Alien Earth and Other Stories Read online

  "I didn't know." He swung off the table. "Who gets the report?"

  "The police."

  "No!"

  "Please, Mr. Smith! I'm required by law to—" "Take this."

  He fished something out of his pocket with his right hand and threw it on the desk. I stared at it. I'd never seen a 5,000-dollar bill before, and it was worth staring at.

  "I'm going now," he said. "As a matter of fact, I've never really been here."

  I shrugged. "As you will," I told him. "Just one thing more, though."

  "What's that?"

  I stooped, reached into the left-hand upper drawer of the desk, and showed him what I kept there.

  "This is a .22, Mr. Smith," I said. "It's a lady's gun. I've never used it before, except on the target range. I would hate to use it now, but I warn you that if I do you're going to have trouble with your right arm. As a physician, my knowledge of anatomy combines with my ability as a marksman. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, I do. But you don't. Look, you've got to let me go. It's important. I'm not a criminal!"

  "Nobody said you were. But you will be, if you attempt to evade the law by neglecting to answer my questions for this report. It must be in the hands of the authorities within the next twenty-four hours."

  He chuckled. "They'll never read it."

  I sighed. "Let's not argue. And don't reach into your pocket, either."

  He smiled at me. "I have no weapon. I was just going to increase your fee."

  Another bill fluttered to the table. Ten thousand dollars. Five thousand plus 10 thousand makes 15. It added up.

  "Sorry," I said. "This all looks very tempting to a struggling young doctor—but I happen to have old-fashioned ideas about such things. Besides, I doubt if I could get change from anyone, because of all this excitement in the newspapers over—"

  I stopped, suddenly, as I remembered. Five-thousand and 10-thousand-dollar bills. They added up, all right. I smiled at him across the desk.

  "Where are the paintings, Mr. Smith?" I asked.

  It was his turn to sigh. "Please, don't question me. I don't want to hurt anyone. I just want to go, before it's too late. You were kind to me. I'm grateful. Take the money and forget it. This report is foolishness, believe me."

  "Believe you? With the whole country in an uproar, looking for stolen art masterpieces, and Communists hiding under every bed? Maybe it's just feminine curiosity, but I'd like to know." I took careful aim. "This isn't conversation, Mr. Smith. Either you talk or I shoot."

  "All right. But it won't do any good." He leaned forward. "You've got to believe that. It won't do any good. I could show you the paintings, yes. I could give them to you. And it wouldn't help a bit. Within twenty-four hours they'd be as useless as that report you wanted to fill out."

  "Oh, yes, the report. We might as well get started with it," I said. "In spite of your rather pessimistic outlook. The way you talk, you'd think the bombs were going to fall here tomorrow."

  "They will," he told me. "Here, and everywhere."

  "Very interesting." I shifted the gun to my left hand and took up the fountain pen. "But now, to business. Your name, please. Your real name."

  "Kim Logan."

  "Date of birth?"

  "November 25th, 2903."

  I raised the gun. "The right arm," I said. "Medial head of the triceps. It will hurt, too."

  "November 25th, 2903," he repeated. "I came here last Sunday at 10 P.M., your time. By the same chronology I leave tonight at nine. It's a 169-hour cycle."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "My instrument is out there in the bay. The paintings and manuscripts are there. I intended to remain submerged until the departure moment tonight, but a man shot me."

  "You feel feverish?" I asked. "Does your head hurt?"

  "No. I told you it was no use explaining things. You won't believe me, any more than you believed me about the bombs."

  "Let's stick to facts," I suggested. "You admit you stole the paintings. Why?"

  "Because of the bombs, of course. The war is coming, the big one. Before tomorrow morning your planes will be over the Russian border and their planes will retaliate. That's only the beginning. It will go on for months, years. In the end— shambles. But the masterpieces I take will be saved."

  "How?"

  "I told you. Tonight, at nine, I return to my own place in the time-continuum." He raised his hand. "Don't tell me it's not possible. According to your present-day concepts of physics it would be. Even according to our science, only forward movement is demonstrable. When I suggested my project to the Institute they were skeptical. But they built the instrument according to my specifications, nevertheless. They permitted me to use the money from the Historical Foundation at Fort Knox. And I received an ironic blessing prior to my departure. I rather imagine my actual vanishment caused raised eyebrows. But that will be nothing compared to the reaction upon my return. My triumphant return, with a cargo of art masterpieces presumably destroyed nearly a thousand years in the past!"

  "Let me get this straight," I said. "According to your story, you came here because you knew war was going to break out and you wanted to salvage some old masters from destruction. Is that it?"

  "Precisely. It was a wild gamble, but I had the currency. I've studied the era as closely as any man can from the records available. I knew about the linguistic peculiarities of the age— you've had no trouble understanding me, have you? And I managed to work out a plan. Of course I haven't been entirely successful, but I've managed a great deal in less than a week's time. Perhaps I can return again—earlier—maybe a year or so beforehand, and procure more." His eyes grew bright. "Why not? We could build more instruments, come in a body. We could get everything we wanted, then."

  I shook my head. "For the sake of argument, let's say for a minute that I believe you, which I don't. You've stolen some paintings, you say. You're taking them back to 29-something-or-other with you, tonight. You hope. Is that the story?"

  "That's the truth."

  "Very well. Now you suggest that you might repeat the experiment on a larger scale. Come back to a point a year before this in time and collect more masterpieces. Again, let's say you do it. What will happen to the paintings you took with you?"

  "I don't follow you."

  "Those paintings will be in your era, according to you. But a year ago they hung in various galleries. Will they be there when you come back? Surely they can't co-exist."

  He smiled. "A pretty paradox. I'm beginning to like you, Dr. Rafferty."

  "Well, don't let the feeling grow on you. It's not reciprocal, I assure you. Even if you were telling the truth, I can't admire your motives."

  "What's wrong with my motives?" He stood up, ignoring the gun. "Isn't it a worthwhile goal—to save immortal treasures from the senseless destruction of a tribal war? The world deserves the preservation of its artistic heritage. I've risked my existence for the sake of bringing beauty to my own time— where it can be properly appreciated and enjoyed by minds no longer obsessed with the greed and cruelty I find here."

  "Big words," I said. "But the fact remains. You stole those paintings."

  "Stole? I saved them! I tell you, before the year is out they'd be utterly destroyed. Your galleries, your museums, your libraries—everything will go. Is it stealing to carry precious articles from a burning temple?" He leaned over me. "Is that a crime?"

  "Why not stop the fire, instead?" I countered. "You know —from historical records, I suppose—that war breaks out tonight or tomorrow. Why not take advantage of your foresight and try to prevent it?"

  "I can't. The records are sketchy, incomplete. Events are jumbled. I've been unable to discover just how the war began

  —or will begin, rather. Some trivial incident, unnamed. Nothing is clear on that point."

  "But couldn't you warn the authorities?"

  "And change history? Change the actual sequence of events, rather? Impossible!"

  "Aren't you chang
ing them by taking the paintings?"

  "That's different."

  "Is it?" I stared into his eyes. "I don't see how. But then, the whole thing is impossible. I've wasted too much time in arguing."

  "Time!" He looked at the wall clock. "Almost noon. I've got nine hours left. And so much to do. The instrument must be adjusted."

  "Where is this precious mechanism of yours?"

  "Out in the bay. Submerged, of course. I had that in mind when it was constructed. You can conceive of the hazards of attempting to move through time and alight on a solid surface; the face of the lands alters. But the ocean is comparatively unchanging. I knew if I departed from a spot several miles offshore and arrived there, I'd eliminate most of the ordinary hazards. Besides, it offers a most excellent place of concealment. The principle, you see, is simple. By purely mechanical means I shall raise the instrument above the stratospheric level tonight and then intercalculate dimensionally when I am free of earth's orbit. The gantic-drive will be—"

  No doubt about it. I didn't have to wait for the double-talk to know he was crazier than a codfish. A pity, too; he was really a handsome specimen.

  "Sorry," I said. "Time's up. This is something I hate to do, but there's no other choice. No, don't move. I'm calling the police, and if you take one step I'll plug you."

  "Stop! You mustn't call! I'll do anything, I'll even take you with me. That's it, I'll take you with me! Wouldn't you like to save your life? Wouldn't you like to escape?"

  "No. Nobody escapes," I told him. "Especially not you. Now stand still, and no more funny business. I'm making that call."

  He stopped. He stood still. J picked up the phone, with a sweet smile. He looked at me.

  Something happened then.

  There has been a great dispute about the clinical aspects of hypnotic therapy. I remember, in school, an attempt being made to hypnotize me. I was entirely immune. I concluded that a certain degree of cooperation or conditioned suggestibility is required of an individual in order to render him susceptible to hypnosis.

  I was wrong.

  I was wrong, because I couldn't move now. No light, no mirrors, no voices, no suggestion. It was just that I couldn't move. I sat there holding the gun. I sat there and watched him walk out, locking the door behind him. I could see and I could feel. I could even hear him say "Good-by."

  But I couldn't move. I could function, but only as a paralytic functions. I could, for example, watch the clock.

  I watched the clock from 12 noon until almost seven. Several patients came during the afternoon, couldn't get in, and went away. I watched the clock until its face was lost in darkness. I sat there and endured hysteric rigidity until— providentially—the phone rang.

  That broke it. But it broke me. I couldn't answer that phone. I merely slumped over on the desk, my muscles tightening with pain as the gun fell from my numb fingers. I lay there, gasping and sobbing, for a long time. I tried to sit up. It was agony. I tried to walk. My limbs rejected sensation. It took me an hour to gain control again. And even then, it was merely a partial control—a physical control. My thoughts were another matter.

  Seven hours of thinking. Seven hours of true or false? Seven hours of accepting and rejecting the impossibly possible.

  It was after eight before I was on my feet again, and then I didn't know what to do.

  Call the police? Yes—but what could I tell them? I had to be sure, I had to know.

  And what did I know? He was out in the bay, and he'd leave at nine o'clock. There was an instrument which would rise above the stratosphere—

  I got in the car and drove. The dock was deserted. I took the road over to the Point, where there's a good view. I had the binoculars. The stars were out, but no moon. Even so, I could see pretty clearly.

  There was a small yacht bobbing on the water, but no lights shone. Could that be it?

  No sense taking chances. I remembered the radio report about the Coast Guard patrols.

  So I did it. I drove back to town and stopped at a drugstore and made my call. Just reported the presence of the yacht. Perhaps they'd investigate, because there were no lights. Yes, I'd stay there and wait for them if they wished.

  I didn't stay, of course. I went back to the Point. I went back there and trained my binoculars on the yacht. It was almost nine when I saw the cutter come along, moving up behind the yacht with deadly swiftness.

  It was exactly nine when they flashed their lights—and caught, for an incredible instant, the gleaming reflection of the silver globe that rose from the water, rose straight up toward the sky.

  Then came the explosion and I saw the shattering before I heard the echo of the report. They had portable anti-aircraft, something of the sort.

  One moment the globe soared upward. The next moment there was nothing. They blew it to bits.

  And they blew me tos bits with it. Because if there was a globe, perhaps he was inside. With the masterpieces, ready to return to another time. The story was true, then, and if that was true, then—

  I guess I fainted. My watch showed 10:30 when I came to and stood up. It was 11 before I made it to the Coast Guard Station and told my story.

  Of course, nobody believed me. Even D. Halvorsen from emergency—he said he did, but he insisted on the injection and they took me here to the hospital.

  It would have been too late, anyway. That globe did the trick. They must have contacted Washington immediately, with their story of a new secret Soviet weapon destroyed offshore. Coming on the heels of finding those bomb-laden ships, it was the final straw. Somebody gave orders and our planes took off. We've dropped bombs over there. And the alert has gone out, warning us of possible reprisals.

  I keep thinking about the paradoxes of time-travel. This notion of carrying objects from the present to the future—and this other notion, about altering the past. I'd like to work out the theory, only there's no need. The old masters aren't going into the future. Any more than he, returning to our present, could stop the war.

  What had he said? "I've been unable to discover just how the war began—or will begin, rather. Some trivial incident, unnamed."

  Well, this was the trivial incident. His visit. If I hadn't made that phone call, if the globe hadn't risen—but there's no use thinking about it any more. All that buzzing and droning noise outside and the sirens sounding, too. If I had any doubts about the truth of his claims, they're gone.

  I wish I'd believed him. I wish the others would believe me now. But there just isn't any time. . . .

  RAIN MAGIC

  Erie Stanley Gardner

  Is "Rain Magic" fact or fiction? I wish I knew.

  Some of it is fiction, I know, because I invented connecting incidents and wove them into the yarn. It's the rest of it that haunts me. At the time I thought it was just a wild lie of an old desert rat. And then I came to believe it was true.

  Anyhow, here are the facts, and the reader can judge for himself.

  About six months ago I went stale on Western stories. My characters became fuzzy in my mind; my descriptions lacked that intangible something that makes a story pack a punch. I knew I had to get out and gather new material.

  So I got a camp wagon. It's a truck containing a complete living outfit—bed, bath, hot and cold water, radio, writing desk, closet, stove, et cetera. I struck out into the trackless desert, following old, abandoned roads, sometimes making my own roads. I was writing as I went, meeting old prospectors, putting them on paper, getting steeped in the desert environment.

  February 13, found me at a little spring in the middle of barren desert. As far as I knew there wasn't a soul within miles.

  Then I heard steps, the sound of a voice. I got up from my typewriter, went to the door. There was an old prospector getting water at the spring. But he wasn't the typical desert rat. I am always interested in character classification, and the man puzzled me. I came to the conclusion he'd been a sailor.

  So I got out, shook hands, and passed the time of day. He was inter
ested in my camp wagon, and I took him in, sat him down and smoked for a spell. Then I asked him if he hadn't been a sailor.

  I can still see the queer pucker that came into his eyes as he nodded.

  Now sailors are pretty much inclined to stay with the water. One doesn't often find a typical sailor in the desert. So I asked him why he'd come into the desert.

  59

  He explained that he had to get away from rain. When it rained he got the sleeping sickness.

  That sounded like a story, so I made it a point to draw him out. It came, a bit at a time, starting with the Sahara dust that painted the rigging of the ship after the storm, and winding up with the sleeping sickness that came back whenever he smelled the damp of rain-soaked vegetation.

  I thought it was one gosh-awful lie, but it was a gripping, entertaining lie, and I thought I could use it. I put it up to him as a business proposition, and within a few minutes held in my possession a document which read in part as follows:

  For value received, I hereby sell to Erie Stanley Gardner the story rights covering my adventures in Africa, including the monkey-man, the unwritten language, the ants who watched the gold ledge, the bread that made me ill, the sleeping sickness which comes back every spring and leaves me with memories of my lost sweetheart, et cetera, et cetera.

  After that I set about taking complete notes of his story. I still thought it was a lie, an awful lie.

  Like all stories of real life in the raw it lacked certain connecting incidents. There was no balance to it. It seemed disconnected in places.

  Because I intended to make a pure fiction story out of it, I didn't hesitate to fill in these connections. I tried to give it a sweep of unified action, and I took some liberties with the facts as he had given them to me. Yet, in the main, I kept his highlights, and I was faithful to the backgrounds as he had described them.

  Because he had just recovered from a recurrence of the sleeping sickness, I started the story as it would have been told to a man who had stumbled onto the sleeping form in the desert. It was a story that "wrote itself." The words just poured from my fingertips to the typewriter. But I was writing it as fiction, and I considered it as such.