The Crack In Space (11 page)

‘Have we  . . . gone back in time?’ the Kansas City businessman asked.

‘No,’ Dillingsworth said irritably. ‘Not one week. Evidently here Homo sapiens either did not appear at all or for some reason did not win out. And Sinanthropus became the dominant species. As in our world we are.’

Frank Woodbine said, ‘Yes, I thought he stooped. That one who jumped out of the glider yesterday.’ His voice shook.

‘True,’ Dillingsworth agreed. ‘Sinanthropus was not fully erect. That was an advantage in plains areas where short grass grew; an erect posture would have made him a better target.’ He spoke flatly. Methodically.

‘God,’ Sal Heim said. ‘So what do we do now?’

There was no answer. From any of them.

What a mess, Sal Heim said to himself as the thirty of them clambered from the parked ‘hopper and surrounded the stalled cart. Too frightened to try to escape, the driver continued to stare meekly at them all, clutching some sort of parcel in his arms. He wore, Sal noted, a toga-like one-piece garment. And his hair, unlike the reconstructions in the museums of dawn men, had been cut short and tidily. What repercussions there’re going to be from this, Sal realized. Damn it, what rotten luck!

But it was even worse than that. Far, far worse. So Jim Briskin got beaten at the polls because of this  . . . so what? That was a mere pebble in the bottom of the barrel. In an intuitive flash of insight, he saw the entire thing, spread out into their lives, ahead. His and Jim’s and everyone else’s  . . . whites and cols alike. Because, in terms of race relations, this was an absolute calamity.

By the cart, several TD employees and Dillingsworth were rapidly setting up a linguistics machine. They evidently were going to make the attempt to communicate with the driver.

Hypnotized by the sight of the apparition seated in the cart, the little round businessman from Kansas City said stammeringly to Sal, ‘Isn’t it something? Given a chance these near-humans actually figured out how to lay roads and build carts. And they even made a gas turbine, the TV said.’ He looked stunned.

‘They had a million and a half years to do it,’ Sal pointed out.

‘But it’s still amazing. They built that ship we saw; it was crossing the Atlantic! I’ll bet there isn’t an anthropologist in the world who would have made book on that—bet they could create such an advanced culture, like they have. I take off my hat to them; I think it’s great. It’s  . . . very encouraging, don’t you think? It sort of makes you realize that  . . .’ He struggled to express himself. ‘  . . . that if anything happened to us, to Homo sapiens, other life forms would go on.’

It did not encourage Sal Heim.

The best thing to do, he said to himself bleakly, is to go back to our world and then plug up that goddam hole. That entrance between our universe and this. Forget it ever existed, that we ever saw this.

But we can’t, because there’ll always be some curious, scientific-type busybody who’ll insist on poking around here. And TD itself; it’ll still want to go over all the artifacts in this world to see what it can make use of. So it’s just not that simple. We can’t just shut our eyes, walk off, pretend it never happened.

‘I don’t think what these near-men have done here is so great,’ Sal said aloud. ‘They’re pitifully backward, compared to us, and they’ve had ten times as long to do it in. At least ten times; maybe twenty. They haven’t discovered metal, for instance. Take that one example.’

Nobody paid any attention to him. They were all gathering around the linguistics machine, waiting to see how the attempt at communication was going to go.

‘So who wants to talk to that semi-ape?’ Sal said bitterly. ‘Who needs it?’ He walked about in an aimless, futile circle. I’ve got to get my candidate out of here, he knew. I can’t let him get identified with this.

But Jim Briskin showed no signs of leaving. In fact he had gone up to the cart and was saying something to the Peking man, talking directly to him. Probably trying to calm him down. That would be just like Jim.

You damn fool, Sal thought. You’re ruining your political career; can’t you see that? The ramifications of this—am I the only one who can perceive them? It ought to be obvious. But evidently it was not.

Into the microphone of the TD linguistics machine, Dillingsworth was saying over and over again, ‘We’re friends. We’re peaceful.’ To Stanley he said, ‘Is this thing working or not?  . . . We’re friends. We come to your world in peace. We will hurt no one.’

‘It takes time,’ Stanley explained. ‘Keep at it. See, what it has to do is take the visual images connected to the intrinsically meaningless words, images which flash up in your brain as you speak, and transmit replicas of those visual images directly to the brain of  . . .’

‘I know how it works,’ Dillingsworth said brusquely. ‘I’m just anxious for it to get started before he bolts. You can see he’s getting ready to.’ Into the microphone he once again said, ‘We’re friends. We come in peace.

All at once the Peking man spoke.

From the audio section of the linguistics machine, a strangled noise sounded; recorded automatically, it was immediately repeated as the tape-deck rewound and played it back.

‘What’d he say?’ the little businessman from Kansas City demanded, looking around at everyone. ‘What’d he say?’

Dillingsworth said into the mike, ‘Are you our friend, too? Are you friends with us as we are with you?’

Going over to Jim Briskin, Sal put his hand on his shoulder and said ‘Jim, I want to talk to you.’

‘For God’s sake, later,’ Jim answered.

‘Now,’ Sal said. ‘It can’t wait.’

Jim groaned. ‘Jesus, man, are you out of your head?’

‘No I’m not,’ Sal said evenly. ‘It’s everyone else here who is. Including you. Come on.’ He took hold of Jim by the shoulder and propelled him forcibly from the group, off to one side of the road. ‘Listen,’ Sal said. ‘How do you define man? Go on, define man for me.’

Staring at him Jim said. ‘What?’

‘Define man! I’ll do it, then. Man’s a tool-making animal. Okay, what’s all this—for example, that cart and that hat and that package and that robe? Plus the ship we saw and that glider with that compressor and turbine? Tools. All of them, broadly speaking. So what does that make that damn creature sitting up there at the tiller of that cart? I’ll tell you: it makes him a man, that’s what. So he’s ugly-looking; so he has a low forehead and beetling brows and he isn’t too bright. But he’s bright enough to get in under the wire and qualify, that’s how bright he is goddam it. I mean, my god, he’s even built roads. And . . .’ Sal vibrated with rage. ‘  . . . he even shot down our QB satellite!’

‘Look,’ Jim began, wearily, ‘this is no time . . .’

‘It’s the only time. We have to get out of here. Back across and forget what we saw.’ But, of course, as Sal well knew, it was hopeless. The ‘hopper, for instance, belonged to TD, was piloted by a TD employee to whom Sal Heim could give no orders. Only Stanley could, and obviously Stanley had no intention of leaving; he was standing by the linguistics machine, fascinated. ‘Let me ask you this,’ Sal panted. ‘If they’re men, and you admit they are, how’re we going to deny them the vote?’

After a pause Jim said, ‘Is that actually what you’re worrying about?’

‘Yes,’ Sal said.

Turning, Jim walked back to join the group. Without a word. Sal Heim watched him go.

‘He’s going to be voting,’ Sal said, aloud but to himself. ‘I can see it coming. And then you know what? Mixed marriages. Between us and them. Let’s go home; please, let’s go home. Okay?’ No one stirred. ‘I don’t want to foresee it, but I do,’ Sal said. ‘Can I help that? So I’m a prophet. Hell, don’t blame me; blame that thing sitting up there on that cart. It’s his fault. He shouldn’t even be existing.’

From the audio curcuit of the linguistics machine a guttural, hoarse voice whispered, ‘ . . . friend.’

Frantically, Dillingsworth turned to those around him and said, ‘It was him; that was not feedback from what I put in.’

‘They don’t even have radio, here,’ Sal Heim said.

In his N’York office, the private investigator Tito Cravelli received a puzzling bulletin from his contact at TD, Earl Bohegian: ‘First report from ‘hopper to TD. World inhabited by apes.’

Taking a calculated risk, Cravelli dialed Terran Development through regular vidphone channels. When he reached TD’s switchboard, he matter of factly asked to speak to Mr Bohegian.

‘How could you be so foolish as to call me direct?’ Bohegian asked nervously, when the call was put through to his office.

‘Explain your message,’ Tito said.

‘They’re educated apes,’ Bohegian said, leaning close to the vidscreen and speaking in a low, urgent voice. ‘You know, missing links.’

‘Dawn men,’ Tito said, finally understanding. He felt his heart skip a beat. ‘Go on, Earl, I want to hear it all; keep talking and if you ring off, I’ll call you right back, so help me God.’

Earl Bohegian muttered, ‘The report was given to old Leon Turpin; he’s examining it right now on floor twenty. They’re trying to decide if they want to shut the ‘scuttler down and wall the rent up or not. But I don’t think they’re gonna, not from what I’ve heard.’

‘No,’ Tito agreed. ‘They won’t. There’s too much to gain by leaving it open.’

‘But they are sort of upset. Who isn’t? Imagine; here we took it for granted that humans like ourselves  . . .’

‘Did the ‘hopper specifically state which variety of sub-Homo sapiens it is?’ Cravelli asked, trying to remember his college anthropology.

‘Peking man. Does that sound right?’

Cravelli bit his lip. ‘That’s a hell of a low-grade type. One of the lowest. Now, if it had been Cro-Magnon or even Neanderthal . . ..’ That would be another matter. After all, the Palestine archeological discoveries were proof that Homo sapiens and Neanderthal had already interbred, tens of thousands of years in the past. And it had evidently done no harm; the Homo sapiens genetic strain had dominated.

‘They’re going to bring one back,’ Bohegian said. ‘They’ve already got one inside the ‘hopper, the scuttlebutt says down in the washroom at the end of my hall. And they’re in lin-com with it. It’s docile, one exec told me just now. Scared out of its wits.’

‘Of course it would be,’ Cravelli said. ‘They probably remember us from their past, remember getting rid of us.’ Just as we got rid of them in our world, he thought. Wiped them utterly out. ‘And now we’re back,’ he said. ‘It must seem like black magic to them: ghosts from a hundred thousand years ago, from their own Stone Age. Jeez, what a situation!’

‘I’ve got to ring off,’ Bohegian said. ‘I told you everything anyhow, Tito. When there’s more . . .’

‘Okay,’ Tito Cravelli said and broke the connection.

I wonder if they’ll be able to pilot that jet-hopper back across the Atlantic and then back through the rent to our world, he conjectured. Or will the Peking people get them along the way? Good question.

This is going to work havoc with the November election, he said to himself, broodingly. Who could have possibly anticipated something like this? Once more Tito Cravelli saw his Attorney Generalship receding, along with Jim Briskin’s election.

These parallel worlds are a knotty problem, he realized. I wonder how many exist. Dozens? With a different human sub-species dominant on each? Weird idea. He shivered. God, how unpleasant  . . . like concentric rings of hell, each with its own particular brand of torment.

And then he thought suddenly: Maybe there’s one in which a human type superior to us, one we know nothing about, dominates; one which, in our own world, we extinguished at its inception. Blotto, right off the bat.

Somebody ought to tinker with a ‘scuttler with that in mind, Tito decided. But then, it occurred to him, they’d show up here, just the way we’re appearing in Peking man’s orderly little universe. And we’d be finished. We wouldn’t be able to survive the competition.

Just, he thought, as Peking man isn’t going to be able to stand up to us for long.

The poor clucks. They don’t know what’s in store for them; their time is limited, now. Because their ancestral foe has reappeared—and right in their midst, with TV, rocket-ships, laser rifles, H-bombs, all kinds of devices inconceivable to their limited mentalities. They spent a million or two years developing a gas compressor, and what good is it going to do them, now that the chips are down? Them and their wooden gliders that travel a hundred feet and then have to land again. My god, we’ve got ships in three star systems!

And then he remembered the QB satellite.

How’d they do that? he asked himself. Remarkable! It doesn’t quite fit in. Because even so, they are an entire evolutionary step below us.

We can lick them with both hands and one frontal lobe of our brain tied behind our backs  . . . so to speak.

But the assurance of a moment ago had left him and he did not right now feel quite so secure.

Jim Briskin, he said to himself, you just better darn well get back intact from that alternate Earth. Because there’s going to be a hard row to hoe, here, for all of us, and we need someone capable. I can see Bill The Cat’s Meatman Schwarz attempting to deal with this problem . . . yes, how I can see it.

Once more he dialed TD’s Washington, D.C., number and again, when he had their switchboard, asked for Earl Bohegian in 603.

‘I want you to let me know,’ Tito Cravelli instructed Bohegian when he had him, ‘the moment Jim Briskin crosses back. I don’t give a damn about the others—just him. Got it, Earl?’

‘Sure, Tito,’ Bohegian said, nodding.

‘Can you get a message to him? After all, he’ll be there in your building, on the bottom floor.’

‘I can try,’ Bohegian said, sounding dubious.

‘Tell him to call me.’

‘Okay,’ Bohegian said dutifully, ‘I’ll do my best.’

Ringing off, Cravelli sat back in his chair, then searched about for a cigarette. He had done all he could—for now. Here on out he could only sit and wait, at least until Jim showed up. And, he knew, that might be a long time.

He thought, then, of something interesting. Perhaps he now understood why Cally Vale had shot and killed the ‘scuttler repairman with her laser pistol. If she had run across one of the Peking men, she probably had gone straight into hysterical shock. Had probably in her state taken the repairman for one more of them. And after all, most ‘scuttler repairmen—at least, those he had known—were rather shambling, hunched creatures; the error was easy to comprehend, once the circumstances were known.