. They made his eyes appear large and bulging.
“I’ll start at the beginning,” Robert said. “And tell you the story detail by detail. That is the only way there will be any chance of your believing me. If I tried to make it brief, you’d recommend a psychiatrist.”
“Go ahead,” Jacobson said. “If there’s anything that I can do, I’ll be glad to help you.”
Robert told his story. Surprisingly it did not sound so fantastic as he had imagined it would. Many of its particular items were implausible sounding but taken all together they had the ring of truth. When he was finished he thought Jacobson should be convinced.
After a long moment Jacobson asked, “This isn’t some pipe-dream you’ve cooked up because of a fight you’ve had with Alberta, is it? Of course, it isn’t,” he answered his own question. “I know you are sincere. But Bob,” Jakie’s voice was gentle, “you mentioned a psychiatrist. It could be possible…”
“It isn’t,” Robert interrupted.
“I believe you,” Jacobson said. “What do you intend to do?”
Robert told him.
“Where do I come in on this?”
“I can handle the situation myself—I think,” Robert said. “But just in case I don’t make it, I want you to take over. The Beast must be stopped! It shouldn’t be too hard now that its identity is known. I’d suggest that you not try to handle it alone. The safest thing to do would be to publicize it as widely, and as quickly as possible. That way will be the safest for you also.” They shook hands and Robert left.
* * * *
At Alberta’s house he found her alone.
“I’d like to show you something,” he said. “Would you mind driving me in your car?”
There was a question in her eyes. When he said nothing further she shrugged. “I’ll have to get my coat,” she said.
He started to insist that she remain with him, but decided it would be safer not to arouse her suspicions.
They drove past Fort Snelling, across the bridge, and turned off on the highway to Prior Lake.
A mile down the road they came to a gravel-pit.
“Stop here,” Robert said.
Before she could take her hands from the wheel he pressed the gun in his pocket against her ribs.
“Don’t move,” he ordered.
“Please excuse this necessary familiarity,” he said. The tone was grave and there was no humor in it. Briskly he went over her body, searching for weapons. He found a small derringer pistol tucked in the top of the stocking on her right leg. He slipped it into his other coat pocket.
Now they were two strangers face to face; so close that he could see his reflection in her eyes. The golden flesh of her face showed sallow and very naked. He mouth narrowed to a slit and she seemed to settle within herself. He read that she was deadly afraid, but the only outward sign she gave of it was her quickened breathing.
“Get out of the car,” Robert said.
He followed her out.
“Walk slowly toward the gravel-pit,” he directed.
They walked until a bend in the road hid them from the highway.
“This is far enough,” Robert said.
Alberta turned then to speak but when she opened her mouth her throat seemed to tighten and she made only a small wincing sound. He sensed then the awful agony of fear within her as her thoughts leaped ahead to what was to come and he pitied her in this moment.
She raised her head, angry with herself for showing this fear, and angry with him for seeing it. She found her voice and flung it at him. “You’ve beaten me,” she said, “and you’ll kill me now. But look back on this time once in a while and see if you could have done it any better if you were in my place.”
“Lie on your stomach,” Robert said.
Alberta said nothing more. She did not cry or beg for her life, as he had half expected. Quite a girl, he thought. She got down on her knees. She rested her hands on the dried clay and gravel and lowered her body to the ground.
“Turn your head toward the gravel-pit,” Robert told her.
She obeyed.
“Now I want you to lie absolutely still,” he warned. “Don’t move a muscle. Your life will depend on it.”
Robert backed into a niche in the pile of gravel. He crouched and sat on his heels.
As time dragged slowly past with not a sound to break the stillness, excitement gathered in a tight knot in his stomach. Perspiration formed on his face and made a dry stinging on his cheeks.
They waited for five long minutes, neither moving, until Robert began to fear that he had figured wrong, before the sound came.
It was the scuff of a leather boot in the gravel. An instant later Jacobson came into sight. He saw Alberta and walked softly over to her.
Suddenly alarm flared high in his face and he jerked his head up. There was a terrible realization of his fate in his eyes as they sought Robert out. Robert’s bullet caught him squarely in the forehead and his body staggered as though hit by a weight. Shocked unbelief was on his features as he dropped.
“You may get up now, Alberta,” Robert said. “The Beast is dead!”
“He is the Beast?” Alberta asked in bewilderment. “But I thought…”
“That I was the Beast?” Robert interrupted. “I am an operative from Dohmet—the same as you are.”
“Good God,” Alberta exclaimed. “And to think that I tried to kill you. I might have succeeded!”
“I know,” Robert said softly, “but it’s all right now.” He took her in his arms.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“Many things pointed to it, after I began suspecting him,” Robert replied. “Such as the fact that he returned from India shortly before we did. But the main clue was the Bachelor’s Club. And the one in Calcutta.”
“Bachelor’s Club?”
“Yes. Jacobson is the owner.
“How did that point to him?” Alberta still did not understand.
“His designs, of course, were not too self-evident,” Robert said. “But I think I can explain them to you. He probably started his Clubs in various places throughout the world. He had some method—whether drug, hypnotic, or otherwise, I do not know, but it was evidently very effective—for killing the sex urge in males. You can see what this would mean genetically. He would lessen the number of the race by the simple process of eliminating that breeding desire.
“Moreover,” Robert continued, “his method was double-pronged. The sexes of any species have a natural antagonism toward each other. Here they flippantly label it ‘the battle of the sexes.’ With men unrestrained by their biological urge that antagonism would flare up into a frightful thing.”
“But could one man do so much damage among such a vast number of people?” Alberta asked.
“If he hadn’t been killed there would soon have been many more just like him,” Robert answered.
“Each Club was like a breeding cell. After its members became thoroughly enough indoctrinated he would have taught them his methods and they would have spread like germs, carrying their venom with them. Each member was another potential Beast.”
In stunned wonder, at the monstrous possibilities, they looked at each other.
Then—“We have a long way to go, to get back home,” Alberta said.
“A long way, but a speedy one,” Robert answered. “The Machine is waiting.”