Damon Knight - Beyond the Barrier

“There’s a paradox here, then,” he said, looking away with an effort. “Why not turn me over to your earlier selves? Then you wouldn’t have had to go at all.”

“No paradox. If we did that, it would pinch out the loop; then we would have to go just the same.” Seeing Naismith’s frown, Churan added. “Think of it as a short circuit, Mr.

Naismith; then you will understand.”

Ignoring the two men, Lall dropped her remaining garments and left the room. Churan, wearing nothing but sandals, went to one of the wall panels and paused with his hand on it. “You would like some food?” he said to Naismith. “Something hot?”

“I’m not hungry,” Naismith said.

“But you must eat to live. Let me offer you something, Mr.

Naismith; perhaps you will like it.” Pulling the panel aside, he rapidly thumbed down several movable strips, checkered green and white, which seemed painted on the wall and yet slid freely under his thumb. Interested, Naismith moved nearer, but Churan finished aligning the strips, closed the panel, opened another one. He reached in, took out steaming dishes one after another, and dropped them casually on a low, round table. “Please sit down, Mr. Naismith. I am going to wash now, then we shall eat and have a talk.” He smiled, showing his yellow stumps of teeth, and followed Lall into the adjoining room. The child got up and followed him, squalling something in its thin voice.

After a moment Naismith began to examine the food. There were four dishes, each containing a different mess, from which the diners were evidently intended to help themselves with their fingers. One was dark green and smelled like seaweed; one cream-colored, with pink lumps; one was a pasty mound; and the fourth was a varicolored mixture, with shreds of what looked like meat and vegetables in it.

From the other room came the muffled sound of voices.

Naismith turned, stepped to the wall where he had seen Churan put the machine away.

He touched the panel, tried to move it aside as Churan had done, but the stuff was half like cloth and half like water—it resisted, then seemed almost to flow between his fingers. The look and feel of it, no more definite of outline than it had seemed from a distance, were subtly unpleasant, and after a moment he gave it up. As he turned, Lall came out of the adjoining room, fastening a short-sleeved white tunic around her waist. Her skin, where it was visible, was now a uniform brown-tinted green; she had removed her makeup. So had Churan, who appeared behind her, dressed in sleeveless red pajamas. His pointed beard was gone; the whole shape of his face seemed different, and uglier, without it. Now Naismith realized something that had eluded him before—the Churan in the other shadow-egg had been beardless.

The child wandered in, seized a bowl of food from the table, spilling it, and took it to a corner, where it sat down and began stuffing itself.

“It is good to be clean again,” said Lall. “Pardon me, I did not think. Perhaps you would also like to bathe before eating, Mr. Naismith?”

“Later,” Naismith said. “Right now, I want to talk.”

Churan had seated himself at the table, and was tucking gobs of food into his mouth, using two fingers like a spoon. He grunted, chewing a mouthful that bulged his cheeks. “Good.”

Lall sat down and offered Naismith the place beside her.

“Please help yourself, Mr. Naismith. Forks are not used here, but I am sure you can manage.”

“I’m not hungry,” Naismith said impatiently. He sat; the cushioned stool was uncomfortably low, and he had to jack-knife his legs to get them under the table. “You eat, and I’ll ask questions. To begin with—”

‘ “Something to drink, then. Gunda, a cup of water.”

Without looking up, Churan reached out to the wall beside him, opened the panel, and withdrew a porcelain cup which he set on the table.

Naismith took it in his hand; it was half filled with clear water; the cup was chill to the touch. He hesitated, then put it down. Bathing had apparently removed the aliens’ perfume as well as their brown makeup; under the odors of the food and water, he could smell the cold, reptilian scent of their bodies.

I’m not thirsty, thank you.”

Lall paused with her fingers in the dish of cream-colored substance. “Mr. Naismith, our foods may be unfamiliar to you, but surely you can drink our water, which is chemically pure.”

Naismith stared at her. “Even water can be poisoned, or drugged.”

“Drugged!” she repeated, and wiped her fingers slowly on the side of her patterned tunic. “Mr. Naismith, if you could be drugged, do you think we would have been to so much trouble to get you here?” She paused, glanced at her fingers, then sucked them slowly clean. She pushed the dish away from her, leaned her elbow on the table, staring at him. The folds of her eyelids were odd, not quite human. “Think about it, Mr.

Naismith. Do you remember Bursar Ramsdell—and the lawyer, Jerome? The peculiar things they did and said? They were drugged; that was simple to do.” Churan had stopped eating to listen; his amber eyes were narrow and watchful. “But you are an altogether different problem, Mr. Naismith. Don’t you realize, haven’t you any idea— Think a moment, have you ever been ill?”

“My memory goes back only about four years. I don’t know.”

“But in those four years? An upset stomach? A cold? Even a headache?”

“I had a headache when you knocked me out, and another one when I left Wells’ office this afternoon. I mean—” He groped for a word to express the time that had elapsed, gave it up.

“Indeed? I don’t understand. Did he use drugs?”

“No, some gadget—a headband, with clamps.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Ah, I see. And the gadget gave you a headache. But aside from that, can you remember any slightest illness?”

“No,” Naismith admitted.

“No, of course not. The Shefth does not become ill, cannot be drugged or hypnotized; his body rejects most poisons. He is very hard to deal with, Mr. Naismith; he must be treated with respect. So if you are thirsty, please drink without fear.”

Naismith glanced down at the cup of water, then at the two aliens who sat watching him, motionless and intent. “I’ll drink this,” he said slowly, “when I understand one or two things a little better.”

“Ask,” said Lall, dipping up another lump of the cream-colored food.

“Let’s begin with this place—you call it a ship. Who left it here, and why?”

“It’s an interstellar liner. When the colonies were abandoned, in the hundred tenth century, there was no more need of it, they just left it. That was about a century ago.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

“To teach you, Mr. Naismith—certain things which—”

Naismith made an impatient gesture. “I mean why here?

Why couldn’t you have taught me things, whatever they are, back in Beverly Hills?”

She chewed, swallowed. “Let us say, there was a need to be inconspicuous. This is a dead period, for hundreds of years on either side. No one knows about this abandoned liner except us, and no one would think of looking here.”

Naismith knotted a fist impatiently, stared at the taut skin over the knuckles. “This is getting us nowhere,” he growled.

“You talk about a dead period, Shefthi, Zugs—it’s all Greek to me. How do I know there’s a word of truth in it anywhere?”

“You do not,” said Churan, leaning forward earnestly.

“You’re right, it is futile for us to talk about these things. Talk goes around and around, endlessly.” He made a circular motion.

“But there is another way.”

He got up, crossed to the opposite wall, where he opened one of the panels. He reached in and took out a metal framework, with an oblong box dangling from a strap. “This, Mr.