Ellis sighed. Time for work. He could see Ed Hall racing up the steps of the TD building two at a time. Tony Franklin hurrying after him. Time to get moving. He bent down and reached for his briefcase -
It was then he saw them.
The wavery gray haze was thin there. A sort of thin spot where the shimmer wasn't so strong. Just a bit beyond his foot and past the corner of his briefcase.
Beyond the thin spot were three tiny figures. Just beyond the gray waver. Incredibly small men, no larger than insects. Watching him with incredulous astonishment.
Ellis gazed down intently, his briefcase forgotten. The three tiny men were equally dumbfounded. None of them stirred, the three tiny figures, rigid with awe. Henry Ellis bent over, his mouth open, eyes wide.
A fourth little figure joined the others. They all stood rooted to the spot, eyes bulging. They had on some kind of robes. Brown robes and sandals. Strange, unTerran costumes. Everything about them was unTerran. Their size, their oddly colored dark faces, their clothing – and their voices.
Suddenly the tiny figures were shouting shrilly at each other, squeaking a strange gibberish. They had broken out of their freeze and now ran about in queer, frantic circles. They raced with incredible speed, scampering like ants on a hot griddle. They raced jerkily, their arms and legs pumping wildly. And all the time they squeaked in their shrill high-pitched voices.
Ellis found his briefcase. He picked it up slowly. The figures watched in mixed wonder and terror as the huge bag rose, only a short distance from them. An idea drifted through Ellis's brain. Good Lord – could they come into the Jiffi-scuttler, through the gray haze?
But he had no time to find out. He was already late as it was. He pulled away and hurried towards the New York end of the tunnel. A second later he stepped out in the blinding sunlight, abruptly finding himself on the busy street-corner in front of his office.
"Hey, there, Hank!" Donald Potter shouted, as he raced through the doors into the TD building. "Get with it!"
"Sure, sure." Ellis followed after him automatically. Behind the entrance to the Jiffi-scuttler was a vague circle above the pavement, like the ghost of a soap-bubble.
He hurried up the steps and inside the offices of Terran Development, his mind already on the hard day ahead.
As they were locking up the office and getting ready to go home, Ellis stopped coordinator Patrick Miller in his office. "Say, Mr Miller. You're also in charge of the research end, aren't you?"
"Yeah. So?"
"Let me ask you something. Just where does the Jiffi-scuttler go? It must go somewhere."
"It goes out of this continuum completely." Miller was impatient to get home. "Into another dimension."
"I know that. But – where?"
Miller unfolded his breast-pocket handkerchief rapidly and spread it out on his desk. "Maybe I can explain it to you this way. Suppose you're a two dimensional creature and this handkerchief represents your -"
"I've seen that a million times," Ellis said, disappointed. "That's merely an analogy, and I'm not interested in an analogy. I want a factual answer. Where does my Jiffi-scuttler go, between here and Cedar Groves?"
Miller laughed. "What the hell do you care?"
Ellis became abruptly guarded. He shrugged indifferently. "Just curious. It certainly must go some place."
Miller put his hand on Ellis's shoulder in a friendly big-brother fashion. "Henry, old man, you just leave that up to us. Okay? We're the designers, you're the consumer. Your job is to use the 'scuttler, try it out for us, report any defects or failure so when we put it on the market next year we'll be sure there's nothing wrong with it."
"As a matter of fact -" Ellis began.
"What is it?"
Ellis clamped his sentence off. "Nothing." He picked up his briefcase. "Nothing at all. I'll see you tomorrow. Thanks, Mr Miller. Goodnight."
He hurried downstairs and out of the TD building. The faint outline of his Jiffi-scuttler was visible in the fading late-afternoon sunlight. The sky was already full of mono jets taking off. Weary workers beginning their long trip back to their homes in the country. The endless commute. Ellis made his way to the hoop and stepped into it. Abruptly the bright sunlight dimmed and faded.
Again he was in the wavery gray tunnel. At the far end flashed a circle of green and white. Rolling green hills and his own house. His backyard. The cedar tree and flower beds. The town of Cedar Groves.
Two steps down the tunnel. Ellis halted, bending over. He studied the floor of the tunnel intently. He studied the misty gray wall, where it rose and flickered – and the thin place. The place he had noticed.
They were still there. Still? It was a different bunch. This time ten or eleven of them. Men and women and children. Standing together, gazing up at him with awe and wonder. No more than a half-inch high, each. Tiny distorted figures, shifting and changing shape oddly. Altering colors and hues.
Ellis hurried on. The tiny figures watched him go. A brief glimpse of their microscopic astonishment – and then he was stepping out into his backyard.
He clicked off the Jiffi-scuttler and mounted the back steps. He entered his house, deep in thought.
"Hi," Mary cried, from the kitchen. She rustled towards him in her hip-length mesh shirt, her arms out. "How was work today?"
"Fine."
"Is anything wrong? You look – strange."
"No. No, nothing's wrong." Ellis kissed his wife absently on the forehead. "What's for dinner?"
"Something choice. Siriusian mole steak. One of your favorites. Is that all right?"
"Sure." Ellis tossed his hat and coat down on the chair. The chair folded them up and put them away. His thoughtful, preoccupied look still remained. "Fine, honey."
"Are you sure there's nothing wrong? You didn't get into another argument with Pete Taylor, did you?"
"No. Of course not." Ellis shook his head in annoyance. "Everything's all right, honey. Stop needling me."
"Well, I hope so," Mary said, with a sigh.
The next morning they were waiting for him.
He saw them the first step into the Jiffi-scuttler. A small group waiting within the wavering gray, like bugs caught in a block of jello. They moved jerkily, rapidly, arms and legs pumping in a blur of motion. Trying to attract his attention. Piping wildly in their pathetically faint voices.
Ellis stopped and squatted down. They were putting something through the wall of the tunnel, through the thin place in the gray. It was small, so incredibly small he could scarcely see it. A square of white at the end of a microscopic pole. They were watching him eagerly, faces alive with fear and hope. Desperate, pleading hope.
Ellis took the tiny square. It came loose like some fragile rose petal from its stalk. Clumsily, he let it drop and had to hunt all round for it. The little figures watched in an agony of dismay as his huge hands moved blindly around the floor of the tunnel. At last he found it and gingerly lifted it up.
It was too small to make out. Writing? Some tiny lines – but he couldn't read them. Much too small to read. He got out his wallet and carefully placed the square between the two cards. He restored his wallet to his pocket.
"I'll look at it later," he said.
His voice boomed and echoed up and down the tunnel. At the sound the tiny creatures scattered. They all fled, shrieking in their shrill, piping voices, away from the gray shimmer, into the dimness beyond. In a flash they were gone. Like startled mice. He was alone. Ellis knelt down and put his eye against the gray shimmer, where it was thin. Where they had stood waiting. He could see something dim and distorted, lost in a vague haze. A landscape of some sort. Indistinct. Hard to make out.
Hills. Trees and crops. But so tiny. And dim…
He glanced at his watch. God, it was ten! Hastily he scrambled to his feet and hurried out of the tunnel, on to the blazing New York pavement.
Late. He raced up the stairs of the Terran Development building and down the long corridor to his office.
At lunchtime he stopped in at the Research Labs. "Hey," he called, as Jim Andrews brushed past, loaded down with reports and equipment. "Got a second?"
"What do you want, Henry?"
"I'd like to borrow something. A magnifying glass." He considered. "Maybe a photon-microscope would be better. One- or two-hundred power."
"Kids' stuff." Jim found him a small microscope. "Slides?"
"Yeah, a couple of blank slides."
He carried the microscope back to his office. He set it up on his desk, clearing away his paper. As a precaution he sent Miss Nelson, his secretary, out of the room and off to lunch. Then carefully, cautiously, he got the tiny wisp from his wallet and slipped it between two slides.
It was writing, all right. But nothing he could read. Utterly unfamiliar. Complex, interlaced little characters.
For a time he sat thinking. Then he dialed his inter-department vidphone. "Give me the Linguistics Department."
After a moment Earl Peterson's good-natured face appeared. "Hi, there, Ellis. What can I do for you?"
Ellis hesitated. He had to do this right. "Say, Earl, old man. Got a little favor to ask you."
"Like what? Anything to oblige an old pal."
"You, uh – you have that Machine down there, don't you? That translating business you use for working over documents from non-Terran cultures?"
"Sure. So?"
"Think I could use it?" He talked fast. "It's a screwy sort of a deal, Earl. I got this pal living on – uh – Centaurus VI, and he writes me in – uh – you know the Centauran native semantic system, and I -"
"You want the Machine to translate a letter? Sure, I think we could manage it. This once, at least. Bring it down."
He brought it down. He got Earl to show him how the intake feed worked, and as soon as Earl had turned his back he fed in the tiny square of material. The Linguistics Machine clicked and whirred. Ellis prayed silently that the paper wasn't too small. Wouldn't fall out between the relay-probes of the Machine.
But sure enough, after a couple of seconds, a tape unreeled from the output slot. The tape cut itself off and dropped into a basket. The Linguistics Machine turned promptly to other stuff, more vital material from TD's various export branches.
With trembling fingers Ellis spread out the tape. The words danced before his eyes.
Questions. They were asking him questions. God, it was getting complicated. He read the questions intently, his lips moving. What was he getting himself into? They were expecting answers. He had taken their paper, gone off with it. Probably they would be waiting for him, on his way home.
He returned to his office and dialed his vidphone. "Give me outside," he ordered.
The regular vid monitor appeared. "Yes, sir?"
"I want the Federal Library of Information," Ellis said. "Cultural Research Division."
That night they were waiting, all right. But not the same ones. It was odd – each time a different group. Their clothing was slightly different, too. A new hue. And in the background the landscape had also altered slightly. The trees he had seen were gone. The hills were still there, but a different shade. A hazy gray-white. Snow?
He squatted down. He had worked it out with care. The answers from the Federal Library of Information had gone back to the Linguistics Machine for re-translation. The answers were now in the original tongue of the questions – but on a trifle larger piece of paper.
Ellis made like a marble game and flicked the wad of paper through the gray shimmer. It bowled over six or seven of the watching figures and rolled down the side of the hill on which they were standing. After a moment of terrified immobility the figures scampered frantically after it. They disappeared into the vague and invisible depths of their world and Ellis got stiffly to his feet again.
"Well," he muttered to himself, "that's that."
But it wasn't. The next morning there was a new group – and a new list of questions. The tiny figures pushed their microscopic square of paper through the thin spot in the wall of the tunnel and stood waiting and trembling as Ellis bent over and felt around for it.
He found it – finally. He put it in his wallet and continued on his way, stepping out at New York, frowning. This was getting serious. Was this going to be a full-time job?
But then he grinned. It was the damn oddest thing he had ever heard of. The little rascals were cute, in their own way. Tiny intent faces, screwed up with serious concern. And terror. They were scared of him, really scared. And why not? Compared to them he was a giant.
He conjectured about their world. What kind of planet was theirs? Odd to be so small. But size was a relative matter. Small, though, compared to him. Small and reverent. He could read fear and yearning, gnawing hope, as they pushed up their papers. They were depending on him. Praying he'd give them answers.
Ellis grinned. "Damn unusual job," he said to himself.
"What's this?" Peterson said, when he showed up in the Linguistics Lab at noontime.
"Well, you see, I got another letter from my friend on Centaurus VI."
"Yeah?" A certain suspicion flickered across Peterson's face. "You're not ribbing me, are you, Henry? This Machine has a lot to do, you know. Stuff's coming in all the time. We can't afford to waste any time with -"
"This is really serious stuff, Earl." Ellis patted his wallet. "Very important business. Not just gossip."
"Okay. If you say so." Peterson gave the nod to the team operating the Machine. "Let this guy use the Translator, Tommie."
"Thanks," Ellis murmured.
He went through the routine, getting a translation and then carrying the questions up to his vidphone and passing them over to the Library research staff. By nightfall the answers were back in the original tongue and with them carefully in his wallet, Ellis headed out of the Terran Development building and into his Jiffi-scuttler.
As usual, a new group was waiting.
"Here you go, boys," Ellis boomed, flicking the wad through the thin place in the shimmer. The wad rolled down the microscopic countryside, bouncing from hill to hill, the little people tumbling jerkily after it in their funny stiff-legged fashion. Ellis watched them go, grinning with interest – and pride.
They really hurried; no doubt about that. He could make them out only vaguely, now. They had raced wildly off away from the shimmer. Only a small portion of their world was tangent to the Jiffi-scuttler, apparently. Only the one spot, where the shimmer was thin. He peered intently through.
They were getting the wad open, now. Three or four of them, unprying the paper and examining the answers.
Ellis swelled with pride as he continued along the tunnel and out into his own backyard. He couldn't read their questions – and when translated, he couldn't answer them. The Linguistics Department did the first part, the Library research staff the rest. Nevertheless, Ellis felt pride. A deep, glowing spot of warmth far down inside him. The expression on their faces. The look they gave him when they saw the answer-wad in his hand. When they realized he was going to answer their questions. And the way they scampered after it. It was sort of – satisfying. It made him feel damn good.
"Not bad," he murmured, opening the back door and entering the house. "Not bad at all."
"What's not bad, dear?" Mary asked, looking quickly up from the table. She laid down her magazine and got to her feet. "Why, you look so happy! What is it?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all!" He kissed her warmly on the mouth. "You're looking pretty good tonight yourself, kid."
"Oh, Henry!" Much of Mary blushed prettily. "How sweet."
He surveyed his wife in her two-piece wraparound of clear plastic with appreciation. "Nice looking fragments you have on."
"Why, Henry! What's come over you? You seem so – so spirited?
Ellis grinned. "Oh, I guess I enjoy my job. You know, there's nothing like taking pride in your work. A job well done, as they say. Work you can be proud of."
"I thought you always said you were nothing but a cog in a great impersonal machine.
Just a sort of cipher."
"Things are different," Ellis said firmly. "I'm doing a – uh – a new project. A new assignment."
"A new assignment?"
"Gathering information. A sort of – creative business. So to speak."
By the end of the week he had turned over quite a body of information to them.
He began starting for work about nine-thirty. That gave him a whole thirty minutes to spend squatting down on his hands and knees, peering through the thin place in the shimmer. He got so he was pretty good at seeing them and what they were doing in their microscopic world.
Their civilization was somewhat primitive. No doubt of that. By Terran standards it was scarcely a civilization at all. As near as he could tell, they were virtually without scientific techniques; a kind of agrarian culture, rural communism, a monolithic tribal-based organization apparently without too many members.
At least, not at one time. That was the part he didn't understand. Every time he came past there was a different group of them. No familiar faces. And their world changed, too. The trees, the crops, fauna. The weather, apparently.