Universe 1 - [Anthology] Read online

  “We had considerable fun with Mad Anthony Tummley our eccentric class-mate. His ideas, we told each other, were quite insane. And, indeed, Anthony himself was finally institutionalized. It was a sad case, but one that could hardly be discussed without laughter.

  “But later, after more than fifty years in the weather profession, I have come to the conclusion that Anthony Tummley was right in every respect. Several of us veteran weathermen share this knowledge now, but we have developed a sort of code for the thing, not daring to admit it openly, even to ourselves. Whales in the Sky’ is the code-name for this study, and we pretend to keep it on a humorous basis.

  “Some thirty of these floating stone islands are continuously over our own country (there may be more than a hundred of them in the world). They are tracked on radar; they are sighted again and again in their slightly changed forms (some of them, now and then, seem to sluff off small masses of stone and deposit it somehow on earth); they are known, they are named.

  “They are even visited by some persons of odd character: always a peculiar combination of simplicity, acceptance, intelligence and strange rapport. There are persons and families in rural situations who employ these peopled islands to carry messages and goods for them. In rural and swampland Louisiana, there was once some wonder that the people did not more avail themselves of the Intercostal Canal barges to carry their supplies, and their products to market. ‘How are the barges better than the stone islands that we have always used?’ these people ask. ‘They aren’t on a much more regular schedule, they aren’t much faster, and they won’t give you anything like the same amount of service in exchange for a hundredweight of rice. Besides that, the stone-island people are our friends, and some of them have intermarried with us Cajuns.’ There are other regions where the same easy cooperation obtains.

  “Many of the stone-island people are well known along certain almost regular routes. These people are all of a powerful and rather coarse beauty. They are good-natured and hearty. They actually traffic in stone, trading amazing tonnages of top grade building stone for grain and other simple provisions.

  “There is no scientific explanation at all of how these things can be, how the stone islands are able to float in the sky. But that they do so is the open secret of perhaps a million persons.

  “Really, I am now too wealthy to be put in a mad-house (though I made my money in a rather mad traffic which would not be generally believed). I am too old to be laughed at openly: I will merely be smiled at as an eccentric. I have now retired from that weather profession which served me as a front for many years (which profession, however, I loved and still love).

  “I know what I know. There are more things in the zone fifteen miles above the earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio.”

  Memories of 52 years as a Weather Observer

  by Hank Fairday (Privately printed 1970).

  * * * *

  Miss Phosphor McCabe did another really stunning photographic article for the Heritage Geographical Magazine. It had a catchy title: “All Right, Then You Tell Me How I Did It, or The Building of the Pink Pagoda.”

  “The Pink Pagoda is complete, except for such additions as I shall have made whenever the notion strikes me, and whenever my high-flying friends are in the neighborhood. It is by far the largest structure in the world and also, in my own opinion, the most beautiful. But it is not massive in appearance: it is light and airy. Come see it in the stone, all of you! Come see it in the color photography (plates I to CXXIX) if you are not able to come yourself. This wonderful structure gives the answers to hundreds of questions, if you will just open your eyes and your ears.

  “Of ancient megalithic structures it has sometimes been asked how a hundred or more of one hundred ton blocks of stone could have been piled up, and fitted so carefully that even a knife-blade could not be inserted between the blocks. It’s easy. You usually don’t set a hundred one hundred ton blocks, unless for a certain ornamentation. You set one ten thousand ton block, and the joinings are merely simulated. In the Pink Pagoda I have had set blocks as heavy as three hundred thousand tons of pink limestone (see plate XXI).

  “They bring the whole island down in place. They split off what block is wanted at that location (and, believe me, they are some splitters); then they withdraw the island a little bit and leave the block in place.

  “Well, how else was it done? How did I get the one hundred and fifty thousand ton main capstone in place four hundred and fifty feet in the air? With ramps? Oh stop it, you’ll scare the cuckoos. The stone pillars and turrets all around and below it are like three-dimensional lace-work, and that main capstone had to go on last. It wasn’t done by rocking it up on ramps, even if there had been a place for the ramps. It was all done on one Saturday afternoon, and here are the sequence pictures showing just how it was done. It was done by using a floating island, and by detaching pieces of that island as it was floated into place. I tell you that there is no other way that a one hundred and five pound girl can assemble a thirty million ton Pink Pagoda in six hours. She has got to have a floating island, with a north cliff of pink limestone, and she has got to be very good friends with the people on that island.

  “Please come and see my Pink Pagoda. All the people and all the officials avert their eyes from it. They say that it is impossible that such a thing could be there, and therefore it cannot be there. But itis there. See it yourself (or see plates IV, IX, XXXIII, LXX especially). And it is pretty (see plates XIX, XXIV, V, LIV). But best, come see it as it really is.”

  * * * *

  Miss Phosphor McCabe did that rather astonishing photographic article for the Heritage Geographical Magazine. Heritage Geographicalrefused to publish it, though, stating that such things were impossible. And they refused to come and see the Pink Pagoda itself, which is a pity, since it is the largest and most beautiful structure on earth.

  It stands there yet, on that thirty acre hill right on the north edge of town. And you have not heard the last stone of it yet. The latest, a bad-natured little addition, will not be the last: Miss Phosphor swears that it will not be.

  There was a flimsy-winged enemy flew down, shortly after the first completion of the pagoda, and set the latest, very small stone (it is called the egg-of-doubt stone) on top of the main capstone. ‘Twas a crabbed written little stone, and it read:

  “I will not trow two-headed calves,”

  Say never-seens, and also haves.

  “I’ll not believe a hollow earth,”

  Say scepticals of doubtful birth.

  “I’ll not concede Atlantis you,

  Nor yet Lemuria or Mu,

  “Nor woodsmen in northwestern lands,

  Nor bandy-legg’d saucerians,

  “Nor ancient technologic myth,

  Nor charm of timeless megalith.

  “I will not credit Whales that fly,

  Nor Limestone Islands in the Sky.”

  Unfolk Ballad

  That crabby little ballad-stone on the top almost spoils the Pink Pagoda for me. But it will be removed, Miss Phosphor McCabe says, just as soon as her traveling friends are back in this-neighborhood and she can get up there.

  * * * *

  That is all that we have to say on the subject of stone setting.

  Does anyone else have something further to add?

  <>

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Wilson Tucker sold his first science fiction short story in 1941 to a pulp magazine called Super Science Stories, and since then has written perhaps two dozen more. He’s concentrated on novel-writing, in both the science fiction and mystery fields; his sf novels THE LONG LOUD SILENCE and THE YEAR OF THE QUIET SUN are among the best in the field. But his work in the shorter lengths has been excellent too, with the result that new Tucker stories are always eagerly awaited. Herewith, Tucker’s first short story in a number of years, written specially for UNIVERSE 1: a quiet, matter-of-fact account of crime solving in the future, with a poli
ce camera that can photograph up to fourteen hours into the past. Provided there’s anything to be seen, of course.

  TIME EXPOSURES

  Wilson Tucker

  Sergeant Tabbot climbed the stairs to the woman’s third floor apartment. The heavy camera case banged against his leg as he climbed and threatened collision with his bad knee. He shifted the case to his left hand and muttered under his breath: the womancould have been gracious enough to die on the first floor.

  A patrolman loafed on the landing, casually guarding the stairway and the third floor corridor.

  Tabbot showed surprise. “No keeper? Are they still working in there? Which apartment is it?”

  The patrolman said: “Somebody forgot the keeper, sergeant—somebody went after it. There’s a crowd in there, the coroner ain’t done yet. Number 33.” He glanced down at the bulky case. “She’s pretty naked.”

  “Shall I make you a nice print?”

  “No, sir, not this one! I mean, she’s naked but she ain’t pretty anymore.”

  Tabbot said: “Murder victims usually lose their good looks.” He walked down the corridor to number 33 and found the door ajar. A rumbling voice was audible. Tabbot swung the door open and stepped into the woman’s apartment. A small place: probably only two rooms.

  The first thing he saw was a finger man working over a glass-topped coffee table with an aerosol can and a portable blacklight; the sour expression on the man’s face revealed a notable lack of fingerprints. A precinct Lieutenant stood just beyond the end of the coffee table, watching the roving blacklight with an air of unruffled patience; his glance flickered at Tabbot, at the camera case, and dropped again to the table. A plainclothesman waited behind the door, doing nothing. Two men with a wicker basket sat on either arm of an overstuffed chair, peering over the back of the chair at something on the floor. One of them swung his head to stare at the newcomer and then turned his attention back to the floor. Well beyond the chair a bald-headed man wearing too much fat under his clothing was brushing dust from the knees of his trousers. He had just climbed to his feet and the exertion caused a dry, wheezy breathing through an open mouth.

  Tabbot knew the Lieutenant and the coroner.

  The coroner looked at the heavy black case Tabbot put down just inside the door and asked: “Pictures?”

  “Yes, sir. Time exposures.”

  “I’d like to have prints, then. Haven’t seen a shooting in eight or nine years. Damned rare anymore.” He pointed a fat index finger at the thing on the floor. “She was shot to death. Can you imagine that? Shot to death inthis day and age! I’d like to have prints. Want to see a man with the gall to carry a gun.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tabbot swung his attention to the precinct Lieutenant. “Can you give me an idea?”

  “It’s still hazy, sergeant,” the officer answered. “The victim knew her assailant; I think she let him in the door and then walked away from him. He stood where you’re standing. Maybe an argument, but no fighting-nothing broken, nothing disturbed, no fingerprints. That knob behind you was wiped clean. She was standing behind that chair when she was shot, and she fell there. Can you catch it all?”

  “Yes, sir, I think so. I’ll set up in that other room-in the doorway. A kitchen?”

  “Kitchen and shower. This one is a combination living room and bedroom.”

  “I’ll start in the doorway and then move in close. Nothing in the kitchen?”

  “Only dirty dishes. No floorstains, but I would appreciate prints just the same. The floors are clean everywhere except behindthat chair.”

  Sergeant Tabbot looked at the window across the room and looked back to the Lieutenant.

  “No fire escape,” the officer said. “But cover it anyway, cover everything. Your routine.”

  Tabbot nodded easily, then took a strong grip on his stomach muscles. He moved across the room to the overstuffed chair and peered carefully over the back of it. The two wicker basket men turned their heads in unison to watch him, sharing some macabre joke between them. It would be at his expense. His stomach plunged despite the rigid effort to control it.

  She was a sandy blonde and had been about thirty years old; her face had been reasonably attractive but was not likely to have won a beauty contest; it was scrubbed clean, and free of makeup. There was no jewelry on her fingers, wrists, or about her neck; she was literally naked. Her chest had been blown away. Tabbot blinked his shocked surprise and looked down her stomach toward her legs simply to move his gaze away from the hideous sight. He thought for a moment he’d lose his breakfast. His eyes closed while he fought for iron control, and when they opened again he was looking at old abdominal scars from a long ago pregnancy.

  Sergeant Tabbot backed off rapidly from the chair and bumped into the coroner. He blurted: “She was shot in the back!”

  “Well, of course.” The wheezing fat man stepped around him with annoyance. “There’s a little hole in the spine. Little going in and big—bigod it was big-coming out. Destroyed the rib cage coming out. That’s natural. Heavy caliber pistol, I think.” He stared down at the naked feet protruding from behind the chair. “First shooting I’ve seen in eight or nine years. Can you imagine that? Somebody carrying a gun.” He paused for a wheezing breath and then pointed the same fat finger at the basket men. “Pick it up and run, boys. We’ll do an autopsy.”

  Tabbot walked out to the kitchen.

  * * * *

  The kitchen table showed him a dirty plate, coffee cup, fork and spoon, and toast crumbs. A sugar bowl without a lid and a small jar of powdered coffee creamer completed the setting. He looked under the table for the missing knife and butter.

  “It’s not there,” the Lieutenant said. “She liked her toast dry.”

  Tabbot turned. “How long ago was breakfast? How long has she been dead?”

  “We’ll have to wait on the coroner’s opinion for that but I would guess three, maybe four hours ago. The coffee pot was cold, the body was cold, the egg stains were dry—oh, say three hours plus.”

  “That gives me a good margin,” Tabbot said. “If it happened last night, yesterday, I’d just pick up my camera and go home.” He glanced through the doorway at a movement caught in the corner of the eye and found the wicker basket men carrying their load through the front door into the corridor. His glance quickly swung back to the kitchen table. “Eggs and dry toast, sugar in white coffee. That doesn’t give you much.”

  The Lieutenant shook his head. “I’m not worried abouther; I don’t give a damn what she ate. Let the coroner worry about her breakfast; he’ll tell us how long ago she ate it and we’ll take it from there. Your prints are more important. I want to see pictures of the assailant.”

  Tabbot said: “Let’s hope for daylight, and let’s hope it wasthis morning. Are you sure that isn’t yesterday’s breakfast? There’s no point in setting up the camera if it happened yesterday morning, or last night. My exposure limit is between ten and fourteen hours—and you know how poor fourteen-hour prints are.”

  “This morning,” the officer assured him. “She went in to work yesterday morning but when she failed to check in this morning, when she didn’t answer the phone, somebody from the shop came around to ask why.”

  “Did the somebody have a key?”

  “No, and that eliminated the first suspect. The janitor let him in. Will you make a print of the door to corroborate their story? A few minutes after nine o’clock; they can’t remember the exact time now.”

  “Will do. What kind of a shop? What did she do?”

  “Toy shop. She made Christmas dolls.”

  Sergeant Tabbot considered that. After a moment he said: “The first thing that comes to mind is toy guns.”

  The Lieutenant gave him a tight, humorless grin. “We had the same thing in mind and sent men over there to comb the shop. Black market things, you know, toys or the real article. But no luck. They haven’t made anything resembling a gun since the Dean Act was passed. That shop was clean.”

  “Y
ou’ve got a tough job, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m waiting on your prints, Sergeant.”

  Tabbot thought that a fair hint. He went back to the outer room and found everyone gone but the silent plainclothesman. The detective sat down on the sofa behind the coffee table and watched him unpack the case. A tripod was set up about five feet from the door. The camera itself was a heavy, unwieldy instrument and was lifted onto the tripod with a certain amount of hard grunting and a muttered curse because of a nipped finger. When it was solidly battened to the tripod, Tabbot picked a film magazine out of the supply case and fixed it to the rear of the camera. A lens and the timing instrument was the last to be fitted into place. He looked to make sure the lens was clean.

  Tabbot focused on the front door, and reached into a pocket for his slide rule. He checked the time now and then calculated backward to obtain four exposures at nine o’clock, nine-five, nine-ten, and nine-fifteen, which should pretty well bracket the arrival of the janitor and the toy shop employee. He cocked and tripped the timer, and then checked to make sure the nylon film was feeding properly after each exposure. The data for each exposure was jotted down in a notebook, making the later identification of the prints more certain.