“Igor,” he said.
The leader cocked her head. “Igor?” she said.
Frost nodded vigorously. “Igor.”
She turned and called out, “Igor!” giving it the marked guttoral, the liquid “r” that Monroe had given it. A man came forward. The professor looked eagerly at him, but he was a stranger, like the rest. The leader pointed to the man and stated, “Igor.”
This is growing complicated, though Frost, apparently Igor is a common name here—too common. Then he had a sudden idea:
If Monroe and Helen got through, their badly needed chattels might have made them prominent. “Igor,” he said, “Helen Fisher.”
The leader was attentive at once, her face alive. “Elen Feesher?” she repeated.
“Yes, yes—Helen Fisher.”
She stood quiet, thinking. It was plain that the words meant something to her. She clapped her hands together and spoke, commandingly. Two men stepped forward. She addressed them rapidly for several moments.
The two men stepped up to Frost, each taking an arm. They started to lead him away. Frost held back for a moment and said over his shoulder, “Helen Fisher?”
“‘Elen Feesher’!” the leader assured him. He had to be content with that.
Two hours passed, more or less. He had not been mistreated and the room in which they had placed him was comfortable but it was a cell—at least the door was fastened. Perhaps he had said the wrong thing, perhaps those syllables meant something quite different here from a simple proper name.
The room in which he found himself was bare and lighted only by a dim glow from the walls, as had all of this underground world which he had seen so far. He was growing tired of the place and was wondering whether or not it would do any good to set up a commotion when he heard someone at the door.
The door slid back; he saw the leader, a smile on her rather grim, middle-aged features. She spoke in her own tongue, then added, “Igor . . . Ellenfeesher.”
He followed her.
Glowing passageways, busy squares where he was subjected to curious stares, an elevator which startled him by dropping suddenly when he was not aware that it was an elevator, and finally a capsule-like vehicle in which they were sealed airtight and which went somewhere very fast indeed to judge by the sudden surge of weight when it started and again when it stopped—through them all he followed his guide, not understanding and lacking means of inquiring. He tried to relax and enjoy the passing moment, as his companion seemed to bear him no ill-will, though her manner was brusque—that of a person accustomed to giving orders and not in the habit of encouraging casual intimacy.
They arrived at a door which she opened and strode in. Frost followed and was almost knocked off his feet by a figure which charged into him and grasped him with both arms. “Doctor! Doctor Frost!”
It was Helen Fisher, dressed in the costume worn by both sexes here. Behind her stood Robert—or Igor, his gnome-like face widened with a grin.
He detached Helen’s arms gently. “My dear,” he said inanely, “imagine finding you here.”
“Imagine finding you here,” she retorted. “Why, professor—you’re crying!”
“Oh, no, not at all,” he said hastily, and turned to Monroe. “It’s good to see you, too, Robert.”
“That goes double for me, Doc,” Monroe agreed.
The leader said something to Monroe. He answered her rapidly in their tongue and turned to Frost. “Doctor, this is my elder sister, Margri, Actoon Margri—Major Margri, you might translate it roughly.”
“She has been very kind to me,” said Frost, and bowed to her, acknowledging the introduction. Margri clapped her hands smartly together at the waist and ducked her head, features impassive.
“She gave the salute of equals,” explained Robert-Igor. “I translated the title doctor as best I could which causes her to assume that your rank is the same as hers.”
“What should I do?”
“Return it.”
Frost did so, but awkwardly.
Doctor Frost brought his erstwhile students up to “date”—using a term which does not apply, since they were on a different time axis. His predicament with the civil authorities brought a cry of dismay from Helen. “Why, you poor thing! How awful of them!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say so,” protested Frost. “It was reasonable so far as they knew. But I’m afraid I can’t go back.”
“You don’t need to,” Igor assured him. “You’re more than welcome here.”
“Perhaps I can help out in your war.”
“Perhaps—but you’ve already done more than anyone here by what you’ve enabled me to do. We are working on it now.” He swung his arm in a gesture which took in the whole room.
Igor had been detached from combat duty and assigned to staff work, in order to make available earth techniques. Helen was helping. “Nobody believes my story but my sister,” he admitted, “But I’ve been able to show them enough for them to realize that what I’ve got is important, so they’ve given me a free hand and are practically hanging over my shoulder, waiting to see what we can produce. I’ve already got them started on a jet fighter and attack rockets to arm it.”
Frost expressed surprise. How could so much be done so fast? Were the time rates different? Had Helen and Igor crossed over many weeks before, figured along this axis?
No, he was told, but Igor’s countrymen, though lacking many earth techniques, were far ahead of earth in manufacturing skill. They used a single general type of machine to manufacture almost anything. They fed into it a plan which Igor called for want of a better term the blueprints—it was in fact, a careful scale model of the device to be manufactured; the machine retooled itself and produced the artifact. One of them was, at that moment, moulding the bodies of fighting planes out of plastic, all in one piece and in one operation.
“We are going to arm these jobs with both the stasis ray and rockets,” said Igor. “Freeze ’em and then, shoot the damn things down while they are out of control.”
They talked a few minutes, but Frost could see that Igor was getting fidgety. He guessed the reason, and asked to be excused. Igor seized on the suggestion. “We will see you a little later,” he said with relief. “I’ll have someone dig up quarters for you. We are pretty rushed. War work—I know you’ll understand.”
Frost fell asleep that night planning how he could help his two young friends, and their friends, in their struggle.
But it did not work out that way. His education had been academic rather than practical; he discovered that the reference books which Igor and Helen had brought along were so much Greek to him—worse, for he understood Greek. He was accorded all honor and a comfortable living because of Igor’s affirmation that he had been the indispensable agent whereby this planet had received the invaluable new weapons, but he soon realized that for the job at hand he was useless, not even fit to act as an interpreter.
He was a harmless nuisance, a pensioner—and he knew it.
And underground life got on his nerves. The ever-present light bothered him. He had an unreasoned fear of radioactivity, born of ignorance, and Igor’s reassurances did not stifle the fear. The war depressed him. He was not temperamentally cut out to stand up under the nervous tension of war. His helplessness to aid in the war effort, his lack of companionship, and his idleness all worked to increase the malaise.
He wandered into Igor and Helen’s workroom one day, hoping for a moment’s chat, if they were not too busy. They were not. Igor was pacing up and down, Helen followed them with worried eyes.
He cleared his throat. “Uh—I say, something the matter?”
Igor nodded, answered, “Quite a lot,” and dropped back into his preoccupation.
“It’s like this,” said Helen. “In spite of the new weapons, things are still going against us. Igor is trying to figure out what to try next.”
“Oh, I see. Sorry.” He started to leave.
“Don’t go. Sit down.” He did so, and started
mulling the matter over in his mind. It was annoying, very annoying!
“I’m afraid I’m not much use to you,” he said at last to Helen. “Too bad Howard Jenkins isn’t here.”
“I don’t suppose it matters,” she answered. “We have the cream of modern earth engineering in these books.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean Howard himself, as he is where he’s gone. They had a little gadget there in the future called a blaster. I gathered that it was a very powerful weapon indeed.”
Igor caught some of this and whirled around. “What was it? How did it work?”
“Why, really,” said Frost, “I can’t say. I’m not up on such things, you know. I gathered that it was sort of a disintegrating ray.”
“Can you sketch it? Think, man, think!”
Frost tried. Presently he stopped and said, “I’m afraid this isn’t any good. I don’t remember clearly and anyhow I don’t know anything about the inside of it.”
Igor sighed, sat down, and ran his hand through his hair.
After some minutes of gloomy silence, Helen said, “Couldn’t we go get it?”
“Eh? How’s that? How would you find him?”
“Could you find him, Professor?”
Frost sat up. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, “—but I’ll try!”
There was the city. Yes, and there was the same gate he had passed through once before. He hurried on.
Star Light was glad to see him, but not particularly surprised. Frost wondered if anything could surprise this dreamy girl. But Howard more than made up for her lack of enthusiasm. He pounded Frost’s back hard enough to cause pleurisy. “Welcome home, Master! Welcome home! I didn’t know whether or not you would ever come, but we are ready for you. I had a room built for you and you alone, in case you ever showed up. What do you think of that? You are to live with us, you know. No sense in ever going back to that grubby school.”
Frost thanked him, but added, “I came on business. I need your help, urgently.”
“You do? Well, tell me, man, tell me!”
Frost explained. “So you see, I’ve got to take the secret of your blaster back to them. They need it. They must have it.”
“And they shall have it,” agreed Howard.
Sometime later the problem looked more complicated. Try as he would Frost was simply not able to soak up the technical knowledge necessary to be able to take the secret back. The pedagogical problem presented was as great as if an untutored savage were to be asked to comprehend radio engineering sufficiently to explain to engineers unfamiliar with radio how to build a major station. And Frost was by no means sure that he could take a blaster with him through the country of Time.
“Well,” said Howard at last, “I shall simply have to go with you.”
Star Light, who had listened quietly, showed her first acute interest. “Darling! You must not—”
“Stop it,” said Howard, his chin set stubbornly. ‘This is a matter of obligation and duty. You keep out of it.”
Frost felt the acute embarrassment one always feels when forced to overhear a husband and wife having a difference of opinion.
When they were ready, Frost took Howard by the wrist. “Look me in the eyes,” he said. “You remember how we did it before?”
Howard was trembling. “I remember. Master, do you think you can do it—and not lose me?”
“I hope so,” said Frost, “now relax.”
They got back to the chamber from which Frost had started, a circumstance which Frost greeted with relief. It would have been awkward to have to cross half a planet to find his friends. He was not sure yet just how the spatial dimensions fitted into the time dimensions. Someday he would have to study the matter, work out a hypothesis and try to check it.
Igor and Howard wasted little time on social amenities. They were deep into engineering matters before Helen had finished greeting the professor.
At long last—“There,” said Howard, “I guess that covers everything. I’ll leave my blaster for a model. Any more questions?”
“No,” said Igor, “I understand it, and I’ve got every word you’ve said recorded. I wonder if you know what this means to us, old man? It unquestionably will win the war for us.”
“I can guess,” said Howard. “This little gadget is the mainstay of our systemwide pax. Ready, Doctor. I’m getting kinda anxious.”
“But you’re not going, Doctor?” cried Helen. It was both a question and a protest.
“I’ve got to guide him back,” said Frost.
“Yes,” Howard confirmed, “but he is staying to live with us. Aren’t you, Master?”
“Oh, no!” It was Helen again.
Igor put an arm around her. “Don’t coax him,” he told her. “You know he has not been happy here. I gather that Howard’s home would suit him better. If so, he’s earned it.”
Helen thought about it, then came up to Frost, placed both hands on his shoulders, and kissed him, standing on tiptoe to do so. “Goodbye, Doc,” she said in a choky voice, “or anyhow, au revoir!”
He reached up and patted one of her hands.
Frost lay in the sun, letting the rays soak into his old bones. It was certainly pleasant here. He missed Helen and Igor a little, but he suspected that they did not really miss him. And life with Howard and Star Light was more to his liking. Officially he was tutor to their children, if and when. Actually he was just as lazy and useless as he had always wanted to be, with time on his hands. Time . . . Time.
There was just one thing that he would liked to have known: What did Sergeant Izowski say when he looked up and saw that the police wagon was empty? Probably thought it was impossible.
It did not matter. He was too lazy and sleepy to care. Time enough for a little nap before lunch. Time enough . . .
Time.
THE END
LOST LEGACY
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
“YE HAVE EYES TO SEE WITH!”
“HI-YAH, BUTCHER!” Doctor Philip Huxley put down the dice cup he had been fiddling with as he spoke, and shoved out a chair with his foot. “Sit down.”
The man addressed ostentatiously ignored the salutation while handing a yellow slicker and soggy felt hat to the Faculty Clubroom attendant, but accepted the chair. His first words were to the negro attendant.
“Did you hear that, Pete? A witch doctor, passing himself off as a psychologist, has the effrontery to refer to me—to me, a licensed physician and surgeon, as a butcher.” His voice was filled with gentle reproach.
“Don’t let him kid you, Pete. If Doctor Coburn ever got you into an operating theatre, he’d open up your head just to see what makes you tick. He’d use your skull to make an ashtray.”
The colored man grinned as he wiped the table, but said nothing.
Coburn clucked and shook his head. “That from a witch doctor. Still looking for the Little Man Who Wasn’t There, Phil?”
“If you mean parapsychology, yes.”
“How’s the racket coming?”
“Pretty good. I’ve got one less lecture this semester, which is just as well—I get awfully tired of explaining to the wide-eyed innocents how little we really know about what goes on inside their think-tanks. I’d rather do research.”
“Who wouldn’t? Struck any pay dirt lately?”
“Some. I’m having a lot of fun with a law student just now, chap named Valdez.”
Coburn lifted his brows. “So? E.S.P.?”
“Kinda. He’s sort of a clairvoyant; if he can see one side of an object, he can see the other side, too.”
“Nuts!”
“‘If you’re so smart, why ain’t you rich?’ I’ve tried him out under carefully controlled conditions, and he can do it—see around corners.”
“Hmmmm—well, as my Grandfather Stonebender used to say, ‘God has more aces up his sleeve than were ever dealt in the game.’ He would be a menace at stud poker.”
“Matter of fact, he mad
e his stake for law school as a professional gambler.”
“Found out how he does it?”
“No, damn it.” Huxley drummed on the table top, a worried look on his face. “If I just had a little money for research, I might get enough data to make this sort of thing significant. Look at what Rhine accomplished at Duke.”
“Well, why don’t you holler? Go before the Board and bite ’em in the ear for it. Tell ’em how you’re going to make Western University famous.”
Huxley looked still more morose. “Fat chance. I talked with my dean and he wouldn’t even let me take it up with the President. Scared that the old fathead will clamp down on the department even more than he has. You see, officially, we are supposed to be behaviorists. Any suggestion that there might be something to consciousness that can’t be explained in terms of physiology and mechanics is about as welcome as a Saint Bernard in a telephone booth.”
The telephone signal glowed red back of the attendant’s counter. He switched off the newscast and answered the call. “Hello . . . Yes, ma’am, he is. I’ll call him. Telephone for you, Doctuh Coburn.”
“Switch it over here.” Coburn turned the telephone panel at the table around so that it faced him; as he did so it lighted up with the face of a young woman. He picked up the handset. “What is it? . . . What’s that? How long ago did it happen? . . . Who made the diagnosis? . . . Read that over again . . . Let me see the chart.” He inspected its image reflected in the panel, then added, “Very well. I’ll be right over. Prepare the patient for operating.” He switched off the instrument and turned to Huxley. “Got to go, Phil—emergency.”
“What sort?”
“It’ll interest you. Trephining. Maybe some cerebral excision. Car accident. Come along and watch it, if you have time.” He was putting on his slicker as he spoke. He turned and swung out the west door with a long, loose-limbed stride. Huxley grabbed his own raincoat and hurried to catch up with him.