Margaret St. Clair (11 page)

“Everything was forbidden at home,” Henry answered reasonably. “But we’re not home now. It’s not forbidden here.”

“Right’s right and wrong’s wrong, no matter where —” Once more Denis controlled himself. The gold braid on his shoulders quivered with effort. “Stay here yourself if you want, then,” he snapped. “But the rest of us don’t share your peculiar tastes. We wa n t to get back to decency, normality. Is there any reason why you shouldn’t use your influence with your scaly friends to have them send us back to Earth?”

There was — but how could he explain it to Denis? Denis had a mind which, even for the second offic er of a stratosphere liner, was limited. How could Henry make him understand how horrible mental contact with Hathor was?

It was not that Hathor was malignant or even unkind. Henry had a faint but positive impression of benignity in his dealings with her . But the words with which the human mind bridges gulfs —when, who, where —became, when one was in contact with Hathor, the gulfs themselves.

To ask her when something had happened was to reel dizzily into the vastest of all enigmas for humanity —the nature of time itself. The question, “What is it?” forced the questioner to contemplate the cloudy, chilling riddle of his own personal identity. And even, “Where?” brought up a panorama of planes of being stretching out to infinity.

In between times it was not so bad. When Henry had not seen Hathor for several days he was almost able to convince himself that he was not afraid of her. Then he would need something in the laboratory, go to see her to ask for it and come back from the interview sick and sha k ing, swearing that nothing —nothing —would induce him to plunge once more into the vast icy reaches of her inhuman intelligence.

He hunted for a reason Denis would understand. “It’s no use asking her,” he said finally. “Vela is going to have a child no w and so Hathor would never let you go.”

“But that’s just why we want to go home.”

“I know.” Henry swallowed. “But Hathor and the others look on us as —you might say —pets. Whether or not they brought us here deliberately —myself, I think it was an accident —“that’s how they feel about us. And nobody ever turned a pet loose when it was going to have young.”

There was no use in telling Denis that Hathor was responsible for Vela’s child in the same way that a dog breeder i s responsible for the birth of pups. It would only offend Hardy’s dignity.

“Pets!” Denis answered, staring. “What are you talking about? They’re nothing but lizards. They haven’t got stereo, stratoliners, A-bombs, anything. We’re their superiors in every way.”

“They’re
not
lizards,” Henry replied. “They’re very highly evolved mammals. That crest down the back of their heads is just an accident.

“The reason they don’t have those material things is that they don’t need them. Haven’t you ever seen Hathor materialize things for my laboratory? She does it by moving her hands. She could turn a rubber ball inside out without making a hole in it.

“As far as that goes, if you think they’re nothing but lizards, why are you trying to get them to send you back t o your own time and space? No lizard I ever heard of could do that sort of thing.”

-

Hathor appeared. One moment the air was empty —the next it thickened and condensed, and there she was. As always when he first saw her Henry was divided between a wild desire to run for cover and an almost equally strong impulse to prostrate himself in awe at her feet.

He glanced about to see how the others were taking it. Denis, for all his bravado, was turning slowly white. And Vela, trying hard to be supercilious, was arranging the folds of her mantilla with shaking hands.

Not that there was anything especially horrible about Hathor to casual viewing. Though she was over fifteen feet tall, and so strong that she could have picked up any of the humans in the park w ith one hand, her body was slender and well-proportioned.

She looked a good deal smaller than she actually was. The integument that covered her streamlined contours was pearly, pinkish, lustrous. And her tall vermillion crest could hardly be considered a deformity. It was something else that caused the reaction, something in the look of her eyes.

Her impersonal gaze moved slowly over the little group. It slowed and came to rest on Henry. The skies of her mind fixed on him.

“You’re Henry,” said the glassy, disembodied voice within his brain. “The one —” (not quite one —what Hathor was thinking was more like semipermeable membrane or assemblage of points) “the one with the laboratory. Yes.

“I’m going to train you —” (a di ssolving kaleidoscope of images as thick as snowflakes. From the glittering throng of whirling, evanescent pictures, Henry caught up two which lasted longer than the rest —one of a hawk leaving the falconer’s wrist, the other of a slender key turning in a lock.) “Come along.” Hathor motioned with her two-thumbed hand.

It was the first time she had ever come after him. Henry felt a premonitory shudder run through his limbs. Nonetheless he got obediently to his feet.

It was nearly supper time when he got back. The smoke of Mrs. Pettit’s cooking fire drifted out into the still air and mingled pleasantly with the smell of frying meat.

Henry sank down limply on the grass beside the blaze, shielding his eyes with his han d from the light. It was not until supper had been eaten and the necessary refuse from the meal burned that he could bring himself to speak.

“Vela — Denis,” he said, trying to keep his voice from quivering, “Do you still want to get away from here? If yo u do I’ll do all I can to help you. I want to get away myself.”

There was a cautious silence. Vela opened her lips and then closed them again. At last Denis spoke.

“Why, yes, we still do. We thought you —Yes, we still want to get away.” For a moment t he ruddy flicker of the fire lit up the tight lips of his handsome small-featured face.

Whatever had made him decide to be tactful about Henry’s abrupt volte-face, whether his silence was caused by policy or contempt, Henry was thankful for it. He could not possibly have put into words how hateful Hathor’s recent compulsory extension of his senses had made the world where he now was to him.

He had learned too much ever to consider that world beautiful again. And trying to express it verbally would have been almost as bad as the original experience.

“What was Hathor doing with you today?” Vela asked curiously.

“Training me,” Henry answered briefly. “Training you? How?”

“It’s something she does with her hands,” Henry replied unwillingly. “They disappear. And then I hear what’s going on inside the stones.”

“Oh.” Vela looked rather sick. “Well, are you just going to ask her to send us back to our Earth, or what?”

“Asking her wouldn’t be any use. She let me see that today. Anyhow, she knows we want to go home. But I’ve been thinking.” Henry Perth’s voice was getting back its customary tones. “Why do people get rid of their pets? They get rid of them —”

“I don’t like ‘get rid of ‘,” Denis cut in sharply. “God knows we aren’t here of our own choice and we want to get back to our own time and place. But we’re alive here and that’s something. We don’t want to get killed trying to get back.”

“We won’t be killed. When people get rid of their pets they don’t murder them. They send them to a friend in the country who has more room or turn them over to an animal shelter or something. They don’t kill them.

“But as I was saying, why do they get rid of them? Basically for one of two reasons. You get rid of a pet when it’s not a good pet —when it sulks, is sullen, uncooperative, disagreeable —or you get rid of it because it makes a nuisance of itself. Like chewing up rugs or howling at the moon. Now if we could only make nuisanc e s of ourselves —”

“How?” Denis asked, frowning. “Hathor isn’t around here much, so being noisy won’t do any good.”

“What about doing something with whatever you’re working on in the laboratory, son?” Mrs. Pettit suggested. “Perhaps we could be nuisance s with that.”

“We can’t have anything to do with the laboratory,” Denis announced sternly. “Forbidden research is wrong, here or on Earth.”

“Oh, be quiet, Denis,” Vela said peevishly. Her husband looked as if he could hardly believe his ears. “This is lots too serious for us to be honorable,” she went on as if in explanation. “Henry, if you can do anything with your research, do it.”

“Well — I might try a matter canker. That’s just about the most forbidden research there is. I’d have to be careful not to get a radioactive form of canker, of course.”

“Would that annoy Hathor?”

“A matter canker? Yes. A matter canker would annoy anybody quite a lot.”

“And if she gets mad enough at us, she’ll send us back to our own time and space,” Vela said. She yawned. “Let’s go to bed early and get lots of sleep. And tomorrow we’ll help Henry all we can.”

His lab assistants were willing if not very bright. Clad in lead-impregnated coveralls they weighed, stirred, measured, filtered and proved to be so incompetent that on the second day Henry got rid of all of them except Vela.

Her measurements were more accurate than those of the others, and she didn’t talk so mu ch. Once or twice before he had suspected that she could be intelligent when it suited her to be.

“Listen, Henry, aren’t you afraid Hathor will find out what we’re doing before it’s ready?” she asked late on the second afternoon. “Then she’d make us stop before we got annoying.”

“I doubt it,” Henry replied absently. They were engaged with a difficult bit of titration. “There, that’s enough —She used to visit the lab a good deal at first but not any more. I don’t think she’ll be around until it’s time f or me —for me to have another lesson. I hope we’ll be gone before then.”

“Well, what about the canker itself? Won’t it be dangerous? I should think it would give out a lot of heat.”

“No,” Henry replied, “there isn’t any heat with a canker. Nobody know s why. And they can’t find out because it’s been ruled forbidden research. About the only direct danger to us would be if the canker got out of control. Nobody knows why but they do that sometimes.”

He poured the solution into a crucible. “You see that s witch down there by the betatron? All right, when I move my hand, depress it. Thanks.”

A matter canker takes time to establish. There were failures in the early stages of Henry’s. It was more than a week after his conversation with Vela that he got the canker into its ultimate form.

He carried it out of the laboratory, Vela following, and showed it to the others, who were sitting listlessly on the grass.

“It doesn’t look like much,” Denis said after a pause. He was turning the big flask critically in his hands. “Except for the color, that is, how could this annoy anyone?”

“It hasn’t been activated yet,” Henry explained. He took the flask back from Denis and set it on the ground. “I want you both to get into your coveralls. The canker isn’t very radioactive but there’s bound to be some radiation. So keep well back from it.”

He adjusted the timing device on the neck of the flask. While Mrs. Pettit and Denis were getting into their long white cover alls he dropped in the gray-sheathed thorium pellets which were the activating charge. Once more he adjusted the timing device. “Get back,” he said. The first —second —third pellets dropped.

The flask dissolved. The gluey viscous stuff it held ran out sluggishly over the grass. Writhing, twisting, boiling, the grass was eaten away from it. The liquid disappeared. The canker was eating in.

“It’s getting started nicely,” Henry said.

A column of steam shot up. It enlarged, grew hollow. Now there was a hole, a growing one, in the ground. The edges curled and bubbled and smoked. The hole widened, grew deeper.

A wind blew over the surface of the grass. It freshened. In a moment the leaves of the trees were in motion. The boughs began to rock. The column of steam broke off, reappeared soaringly, broke off again. The wind was growing to a gale.

“What is this, son?” Mrs. Pettit demanded. She had to put her mouth against Henry’s head to make herself heard. “Where’s the wind coming from?”

“Canker’s creating a vacuum,” Henry yelled back. “Air rushes in to fill it faster as the canker grows. Get back!
Get back !”

The party hurried across the slick green surface of the grass toward safety, breaking at the last into a run. The giant wind kept trying to push th em back.

“Further!
Further
¹
.”
Henry yelled.
“Get back !”

-

Abruptly the canker was lapping at the laboratory walls. The stones boiled evilly for a moment and no longer existed. The upper part of the structure fell in, disappeared.

Henry’s face was greenish white. “It’s getting out of control.
Run. Run!”
he said.

They ran. Shrieking, stumbling, trying to breathe, they ran. The canker was faster than they. With the flowing ease of a creature in a dream it gained on them. It was no more than a yard fro m them when they reached the site of the cooking fire. Two seconds more and it was lapping at their heels.

Vela collapsed and fell. Denis put his hands under her armpits and wildly tried to drag her along. Mrs. Pettit, her face a mask of terror inside the glazed hood of her coveralls, was screaming inaudibly. The wind was horrible.

Hathor appeared. She was standing in the air eight or ten feet above thei r heads. Though her eyes still had their uncanny look of remoteness and impassivity, something about her suggested exasperation consciously controlled. Standing securely on nothingness she began to make quick, plucking motions with her hands. Slipping, sl i ding, twisting, they moved in space and out of it.

There was a terrific lightning flash. The world dissolved in curtains of white light. Henry, staggering back from the impact of the prodigy, was amazed that his retinae had not been burned out. It did no t seem possible that the eyes could be flooded with such light and still see.

There was another even vaster flash. Slowly, reluctantly, it died away. Henry looked up at Hathor with his scalded eyeballs. Her hands still moved in their twisting pattern, sl iding in and out of visibility, but more deliberately than they had. Tiny veins stood out on her temples. Her lips were compressed. Plainly she was imposing some great exertion on herself. The howling wind had died away.