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_A gun is an interesting weapon; it can be hired, of course, and naturally doesn't care who hires it. Something much the same can be said of the gunman, too...._
GUN FOR HIRE
By
MACK REYNOLDS
Illustrated by van Dongen
Joe Prantera called softly, "Al." The pleasurable, comfortable, warmfeeling began spreading over him, the way it always did.
The older man stopped and squinted, but not suspiciously, even now.
The evening was dark, it was unlikely that the other even saw the circleof steel that was the mouth of the shotgun barrel, now resting on thecar's window ledge.
"Who's it?" he growled.
Joe Prantera said softly, "Big Louis sent me, Al."
And he pressed the trigger.
And at that moment, the universe caved inward upon Joseph MariePrantera.
There was nausea and nausea upon nausea.
There was a falling through all space and through all time. There wasdoubling and twisting and twitching of every muscle and nerve.
There was pain, horror and tumultuous fear.
And he came out of it as quickly and completely as he'd gone in.
He was in, he thought, a hospital and his first reaction was to think,_This here California. Everything different._ Then his second thoughtwas _Something went wrong. Big Louis, he ain't going to like this._
He brought his thinking to the present. So far as he could remember, hehadn't completely pulled the trigger. That at least meant that whateverthe rap was it wouldn't be too tough. With luck, the syndicate would gethim off with a couple of years at Quentin.
A door slid open in the wall in a way that Joe had never seen a dooroperate before. _This here California._
The clothes on the newcomer were wrong, too. For the first time, JoePrantera began to sense an alienness--a something that was awfullywrong.
The other spoke precisely and slowly, the way a highly educated manspeaks a language which he reads and writes fluently but has littleoccasion to practice vocally. "You have recovered?"
Joe Prantera looked at the other expressionlessly. Maybe the old duckwas one of these foreign doctors, like.
The newcomer said, "You have undoubtedly been through a most harrowingexperience. If you have any untoward symptoms, possibly I could be ofassistance."
Joe couldn't figure out how he stood. For one thing, there should havebeen some kind of police guard.
The other said, "Perhaps a bit of stimulant?"
Joe said flatly, "I wanta lawyer."
The newcomer frowned at him. "A lawyer?"
"I'm not sayin' nothin'. Not until I get a mouthpiece."
The newcomer started off on another tack. "My name is LawrenceReston-Farrell. If I am not mistaken, you are Joseph Salviati-Prantera."
Salviati happened to be Joe's mother's maiden name. But it was unlikelythis character could have known that. Joe had been born in Naples andhis mother had died in childbirth. His father hadn't brought him to theStates until the age of five and by that time he had a stepmother.
"I wanta mouthpiece," Joe said flatly, "or let me outta here."
Lawrence Reston-Farrell said, "You are not being constrained. There areclothes for you in the closet there."
Joe gingerly tried swinging his feet to the floor and sitting up, whilethe other stood watching him, strangely. He came to his feet. With theexception of a faint nausea, which brought back memories of that extremecondition he'd suffered during ... during what? He hadn't the vaguestidea of what had happened.
He was dressed in a hospital-type nightgown. He looked down at it andsnorted and made his way over to the closet. It opened on his approach,the door sliding back into the wall in much the same manner as theroom's door had opened for Reston-Farrell.
Joe Prantera scowled and said, "These ain't my clothes."
"No, I am afraid not."
"You think I'd be seen dead wearing this stuff? What is this, somereligious crackpot hospital?"
Reston-Farrell said, "I am afraid, Mr. Salviati-Prantera, that these arethe only garments available. I suggest you look out the window there."
Joe gave him a long, chill look and then stepped to the window. Hecouldn't figure the other. Unless he was a fruitcake. Maybe he was insome kind of pressure cooker and this was one of the fruitcakes.
He looked out, however, not on the lawns and walks of a sanitarium butupon a wide boulevard of what was obviously a populous city.
And for a moment again, Joe Prantera felt the depths of nausea.
This was not his world.
He stared for a long, long moment. The cars didn't even have wheels, henoted dully. He turned slowly and faced the older man.
Reston-Farrell said compassionately, "Try this, it's excellent cognac."
Joe Prantera stared at him, said finally, flatly, "What's it allabout?"
The other put down the unaccepted glass. "We were afraid firstrealization would be a shock to you," he said. "My colleague is in theadjoining room. We will be glad to explain to you if you will join usthere."
"I wanta get out of here," Joe said.
"Where would you go?"
The fear of police, of Al Rossi's vengeance, of the measures that mightbe taken by Big Louis on his failure, were now far away.
Reston-Farrell had approached the door by which he had entered and itreopened for him. He went through it without looking back.
There was nothing else to do. Joe dressed, then followed him.
* * * * *
In the adjoining room was a circular table that would have accommodateda dozen persons. Two were seated there now, papers, books and soiledcoffee cups before them. There had evidently been a long wait.
Reston-Farrell, the one Joe had already met, was tall and drawn of faceand with a chainsmoker's nervousness. The other was heavier and more atease. They were both, Joe estimated, somewhere in their middle fifties.They both looked like docs. He wondered, all over again, if this wassome kind of pressure cooker.
But that didn't explain the view from the window.
Reston-Farrell said, "May I present my colleague, Citizen WarrenBrett-James? Warren, this is our guest from ... from yesteryear, Mr.Joseph Salviati-Prantera."
Brett-James nodded to him, friendly, so far as Joe could see. He saidgently, "I think it would be Mr. Joseph Prantera, wouldn't it? Thematernal linage was almost universally ignored." His voice too gave theimpression he was speaking a language not usually on his tongue.
Joe took an empty chair, hardly bothering to note its alien qualities.His body seemed to _fit_ into the piece of furniture, as though it hadbeen molded to his order.
Joe said, "I think maybe I'll take that there drink, Doc."
Reston-Farrell said, "Of course," and then something else Joe didn'tget. Whatever the something else was, a slot opened in the middle of thetable and a glass, so clear of texture as to be all but invisible, waselevated. It contained possibly three ounces of golden fluid.
Joe didn't allow himself to think of its means of delivery. He took upthe drink and bolted it. He put the glass down and said carefully,"What's it all about, huh?"
Warren Brett-James said soothingly, "Prepare yourself for somewhat of ashock, Mr. Prantera. You are no longer in Los Angeles--"
"Ya think I'm stupid? I can see that."
"I was about to say, Los Angeles of 1960. Mr. Prantera, we welcome youto Nuevo Los Angeles."
"Ta where?"
"To Nuevo Los Angeles and to the year--" Brett-James looked at hiscompanion. "What is the date, Old Calendar?"
"2133," Reston-Farrell said. "2133 A.D. they would say."
Joe Prantera looked from one of them to the other, scowling. "What areyou guys talking about?"
Warren Brett-James said softly, "Mr. Prantera, you are no longer in theyear 1960, you are now in the year 2133."
He said, uncomprehendingly, "You mean I been, like, unconscious for--"He let the sentence fall away as he realized the impossibility.
Brett-James said gently, "Hardly for one hundred and seventy years, Mr.Prantera."
Reston-Farrell said, "I am afraid we are confusing you. Briefly, we have_transported_ you, I suppose one might say, from your own era to ours."
Joe Prantera had never been exposed to the concept of time travel. Hehad simply never associated with anyone who had ever even remotelyconsidered such an idea. Now he said, "You mean, like, I