He rose from the kitchen table and went into the bedroom to get his car keys.
THE BUILDING STOOD ON a side street off an older business district that had lost its economic bloom some years before. A man was walking on the other side of the street a couple of blocks away, and in the mouth of an alley a dog was investigating three garbage cans, more than likely trying to make up its mind which one of the three would be the most profitable to tip over.
When Lansing tried the bigger key in the lock of the front door, it worked smoothly, and he stepped inside. A long hall, dimly lighted, ran down the length of the building. With no trouble he located 136. The smaller key worked as easily as the larger one had, and he stepped into the room. Across the room stood the dozen slot machines lined against the wall. The fifth from the left, the machine he’d met a few hours before had said. He counted from the left and strode across the room to confront number five. Fishing in his pocket, he brought out one of the silver dollars and fed it in the slot. The machine leaped into joyous life, clicking at him when he pulled the lever. The dials went spinning in that crazy fashion encountered nowhere else than in a slap-happy slot machine. One dial stopped and another jumped and then fell back and the third came to a stop with a sudden clunk. Lansing saw that the characters that had lined up on the dial were all the same. The machine made a coughing sound and a flood of golden coins, each of them the size of a dollar, came pouring from the pay-off chute. They filled the bucket and cascaded onto the floor as the golden flood still came gushing from the chute. Some of the coins struck on their rims and went rolling like glittering wheels all about the floor.
Again the dials were spinning (spinning without another dollar having been fed into the slot), and again they came thudding to a halt. This time also the symbols on the dials were all alike, and the machine, quite nonchalantly, released another gush of coins.
Lansing stood amazed and a little jittery, for this was a thing unheard of. There was no such thing, there could be no such thing as two jackpots in a row.
When the machine clicked off and stood dumb and stolid, he waited for a moment, half expecting it to go into its act again and produce yet another jackpot. With a machine such as this, he told himself, anything was possible; there was no end to the miracles of which it was capable.
It did not repeat itself, however, and when he was fairly sure it wouldn’t, he scooped the coins out of the bucket and dropped them into a jacket pocket, then got down on hands and knees to collect those that lay scattered on the floor. One of them he held so that the light struck it fully, and he examined it. There was little doubt that it was gold. For one thing it was heavier than a silver dollar. It was a well-made coin, bright and polished, hefty and satisfying to the hand, but no such coin as he had ever seen before. On one side was engraved a cube that stood upon a cross-hatched area that probably represented ground. The other side bore the representation of what seemed to be a spindly tower. That was all. There were no words, no value designation.
He rose to his feet and stared about the room. The machine that he had talked with had told him to put the second dollar in the seventh machine. He might as well, he thought. The transaction with the fifth machine had turned out not so badly, and his luck might continue with the seventh.
He moved down the line to number seven. After he put out his hand to insert the second dollar, he pulled it back.
Why take the chance? he asked himself. Maybe number five had only set him up. The Lord only knew what would happen if he played number seven. And yet, he thought, if now he should turn about and walk away with a pocketful of gold, he’d never know and he’d never quit questioning himself. He’d not have an easy moment, he would always wonder.
“The hell with it,” he said aloud and dropped the dollar. The machine gulped it down and made a clanking sound, and the lights came on the dials. He chugged the lever down, and the dials began their crazy spinning. Then the lights went out and the machine went away. So did the room as well.
He stood upon a path in a woodland glen. Tall, massive trees hemmed him in, and from a little distance off he heard the liquid chatter of a singing brook. Except for the brook there was no sound, and there was nothing stirring.
And now he knew, he told himself. He might have been better off if he’d walked away from number seven, although of that there was no certainty. For this transformation to a woodland glen might be as delightful a circumstance as winning all the gold, although even as he thought it he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it.
Don’t move, he told himself. Have a look around before you stir from where you’re standing. And don’t give in to panic—for already, in these first few seconds, he had caught the smell of panic.
He had a look around. In front of him the ground rose up, rather gently, and from the sound of it the brook could not be far away. The trees were oak and maple. Their leaves were turning color. Ahead of him a squirrel scurried across the path that angled up the hill. After the squirrel had disappeared Lansing could mark its progress by the rustling of the fallen leaves disturbed by the small tornado of its passage. Once the sound of the squirrel had faded out, the silence (except for the chatter of the brook) closed in again. Now, however, the silence did not seem so heavy. There were soft noises now—the noise of a falling leaf, the almost indiscernible scurryings as little creatures of the forest made their way about, other faint sounds that he could not identify.
He spoke to number seven and whatever (or whoever) else had operated to put him where he was.
“All right,” he said, “what is this all about? If you’ve had your fun, let’s put an end to it.”
There was, however, no end put to it. The woodland glen stayed on. There was not the slightest indication that he’d been heard by number seven or, in fact, by anything.
It was unbelievable, he thought, and yet all of it had been unbelievable from the very start. This was actually no more unbelievable than that a slot machine had talked. If he ever got back, he promised himself, he’d hunt up the student Jackson and, with his bare hands alone, dismember him piece by painful piece.
If he ever got back!
Up until this moment he had thought of the situation as only temporary, subconsciously believing that any minute now he’d pop back into the room with all the slot machines lined against the wall. But what if that didn’t happen? He sweated thinking of it, and the panic that had been lurking back there somewhere in the trees swooped suddenly on him and he ran. Ran unthinkingly, with reason gone to pot—running blindly, with terror riding him and no room for thinking of anything but terror.
Finally he stubbed his toe against a small obstruction in the path and went blundering into a tree, falling to the ground. He did not try to get up. He huddled where he had fallen, out of breath, gasping to pump air into his lungs.
While he lay there, some of the terror seeped away. Nothing chewed on him with long, pointed fangs. No horror drooled on him. Nothing was happening.
Regaining his breath, he pulled himself erect. He still was on the path and he saw that he had reached the top of a ridge, with the path running along the ridge. The forest was as heavy as it had been before, but the chattering brook was gone.
So now what did he do? Now that he’d caved in to panic and had, to at least some degree, recovered from it, what should be his next move? There was no point in going back to the place in the woodland glen where he first had found himself. There was a good chance, he realized, that even if he tried to do so, he might not be able to recognize it.
What he needed was information. First of all he needed to know where he was. He had to know that before he could even hope to start getting back to the college. This place, he thought, had a New England look. Somehow he had been moved in space by the slot machine, although perhaps not very far. If he could find out where he was and could find a phone, he could put in a call to Andy and ask that he pick him up. If he followed the path it was more than likely that in a little time he’d come upo
n some habitation.
He started along the path. It was easy to follow, for it appeared to be a trail that was used fairly often. At each turn he looked eagerly ahead, hoping that he might sight a house or meet some hiker who could tell him where he was.
The terrain looked like New England. The forest, though fairly heavy, was a pleasant forest. It had about it no hint of troll or goblin or other unpleasant denizen. And the season was the same as it had been in the place that he had come from. It had been autumn back at the college and it was autumn here, but there was one thing that bothered him a lot. Night had fallen on the campus when he had decided to hunt up the dozen slot machines, but here it still was afternoon, although by now it must be getting rather late in the afternoon.
There was another thought that bothered him. If he should fail to find a place where he could spend the night, he’d have to spend it in the open, and he was not prepared for that. He did not wear the sort of clothing that would protect him from the nighttime chill, and there was no possibility of starting a fire. Since he did not smoke, he never carried matches. He looked at his watch, not realizing until he looked at it that the time it showed would mean nothing here. Not only had he been displaced in space, but apparently in time as well. While that had a scary sound to it, he was not, at the moment, too upset by it. He had other worries on his mind, and the foremost was that he might not find shelter for the night.
He had been walking for a couple of hours, or so it seemed. He wished that he had looked at his watch earlier, for while it did not tell the time of day in this place, at least it could have told him how long he’d been upon the trail.
Was it possible that he was in a wilderness area? That was the only thing he could think of that would explain the human emptiness. Under ordinary circumstances he should by now have come upon a farmhouse.
The sun was getting low in the sky and in another hour or two it would be getting dark. He started to run, then caught hold of himself. That was not the way to do it; running might bring on panic and he could not afford that now. But he did increase his pace. An hour went past, and still he had found no habitation or any sign there was anyone around. The sun was sinking into the horizon line and darkness was fast approaching.
Another half hour, he told himself, making a bargain with himself. If nothing showed up in another thirty minutes he’d have to do what he could to prepare against the night—either find some sort of natural shelter or fix up the best shelter he could.
Darkness came on more rapidly than he thought it would, and before the half hour had passed he began watching for a place to hole up in the woods. Then ahead of him he saw a gleam of light. He stopped, holding his breath, to look at it, to be certain that it was a light, to do nothing that might scare it off. He moved a few feet forward in the hope he’d get a better look at it and it was there; it was a light, there could be no doubt of it.
He moved toward it, glancing away just long enough to make sure that he was still on the path. As he moved the gleam became brighter and more certain, and he felt a surge of thankfulness welling up in him.
The forest opened into a clearing and he saw the loom of a house in the deepening dusk. The light came from several windows in one end of the building, and he saw that from a massive chimney came a thin trickle of smoke.
In the darkness he ran into a picket fence, having missed the path in his eagerness to reach the house, and cautiously felt his way along it until he came to a gate. The gate was hinged on a heavy gatepost that was taller than it needed to be. Looking up, he saw the reason for its height. A crossbeam was attached to it, and from the beam a sign hung from two lengths of chain.
Squinting at it, Lansing made out that it was an inn sign, but the night had deepened so that he could not discern the name.
FIVE PEOPLE, FOUR MEN and a woman, were sitting at a heavy oak table in front of a blazing fireplace. When Lansing came through the door and closed it behind him, all of them turned their heads to look at him. One of them, a grossly fat man, levered himself from his chair and waddled across the room to greet him.
“Professor Lansing, we are so glad that you have arrived,” he said. “We have been worrying about you. There is still one other. We hope nothing has befallen her.”
“One other? You knew that I was coming?”
“Oh, yes, some hours ago. I knew when you started out.”
“I fail to understand,” said Lansing. “No one could have known.”
“I am your host,” said the fat man. “I operate this dingy inn as best I can for the comfort and convenience of those who travel in these parts. Please, sir, come over to the fire and warm yourself. The Brigadier, I am sure, will give you his chair next to the hearth stone.”
“Most happily,” said the Brigadier. “I am slightly singed from sitting here so snug against the blaze.”
He rose, a portly man of commanding figure. As he moved, the firelight glinted off the medals pinned upon his tunic.
Lansing murmured, “I thank you, sir.”
But before he could move to take the chair, the door opened and a woman stepped into the room.
Mine Host waddled forward a step or two to greet her.
“Mary Owen,” he said. “You are Mary Owen? We are so glad you’re here.”
“Yes, I am Mary Owen,” said the woman. “And I am more glad to be here than you are to have me. But can you tell me where I am?”
“Most assuredly,” said Mine Host. “You are at the Cockadoodle Inn.”
“What a strange name for an inn,” said Mary Owen.
“As for that I cannot say,” said Mine Host. “I had no hand in naming it. It was already named when I came here. As you may note, it is an ancient place. It has sheltered, in its time, many noble folk.”
“What place is this?” asked Mary Owen. “I mean the country. What is this place—what nation, what province, what country?”
“Of that I can tell you nothing,” said Mine Host. “I have never heard a name.”
“And I have never heard of such a thing,” said Mary. “A man who knows not where he lives.”
“Madam,” said the man dressed all in black who stood next to the Brigadier, “it is passing strange indeed. He is not making sport of you. He told the same to us.”
“Come in, come in,” urged Mine Host. “Move closer to the fire. The gentlemen who have been here for some time, soaking up the heat, will make way for you and Professor Lansing. And now that we all are here, I shall go into the kitchen and see how supper’s doing.”
He waddled off in hurried fashion and Mary Owen came over to stand beside Lansing.
“Did I hear him call you professor?” she asked.
“Yes, I think he did. I wish he hadn’t. I’m seldom called professor. Even my students—”
“But you are one, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am. I teach at Langmore College.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a small school in New England.”
The Brigadier spoke to the two of them. “Here are two chairs next to the fire. The Parson and I have held them overlong.”
“Thank you, General,” said Mary.
The man who had been sitting quietly opposite the Brigadier and the Parson rose and touched Lansing gently on the arm.
“As you can see,” he said, “I am not a human. Would you take it unkindly if I welcomed you to our little circle?”
“Why, no—” said Lansing, then stopped to stare at the welcomer. “You are…”
“I am a robot, Mr. Lansing. You’ve not seen one before?”
“No, I never have.”
“Oh, well, there are not many of us,” the robot said, “and we’re not on all the worlds. My name is Jurgens.”
“I’m sorry I had not noticed you before,” said Lansing. “Despite the fire, the room is rather dun and there was a good deal going on.”
“Would you, Mr. Lansing, be, by any chance, a crackpot?”
“I don’t think s
o, Jurgens. I have never thought about it. Why do you ask?”
“I have a hobby,” said the robot, “of collecting crackpots. I have one who thinks he’s God whenever he gets drunk.”
“That lets me out,” said Lansing. “Drunk or sober, I never think I’m God.”
“Ah,” said Jurgens, “that’s but one road crackpottery can take. There are many others.”
“I have no doubt there are,” said Lansing.
The Brigadier took it upon himself to introduce all the people at the table. “I am Everett Darnley,” he said. “Brigadier for Section Seventeen. The man standing next to me is Parson Ezra Hatfield, and the lady at the table is Poetess Sandra Carver. The one standing next to Mr. Lansing is the robot Jurgens. And now that we all know one another, let us take our seats and imbibe some of the pleasing liquor that has been set out for us. The three humans of us have been sampling it and it is passing good.”
Lansing came around the table and sat in a chair next to Mary Owen. The table, he saw, was of solid oak and yeoman carpentry. Three flaring candles had been placed upon it, and on it as well were three bottles and a tray of mugs. Now for the first time he saw the others in the room. At a table in a far corner sat four men intent on a game of cards.
The Brigadier pulled two mugs in front of him and poured from one of the bottles. He passed one of the mugs to Mary and slid the other across the table to Lansing.
“I hope the supper now in preparation,” he said, “shall prove as tasty as these potables.”
Lansing tasted. The liquor went down smoothly with a comforting warmth. He settled more solidly in the chair and took a long pull at the mug.
“We had been sitting here before you came,” the Brigadier said to Mary and Lansing, “wondering if, when the other two arrived—which are the two of you—they might have some idea of what is going on. It’s apparent from what you said, Miss Owen, that you don’t. How about you, Lansing?”