II

Dan gaped at a head the size of a beachball, 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 Manny and Fiorello?"

"They--I--There was this cop. Kelly--"

"Oh-oh." The brown eyes blinked deliberately. The 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 scarlet foliage. The next poster showed a face

similar to the beachball 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 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, Romance 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 Manny 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 well 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 beachball 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 beachball 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-emporiums of the entire

Secondary Quadrant."

"But the way Manny 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 said. "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."

"A sales center?" Blote inquired. "Or a manufacturing complex?"

"Both," Dan said. "I'll just nip over and--"

"That won't be necessary, Dan," Blote said. "I'll accompany you." He

took the directory, studied it.

"Remarkable! A common commodity, openly on sale, and I failed to notice

it. Still, a ripe nut can fall from a small tree as well as from a

large." He went to his desk, rummaged, came up with a handful of fuel

cells. "Now, off to gather in the time machine." He took his place in

the carrier, patted the seat beside him with a wide hand. "Come, Dan.

Get a wiggle on."

* * * * *

Hesitantly, Dan moved to the carrier. The bluff was all right up to a

point--but the point had just about been reached. He took his seat.

Blote moved a lever. The familiar blue glow sprang up. "Kindly direct

me, Dan," Blote demanded. "Two twenty-one Maple Street, I believe you

said."

"I don't know the town very well," Dan said, "but Maple's over that

way."

Blote worked levers. The carrier shot out into a ghostly afternoon sky.

Faint outlines of buildings, like faded negatives, spread below. Dan

looked around, spotted lettering on a square five-story structure.

"Over there," he said. Blote directed the machine as it swooped

smoothly toward the flat roof Dan indicated.

"Better let me take over now," Dan suggested. "I want to be sure to

get us to the right place."

"Very well, Dan."

Dan dropped the carrier through the roof, passed down through a dimly

seen office. Blote twiddled a small knob. The scene around the cage

grew even fainter. "Best we remain unnoticed," he explained.

The cage descended steadily. Dan peered out, searching for identifying

landmarks. He leveled off at the second floor, cruised along a barely

visible corridor. Blote's eyes rolled, studying the small chambers

along both sides of the passage at once.

"Ah, this must be the assembly area," he exclaimed. "I see the machines

employ a bar-type construction, not unlike our carriers."

"That's right," Dan said, staring through the haziness. "This is where

they do time...." He tugged at a lever suddenly; the machine veered

left, flickered through a barred door, came to a halt. Two nebulous

figures loomed beside the cage. Dan cut the switch. If he'd guessed

wrong--

The scene fluoresced, sparks crackling, then popped into sharp focus.

Blote scrambled out, brown eyes swivelling to take in the concrete

walls, the barred door and--

"You!" a hoarse voice bellowed.

"Grab him!" someone yelled.

Blote recoiled, threshing his ambulatory members in a fruitless attempt

to regain the carrier as Manny and Fiorello closed in. Dan hauled at a

lever. He caught a last glimpse of three struggling, blue-lit figures

as the carrier shot away through the cell wall.