Keith Laumer: The Star-Sent Knaves

He covered his ears, braced himself—

With an abruptness that flung him against the opposite side of the cage, the machine braked, shot through the wall and slammed to a stop. Dan sank to the floor of the cage, breathing hard. There was a loud click! and the glow faded.

With a lunge, Dan scrambled out of the cage. He stood looking around at a simple brown-painted office, dimly lit by sunlight filtered through elaborate venetian blinds. There were posters on the wall, a potted plant by the door, a heap of framed paintings beside it, and at the far side of the room a desk. And behind the desk—something.

Dan gaped at a head the size of a beach ball, mounted on a torso like a hundred-gallon bag of water. Two large brown eyes blinked at him from points eight inches apart. Immense hands with too many fingers unfolded and reached to open a brown paper carton, dip in, then toss three peanuts, deliberately, one by one, into a gaping mouth that opened just above the brown eyes.

“Who’re you?” a bass voice demanded from somewhere near the floor.

“I’m… I’m… Dan Slane… your honor.”

“What happened to Percy and Fiorello?”

“They—I—There was this cop, Kelly—”

“Oh-oh.” The brown eyes blinked deliberately. The too-many-fingered hands closed the peanut carton and tucked it into a drawer.

“Well, it was a sweet racket while it lasted,” the basso voice said. “A pity to terminate so happy an enterprise. Still…” A noise like an amplified Bronx cheer issued from the wide mouth.

“How… what… ?”

“The carrier returns here automatically when the charge drops below a critical value,” the voice said. “A necessary measure to discourage big ideas on the part of wisenheimers in my employ. May I ask how you happen to be aboard the carrier, by the way?”

“I just wanted—I mean, after I figured out—that is, the police… I went for help,” Dan finished lamely.

“Help? Out of the picture, unfortunately. One must maintain one’s anonymity, you’ll appreciate. My operation here is under wraps at present. Ah, I don’t suppose you brought any paintings?”

Dan shook his head. He was staring at the posters. His eyes, accustoming themselves to the gloom of the office, could now make out the vividly drawn outline of a creature resembling an alligator-headed giraffe rearing up above foliage. The next poster showed a face similar to the beach ball behind the desk, with red circles painted around the eyes. The next was a view of a yellow volcano spouting fire into a black sky.

“Too bad.” The words seemed to come from under the desk. Dan squinted, caught a glimpse of coiled purplish tentacles. He gulped and looked up to catch a brown eye upon him. Only one. The other seemed to be busily at work studying the ceiling.

“I hope,” the voice said, “that you ain’t harboring no reactionary racial prejudices.”

“Gosh, no,” Dan reassured the eye. “I’m crazy about—uh—”

“Vorplischers,” the voice said. “From Vorplisch, or Vega, as you locals call it.” The Bronx cheer sounded again. “How I long to glimpse once more my native fens! Wherever one wanders, there’s no pad like home.”

“That reminds me,” Dan said. “I have to be running along now.” He sidled toward the door.

“Stick around, Dan,” the voice rumbled. “How about a drink? I can offer you Chateau Neuf du Pape ’59, Romany Conte ’32, goat’s milk, Pepsi—”

“No, thanks.”

“If you don’t mind, I believe I’ll have a Big Orange.” The Vorplischer swiveled to a small refrigerator, removed an immense bottle fitted with a nipple and turned back to Dan. “Now, I got a proposition which may be of some interest to you. The loss of Percy and Fiorello is a serious blow, but we may yet recoup the situation. You made the scene at a most opportune time. What I got in mind is, with those two clowns out of the picture, a vacancy exists on my staff, which you might fill. How does that grab you?”

“You mean you want me to take over operating the time machine?”

“Time machine?” The brown eyes blinked alternately. “I fear some confusion exists. I don’t quite dig the significance of the term.”

“That thing,” Dan jabbed a thumb toward the cage. “The machine I came here in. You want me—”

“Time machine,” the voice repeated. “Some sort of chronometer, perhaps?”

“Huh?”

“I pride myself on my command of the local idiom, yet I confess the implied concept snows me.” The nine-fingered hands folded on the desk. The beach-ball head leaned forward interestedly. “Clue me, Dan. What’s a time machine?”

“Well, it’s what you use to travel through time.”

The brown eyes blinked in agitated alternation. “Apparently I’ve loused up my investigation of the local cultural background. I had no idea you were capable of that sort of thing.” The immense head leaned back, the wide mouth opening and closing rapidly. “And to think I’ve been spinning my wheels collecting primitive 2-D art!”

“But—don’t you have a time machine? I mean, isn’t that one?”

“That? That’s merely a carrier. Now tell me more about your time machines. A fascinating concept! My superiors will be delighted at this development—and astonished as well. They regard this planet as Endsville.”

“Your superiors?” Dan eyed the window; much too far to jump. Maybe he could reach the machine and try a getaway—

“I hope you’re not thinking of leaving suddenly,” the beach ball said, following Dan’s glance. One of the eighteen fingers touched a six-inch yellow cylinder lying on the desk. “Until the carrier is fueled, I’m afraid it’s quite useless. But, to put you in the picture, I’d best introduce myself and explain my mission here. I’m Blote, Trader Fourth Class, in the employ of the Vegan Confederation. My job is to develop new sources of novelty items for the impulse-emporia of the entire Secondary Quadrant.”

“But the way Percy and Fiorello came sailing in through the wall! That has to be a time machine they were riding in. Nothing else could just materialize out of thin air like that.”

“You seem to have a time-machine fixation, Dan,” Blote chided. “You shouldn’t assume, just because you people have developed time travel, that everyone has. Now”—Blote’s voice sank to a bass whisper—“I’ll make a deal with you, Dan. You’ll secure a small time machine in good condition for me. And in return—”

“ I’m supposed to supply you with a time machine?”

Blote waggled a stubby forefinger at Dan. “I dislike pointing it out, Dan, but you are in a rather awkward position at the moment. Illegal entry, illegal possession of property, trespass—then doubtless some embarrassment exists back at the Snithian residence. I daresay Mr. Kelly would have a warm welcome for you. And, of course, I myself would deal rather harshly with any attempt on your part to take a powder.” The Vegan flexed all eighteen fingers, drummed his tentacles under the desk, and rolled one eye, bugging the other at Dan.

“Whereas, on the other hand,” Blote’s bass voice went on, “you and me got the basis of a sweet deal. You supply the machine, and I fix you up with an abundance of the local medium of exchange. Equitable enough, I should say. What about it, Dan?”

“Ah, let me see,” Dan temporized. “Time machine. Time machine—”

“Don’t attempt to weasel on me, Dan,” Blote rumbled ominously.

“I’d better look in the phone book,” Dan suggested.

Silently, Blote produced a dog-eared directory. Dan opened it.

“Time, time. Let’s see…” He brightened. “Time, Incorporated; local branch office. Two twenty-one Maple Street.”