Anything You Can Do ...

  _[6]_

  The Nipe prowled around the huge underground room, carefully checkinghis alarms. If anyone entered the network of tunnels at any point, theinstruments would register that fact. They had to be adjusted, ofcourse, for the presence of the small, omnivorous quadrupeds that ranthrough the tunnels in such numbers, but anything larger than they wouldbe noted immediately.

  He did not like to leave this place. Here, over a period of tenrevolutions of this planet about its primary, he had built himself anest that was almost comfortable. Here, too, were his workshops and hisstorehouses. He had reason to believe that he was safe here, screenedand protected as he was, but each time he left or entered he ran thechance of being observed.

  Still, there was no help for it. Thus far, he had been hampered bytechnical problems. There were things he needed that he could not makefor himself. Even his own vast memory, with its every bit of informationinstantly available, could only contain what had been acquired over alifetime, and even his long life had not been long enough to acquireevery bit of knowledge he needed.

  His work had been long and tedious. There were many things that couldneither be made in his workshops nor obtained from the natives, thingshe did not know how to make and which the local species had not yetevolved in their own technology. Or, more likely, which had not beenallowed them. In such cases, he had had to make do with other, lessertechniques, which added to the complexity of his job.

  But now another problem had intruded itself into his schedule.

  He had a name. Colonel Walther Mannheim. The meaning of the verbalsymbolism was unknown to him. The patterns of the symbolism were evenmore evasive than the patterns of the language itself. "Colonel" seemedsimple enough. It indicated a certain sociomilitary class that wasrigidly defined in one way and very hazy in another. But the meaningsand relationships of both "Walther" and "Mannheim" were beyond him. Whatdifference, for instance, was there between a "Walther" and a "William"?Did a "Mannheim" outrank a "Mandeville", or the other way around? Whatfunctions differentiated a "John Smith" from a "Peter Taylor"? He knewwhat a "john" was and what a "smith" was, but "John Smith" was not,apparently, necessarily associated with sanitary plumbing. The meaningof some other names eluded him entirely.

  But that made little difference at the moment. The meaning of ColonelWalther Mannheim's symbolic nomenclature was secondary in comparisonwith his known function.

  That required that the Nipe must eventually find and confront ColonelWalther Mannheim.

  It meant time lost, of course. It meant that precious time, which shouldbe given to building his communicator, must be given over to what wasmerely a protective action.

  But there was nothing to do but go on. It would never have occurred tothe Nipe to give up, for to quit meant to die. And to die--here,now--was unthinkable.

  His alarms were all functioning, his defenses all set. He could nowleave his hideaway knowing that if it were broken into while he was awayhe would be warned in time. But he had no real fear of that. He had doneeverything he could do. And no intelligent creature, to the Nipe's wayof thinking, would waste time worrying about a situation he could notimprove upon.

  Taking with him the equipment he needed for the job he had to do, heentered the tunnel that ran southward from his base of operations. Once,as he moved along, one of the little quadrupeds approached him, itsteeth bared. With an almost negligent flip of one powerful, superfasthand, he slammed it against a nearby wall. It dropped and lay still.Another of its kind approached it cautiously. The Nipe noticed theapproach with approval. The quadrupeds had no real intelligence, butthey had the proper instincts.

  At last the Nipe came to another of the many places where the tunnelsmet with others of the network. He crossed through several rooms, allvery large and cluttered with the dusty, long-dead bones of hundreds ofthe local intelligent life-form--if (and he was not sure in his own mindof this) they could actually be called intelligent. But he movedcarefully, stepping over the human bones and the empty, staring skulls.They had apparently been properly devoured, although he could not besure whether it had been done by their own kind or by the littlequadrupeds. Nonetheless, he would not willingly disturb their repose.

  He went on into the tunnel that led westward and followed it as it beganto angle down. Finally he came to the water's edge.

  To a human being, the cold expanse of water that gleamed like ink in thelight of the Nipe's illuminator would have been a barricade asimpenetrable as steel. But to the Nipe the tidal pool was simply anotherof his defenses, for it concealed the only entrance he ever used. Hewent in after adjusting his scuba mask and began swimming toward theopening that led to the estuary of the sea, his eight strong limbsworking in unison in a way that would have been the envy of a rowingteam.

  At the jagged hole in the tunnel wall, the gap that led into open water,he paused to check his instruments. Only after he was certain that therewere no sonar or other detector radiations did he propel himself onward,out into the estuary itself.

  An hour later, he was warily circling the spot where his littlesubmarine was hidden. He pressed a button on a small device in his hand,and a signal was sent to the submarine. The various devices within itall responded properly. Nothing had been disturbed since the Nipe hadset those devices weeks before.

  This was the touchiest part of any of his expeditions. There was alwaysthe chance, unlikely as it might be, that some one of the bipedalnatives had found his machine. He dared not use it too close to his basebecause of the possibility of its drive vibrations being detected in thenarrow estuary. Out here in the open sea there was far less likelihoodof that, but leaving his submarine concealed out here increased thedanger he exposed himself to every time he left his hidden nest.

  Satisfied that the machine was just as he had left it, he entered it andstarted its engines. He moved slowly and cautiously until he was wellout to sea, well away from the continental shelf and over the oceandeeps. Then and only then did he accelerate to full cruising speed.

  * * * * *

  The full moon was in the west, hiding behind an array of low, scuddingclouds, revealing its radiance in fitful bursts of silvery splendor thatdied again as another clotted cloud moved before the face of the whitedisk. The shifting light, shining through the breeze-tossed leaves ofthe palm trees on the beach below, made strange shadows on the sand,ever-changing patterns of gray and black on a background of white,moonlit sand.

  But the strangest shadow of all was one that did not change as theothers did--a great centipede-like shape that seemed to wash slowlyashore on the receding tide. For a short while, it remained at thewater's edge, apparently unmoving in the wash of the waves.

  Then, keeping low and balancing himself on his third pair of limbs, theNipe moved in across the beach. The specially constructed sandals hewore left behind them a set of very human-looking footprints--printsthat would remain unnoticed among the myriad of others that were alreadyon the beach, left there by daytime bathers.

  It required more time yet to reach the city, and still more time to findthe place he was looking for. It was almost dawn before he managed tofind a storm sewer in which to hide for the day.

  It was partly his difficulty in finding a given spot in a city--almostany city--that had convinced the Nipe that the pseudo-intelligence ofthe bipeds of this planet could not really be called true intelligence.There was no standardized method of orienting oneself in a city. Notonly were no two cities alike in their orientation systems, but the samecity would often vary from section to section. Their co-ordinate systemsmeant almost nothing. Part of a given co-ordinate might be a number, andthe rest of it a name, but the meanings of the numbers and names werenever the same. It was as though some really intelligent outside agencyhad given them the basic idea of a co-ordinate system, and they, nothaving the intelligence to use it properly, had simply jumbled the wholething up.

  That the natives themselves had no real understanding of any such systemhad long been apparent to hi
m. The dwellers in any one area wouldnaturally be familiar with it; they would know where each place was,regardless of what meaningless names and numbers might be attached toit. But strangers to that area would not know, and could not know. Theonly thing they could possibly do would be to ask directions of a localcitizen--which, the Nipe had learned, was exactly what they did.

  Unfortunately, it was not that simple for the Nipe. There was no way forhim to walk up to a native and inquire for an address. He had to prowlunseen through the alleys and sewers of a city, picking up a name here,a number there, by eavesdropping on street conversations. He had foundthat every city contained certain uniformed individuals whose duty itwas to direct strangers, and by focusing a directional microphone onsuch men and listening, it was possible to glean little bits ofknowledge that could eventually be co-ordinated into a wholeunderstanding of the city's layout. It was a time-consuming process, butit was the only way the job could be done. Reconnaissance took atremendous amount of time away from his serious work, but that workcould not proceed without materials to work with, and to get thosematerials required reconnaissance. The dilemma was unavoidable.

  And, being what he was, the Nipe accepted the unavoidable and pursuedhis course with phlegmatic equanimity.

  Overhead, the city was beginning to waken. The volume of sound began toincrease.

  * * * * *

  Police Patrolman John Flanders relieved his fellow officer, PatrolmanFred Pilsudski, at a few minutes of eight in the morning.

  It was a beautiful day, even for Miami. In the east, the morning sunshone brightly through the hard, transparent pressure glass that coveredthe street, making the smooth, resilient surface of the street itselfglow with warm light. Overhead, Patrolman Flanders could see the aircarsin their incessant motion--apparently random, unless one knew what thetraffic pattern was and how to look for it. It was Patrolman Flanders'immediate ambition to be promoted to traffic patrol, so that he could bein an aircar above the city instead of watching pedestrians down here onthe streets.

  "Morning, Fred," he said to his brother officer. "How'd the night go?"

  "Hi, Johnny. Pretty good. Not much excitement." He looked at hiswristwatch. "You're a couple minutes early yet."

  "Yeah. The baby started singing for his breakfast at a God-awful hour.Harriet woke up to feed him, which woke me up, so here I am. If you wantto give me the call button, I'll take over. You can go get yourself acup of coffee."

  "I'm up to here with coffee," Pilsudski said, indicating a point justbelow his left ear. "I'll have a beer instead."

  He touched a switch at his belt and said: "Area 37 HQ, this is 13392Pilsudski."

  A voice in his helmet phones said: "37 HQ, go ahead, Pilsudski."

  "Time: 0758 hours. I am being relieved by 14278 Flanders."

  "Right. Go ahead."

  Pilsudski took off the light, strong helmet, reached inside it, opened asmall sliding panel, and took out an object the size and shape of anaspirin tablet--the sealed unit that permitted him to understand theconversation over the police wave band. Without it, the police callswould have been gibberish.

  Flanders accepted the little gadget from the other officer and insertedit in his own helmet. Then he replaced the helmet on his head. "Area 37HQ, this is 14278 Flanders. I am relieving 13392 Pilsudski."

  "37 HQ," said the voice in his ears. "Okay, Flanders. Transferrecorded."

  Police Patrolman John Flanders, Badge Number 14278, was now officiallyon duty.

  He looked up into the sky. "Now there's the place to be on a day likethis, Fred. Traffic patrol."

  "Not me," said Pilsudski. "Too damn dull. I was on it for six months.Damn near drove me nuts. Nobody to talk to but another cop--same cop,day after day. He was a nice guy, don't get me wrong, but Christ!Nothin' to do but watch for people breakin' traffic pattern. Can't evenpull over to the side and watch the traffic go by. It's dull, I'mtellin' you, Johnny. I asked for a transfer back to a beat so's I couldsee some people again."

  "Maybe," said Flanders. "I'd still like to try it."

  "Ever'body to their own taste, I guess. Mitchell and Warber were in lucklast night, though. Excitement." He sounded as though he meant the wordto be sarcastic.

  "What happened?" Flanders asked.

  "Some boob was having a fight with his wife and his air intake wasgoofing off at the same time. So, while she's yelling at him, he putshis aircar on hover." He pointed upward. "Right up there, in Level Two.He opens the window of his aircar, mind you. His air intake ain'tworkin', like I said. Mitchell, in Car 87, spots him and heads for him,figuring there's trouble."

  "But no trouble?" asked Flanders.

  "Trouble enough. The driver's old lady throws a wrench at him, an' itgoes out the window." He chuckled. "First I heard about it was when thatdamn wrench comes down and bounces off the pressure glass, then up tothe side of the building there, and back to the pressure glass. Then itslides off into the rain gutter."

  Flanders looked up at the curve of hard, tough, almost invisiblepressure glass that covered the street. "With all the cars overhead thatwe got in this city," Flanders said philosophically, "something likethat's bound to happen every so often. That's why that glass is upthere, besides for keepin' the rain off your head."

  "Yeah," Pilsudski said. "Anyway, Mitchell and Warber got there just asshe tossed the wrench. Arrested both of 'em. Now, wasn't that exciting?"

  Flanders grinned. "Fred, if the rest of their tour of duty was as dullas you say it was, then I reckon that must have been real exciting."

  "Hah." Pilsudski shrugged. "Well, I'm for that beer. See you tomorrow,Johnny."

  "Right. Take care o' yourself."

  As Pilsudski walked away, Flanders put his hands behind his back,grasping the left in the right. He spread his feet slightly apart. Inthat time-honored position of the foot patrolman, he surveyed his beat,up and down both sides of the street. Everything looked perfectlynormal. Another working day had begun.

  He had no idea that he was standing only a few yards from the most hatedand feared killer on the face of the Earth.

  The only clue that he could possibly have had to that killer's presencewas a small ovoid the size and shape of a match head, a dark, dull grayin color, which protruded slightly from a sewer grating six feet away,supported on a hair-thin stalk. In one end was a tiny dark opening, andthat opening was pointed directly at Officer Flanders' head. When hebegan walking slowly down the street, the little ovoid moved, turningslowly on its stalk to keep that dark hole pointed steadily. It was sosmall, that ovoid, and so inconspicuous, that no one, even lookingdirectly at it, would have noticed it.

  The Nipe could see and hear without being either seen or heard himself.

  All morning long the tiny ovoid remained in place, watching, listening.

  At 11:24 a woman in a cherry-pink dress walked up to Officer Flandersand said: "Pardon me, Officer. Could you tell me where I could find theDonahue Building?"

  And while the policeman told her, the Nipe listened carefully. Now heknew what street he was on and its location in respect to two otherstreets. He also had a number. He remembered them all, accurately andcompletely. It was a good beginning, he decided. It would not be toolong before he would have enough to enable him to locate the address hewas looking for. After that, there would only remain the job ofobserving and making plans to get what he wanted at that address.

  He settled himself to wait for more information. He knew that it wouldbe a long wait.

  But he was prepared for that.