Clifford Simak - No Life of Their Own And Other Stories

From the office of Time Travel, Inc., on the 600th story of the Berkley stratosphere building, New York lay stretched below, a fairy city. Under the soft glow of millions of lights it took on an unearthly beauty. It was a city of slender pinnacles of pure white beauty, looping arches of rainbow hues, formal gardens and parks, gleaming towers of argent, black domes.

Steve Clark liked the view. He often came here at night to sit and talk with his friend, Andy Smith, one of the ace pilots of the Time Travel service.

Smith was reading the last edition of the Daily Rocket . Steve Clark had brought it in only a moment before, fresh from the press, and thrown it on the desk. Smith had it spread in the white circle thrown by the lone light. The rest of the office was in darkness. Beyond the desk lockers, other desks and record files loomed darkly. The time-machines themselves were in an adjoining room, ready for launching from the face of the building.

“How’s business?” asked Clark, with his feet fixed firmly on top of the desk.

Andy Smith grunted.

“Not so good. It’s the fifty-sixth century, time-travel isn’t a novelty any more and our rates are too high. Didn’t have more than a dozen or two trips all week.” He jabbed his finger at the purple headlines. “Times seem to be all right for you newspaper fellows,” he said. “Lots of big news this afternoon.”

“Yeah,” Steve Clark agreed. “The Centaurians again. They’re always good for a banner-line any day. Made a real haul this time.”

“I should say so,” Smith said. “Martian bongo stones, eh? Fourteen of them. Largest and most perfect collection in the entire Solar System.”

“That’s it,” said Clark. “The old man almost busted a blood vessel when that story came in an hour ago. Wanted to scoop the city.”

Clark chuckled.

“We did,” he said.

Andy Smith folded the paper carefully.

“Steve,” he said, “what are the Centaurians? Nobody seems to know.”

“They’re super-crooks for one thing,” Clark said, “and when you’ve said that, you’ve said about all that anyone knows about them for sure. They’ve laughed at the best brains in the police business for the last five hundred years. And I figure they’ll still be laughing five hundred years from now if they live that long and there’s no reason to think they won’t. Unless they’re keeping it a secret, the flatfeet don’t even know where their hideout is located. They’ve made monkeys out of everyone. Hell, didn’t they steal a gold shipment out from under the nose of the Interplanetary Police, and keep it, too, in spite of the fact that every damn IP man in the System was turned loose on the case?”

“You figure, then,” asked Smith, “that the Centaurians are real? That they are something that isn’t human. A super-gang of unearthly bandits?”

“You know,” Clark replied, “a newspaperman doesn’t take to fables very easy. He breaks more myths than any other kind of critter I know. But, as a newspaper man, I’m telling you that these Centaurians aren’t human. Probably a lot of jobs have been blamed on them that they never had a thing to do with. But there are cases on record of eye-witnesses who saw them. Only two or three such instances in the last five hundred years, but they check up well.

“All agree on vital points. They got tails and they’re covered with scales and instead of feet they have hoofs. Whatever they are, they don’t go in for penny-ante stuff. When they make a haul, it’s one that’s worthwhile. Those bongo stones. They were worth ten billion if they were worth a dime. And the shipload of IP gold.”

Smith whistled.

“Then you figure they came from Alpha Centauri?” he asked.

“Either Alpha Centauri or some other place outside the System. Nothing like them have been found on any of the planets here. I always sort of figured they were fugitives from their own System. Maybe things got too hot for them, wherever they were, and they had to take it on the lam. Whatever they are or wherever they come from they sure have easy pickings here. They walk off with just about whatever they want to and nobody’s even come close to catching up with them.

“I read some place, long time ago, that it is believed they came to Earth in some sort of a crazy space ship. Wrecked when it struck. The ship was smashed up and two or three of its occupants were killed—but I guess they never did find out much about them from that. The ship was all in pieces and the things in it were crushed to pulp. Maybe it was something or somebody else, not the Centaurians at all.”

Steve Clark lighted a Venus-weed cigar and puffed.

“Whatever they are,” he said, “they make damn good news copy.”

Smith glanced at this watch.

“I’ll be off in a few minutes,” he said. “What say we hop over to Paris and buy us a round of drinks?”

“Sounds all right,” agreed Clark.

Smith rose from his chair, stuffing the paper into his pocket. And standing there, beside the desk, he froze in astonishment.

The office door was open and inside it stood a group of black-shrouded figures that seemed to blend with the darkness. Something gleamed in the light reflected from the polished table-top.

A voice spoke out of the darkness, a voice that spoke the English tongue with slurred accent.

“You will please resume your seat,” it suggested.

Smith sat down again and Clark, dropping his feet from the desk, jerked his chair around.

“You also, sir,” said the voice.

Clark obeyed. There was some metallic menace in those short, clipped, incredibly accented words which held a definite note of threat.

Slowly, majestically, one of the black-shrouded figures strode forward, leaving his companions by the door. He stopped before the desk, still in the darkness, but better defined now in the reflections from the desk-top. The man wore dark glasses and he was shrouded in a dark cape, the edge of which trailed to the floor, covering his feet. A black cowl, a part of the cape, covered his head and draped over his face, hiding most of his features.

Steve Clark felt the hair crawl at the back of his neck as he studied the visitor.

Smith made his voice pleasant.

“Anything I can do for you?” he asked.

“Yes, there is,” said the strange, black-draped figure, and in the faint light Smith saw the quick, smooth flash of white teeth in the shadowed face. He couldn’t make out the face. Couldn’t see anything, in fact, except the flash of teeth when he spoke and the occasional dull shine of reflected light from the man’s eyes.

The teeth flashed again.

“I want a time-condensor,” he said.

Andy Smith managed to choke back a gasp of astonishment, but his face was blank when he answered.

“We don’t sell parts,” he said.

“No,” said the black-robed one, and the single word sounded more like a challenge than a question.

“There is no call for them,” Smith explained. “Time Travel has the only time-machines in existence. They operate under strict governmental supervision. No one else owns a time-machine. Naturally, the only ones who would have use for spare parts would be our own company.”

“But you have an extra condensor?”

“Several of them,” Smith admitted. “We have need of replacements frequently. It’s dangerous to go into time with a faulty condensor.”

“I know that,” the other replied. “Contrary to what you may believe, there is at least one time machine in existence other than the ones you own. I have one.”

Something like a chuckle sounded from his lips.

“Strangely enough I obtained it from your company. Many years ago. I came here to get a condensor,” said the man. The ugly muzzle of some sort of a weapon poked from the folds of his cape. “I can take it by force if need be. I would prefer not to. On the other hand, if you would cooperate, I would be willing to pay.”