rightone."
I wondered what the hell he was talking about. I studied the black,mirror-like wood. The aperture in the vesonator was like that of anybass fiddle.
"Isn't right for what?" I had to ask.
He turned his sad eyes to me. "For going home," he said.
Hummm, I thought.
* * * * *
We played. Tune after tune. John knew them all, from the latest popmelodies to a swing version of the classic _Rhapsody of The Stars_. Hewas a quiet guy during the next couple of hours, and getting more thana few words from him seemed as hard as extracting a tooth. He'd standby his fiddle--I mean, his _Zloomph_--with a dreamy expression inthose watery eyes, staring at nothing.
But after one number he studied Fat Boy's clarinet for a moment. "Niceclarinet," he mused. "Has an unusual hole in the front."
Fat Boy scratched the back of his head. "You--you mean here? Where themusic comes out?"
John Smith nodded. "Unusual."
Hummm, I thought again.
Awhile later I caught him eyeing my piano keyboard. "What's thematter, John?"
He pointed.
"Oh, there," I said. "A cigarette fell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'll swear at me in seven languages."
"Even there," he said softly, "even there...."
There was no doubt about it. John Smith was peculiar, but he was thebest bass man this side of a musician's Nirvana.
It didn't take a genius to figure out our situation. Item one:Goon-Face's countenance had evidenced an excellent imitation ofMephistopheles before John began to play. Item two: Goon-Face hadbeamed like a kitten with a quart of cream after John began to play.
Conclusion: If we wanted to keep eating, we'd have to persuade JohnSmith to join our combo.
At intermission I said, "How about a drink, John? Maybe a shot ofwine-syrup?"
He shook his head.
"Then maybe a Venusian fizz?"
His grunt was negative.
"Then some old-fashioned beer?"
He smiled. "Yes, I _like_ beer."
I escorted him to the bar and assisted him in his arduous climb onto astool.
"John," I ventured after he'd taken an experimental sip, "where haveyou been hiding? A guy like you should be playing every night."
John yawned. "Just got here. Figured I might need some money so I wentto the union. Then I worked on my plan."
"Then you need a job. How about playing with us steady? We like yourstyle a lot."
He made a long, low humming sound which I interpreted as an expressionof intense concentration. "I don't know," he finally drawled.
"It'd be a steady job, John." Inspiration struck me. "And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything, solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing--if we ever get a 'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with me and it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over union wages."
His watery gaze wandered lazily to the bar mirror, down to theglittering array of bottles and then out to the dance floor.
He yawned again and spoke slowly, as if each word were a leaden weightcast reluctantly from his tongue:
"No, I don't ... care much ... about playing."
"What _do_ you like to do, John?"
His string-bean of a body stiffened. "I like to study ancient history... and I must work on my plan."
Oh Lord, that plan again!
I took a deep breath. "Tell me about it, John. It _must_ beinteresting."
He made queer clicking noises with his mouth that reminded me of amechanical toy being wound into motion. "The whole foundation of thisor any other culture is based on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven with the other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studying all of it first hand."
_Oh, oh_, I thought. _But you still have to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat._
"Trouble is," he went on, "there are so many holes in this universe."
"Holes?" I kept a straight face.
"Certainly. Look around you. All you see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass. The doors and windows--they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnels make a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals live in holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes--millions and millions of holes!"
I winced and thought, humor him because you gotta eat, you gotta eat.
His voice trembled with emotion. "Why, they're everywhere. They're inpots and pans, in pipes, in rocket jets, in bumpy roads. There arebuttonholes and well holes, and shoelace holes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpecker holes and cheese holes. Oceanslie in holes in the earth, and rivers and canals and valleys. Thecraters of the Moon are holes. Everything is--"
"But, John," I said as patiently as possible, "what have these holesgot to do with you?"
He glowered at me as if I were unworthy of such a confidence. "Whathave they to do with me?" he shrilled. "I can't find the rightone--that's what!"
I closed my eyes. "Which particular hole are you looking for, John?"
He was speaking rapidly again now.
"I was hurrying back to the University with the _Zloomph_ to prove apoint of ancient history to those fools. They don't believe thatinstruments which make music actually existed before the tapes! It wasdark--and some fool researcher had forgotten to set a force-field overthe hole--I fell through."
I closed my eyes. "Now wait a minute. Did you drop something, lose itin the hole--is that why you have to find it?"
"Oh I didn't lose anything important," he snapped, "_just_ my own timedimension. And if I don't get back they will think I couldn't prove mytheory, that I'm ashamed to come back, and I'll be discredited."
His chest sagged for an instant. Then he straightened. "But there'sstill time for my plan to work out--with the relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tired just thinking about it."
"Yes, I can see where thinking about it would tire any one."
He nodded. "But it can't be too far away."
"I'd like to hear more about it," I said. "But if you're not going toplay with us--"
"Oh, I'll play with you," he beamed. "I can talk to _you_. _You_understand."
Thank heaven!
* * * * *
Heaven lasted for just three days. During those seventy-two goldenhours the melodious tinkling of The Eye's cash register was asconstant as that of Santa's sleigh bells.
John became the hero of tourists, spacemen, and Martians, butnevertheless he remained stubbornly aloof. He was quiet, moody,playing his _Zloomph_ automatically. He'd reveal definite indicationsof belonging to Homo Sapiens only when drinking beer and talking abouthis holes.
Goon-Face was still cautious.
"Contract?" he wheezed. "Maybe. We see. Eef feedleman stay, we havecontract. He stay, yes?"
"Oh, sure," I said. "He'll stay--just as long as you want him."
"Den he sign contract, too. No beeg feedle, no contract."
"Sure. We'll get him to sign it." I laughed hollowly. "Don't worry,Mr. Ke-teeli."
Just a few minutes later tragedy struck.
A reporter from the _Marsport Times_ ambled into interview the Man ofThe Hour. The interview, unfortunately, was conducted over the bar andaccompanied by a generous guzzling of beer. Fat Boy, Hammer-Head and Iwatched from a table. Knowing John as we did, a silent prayer was inour eyes.
"This is the first time he's talked to anybody," Fat Boy breathed."I--I'm scared.
"Nothing can happen," I said, optimistically. "This'll be goodpublicity."
We watched.
John murmured something. The reporter, a paunchy, balding man,scribbled furiously in his notebook.
John yawned, muttered something else. The reporter continued toscribble.
John sipped beer. His eyes brightened, and he began to talk morerapidly.
The reporter frowned, stopped writing, and studied John curiousl
y.
John finished his first beer, started on his second. His eyes werewild, and he was talking more and more rapidly.
"He's doing it," Hammer-Head groaned. "He's telling him!"
I rose swiftly. "We better get over there. We should have knownbetter--"
We were too late. The reporter had already slapped on his hat and wasstriding to the exit. John turned to us, dazed, his enthusiasmvanishing like air from a punctured balloon.
"He wouldn't listen," he said, weakly. "I tried to tell him, but hesaid he'd