* * * * *
Exactly three minutes after the Galactic left the New York apartment
of Professor John Hamish McLeod, Ph.D., Sc.D., a squad of U.B.I. men
pushed their way into it.
[Illustration]
McLeod heard the door chime, opened the door, and had to back up as
eight men crowded in. The one in the lead flashed a fancily engraved
ID card and said: "Union Bureau of Investigation. You're Professor
Mac-Lee-Odd." It was a statement, not a question.
"No," McLeod said flatly, "I am not. I never heard of such a name." He
waited while the U.B.I. man blinked once, then added: "If you are
looking for Professor MuhCloud, I'm he." It always irritated him when
people mispronounced his name, and in this case there was no excuse
for it.
"All right, Professor McLeod," said the U.B.I. agent, pronouncing it
properly this time, "however you want it. Mind if we ask you a few
questions?"
McLeod stared at him for half a second. Eight men, all of them under
thirty-five, in top physical condition. He was fifteen years older
than the oldest and had confined his exercise, in the words of
Chauncey de Pew, to "acting as pallbearer for my friends who take
exercise." Not that he was really in poor shape, but he certainly
couldn't have argued with eight men like these.
"Come in," he said calmly, waving them into the apartment.
Six of them entered. The other two stayed outside in the hall.
Five of the six remained standing. The leader took the chair that
McLeod offered him.
"What are your questions, Mr. Jackson?" McLeod asked.
Jackson looked very slightly surprised, as if he were not used to having
people read the name on his card during the short time he allowed them to
see it. The expression vanished almost instantaneously. "Professor," he
said, "we'd like to know what subjects you discussed with the Galactic who
just left."
McLeod allowed himself to relax back in his chair. "Let me ask you two
questions, Mr. Jackson. One: What the hell business is it of yours?
Two: Why do you ask me when you already know?"
Again there was only a flicker of expression over Jackson's face.
"Professor McLeod, we are concerned about the welfare of the human
race. Your ... uh ... co-operation is requested."
"You don't have to come barging in here with an armed squad just to
ask my co-operation," McLeod said. "What do you want to know?"
Jackson took a notebook out of his jacket pocket. "We'll just get a
few facts straight first, professor," he said, leafing through the
notebook. "You were first approached by a Galactic four years ago, on
January 12, 1990. Is that right?"
McLeod, who had taken a cigarette from his pack and started to light
it, stopped suddenly and looked at Jackson as though the U.B.I. man
were a two-headed embryo. "Yes, Mr. Jackson, that is right," he said
slowly, as though he were speaking to a low-grade moron. "And the
capital of California is Sacramento. Are there any further matters of
public knowledge you would like to ask me about? Would you like to
know when the War of 1812 started or who is buried in Grant's Tomb?"
Jackson's jaw muscles tightened, then relaxed. "There's no need to get
sarcastic, professor. Just answer the questions." He looked back at
the notebook. "According to the record, you, as a zoologist, were
asked to accompany a shipment of animals to a planet named ... uh ...
Gelakin. You did so. You returned after eighteen months. Is that
correct?"
"To the best of my knowledge, yes," McLeod said with heavy, biting
sarcasm. "And the date of the Norman Conquest was A.D. 1066."
Jackson balled his fists suddenly and closed his eyes. "Mac. Loud.
_Stop._ It." He was obviously holding himself under rigorous
restraint. He opened his eyes. "There are reasons for asking these
questions, professor. Very good reasons. Will you let me finish?"
McLeod had finished lighting his cigarette. He snapped his lighter off
and replaced it in his pocket. "Perhaps," he said mildly. "May I make
a statement first?"
Jackson took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled slowly.
"Go ahead."
* * * * *
"Thank you." There was no sarcasm in McLeod's voice now, only
patience. "First--for the record--I'll say that I consider it
impertinent of you to come in here demanding information without
explanation. No, Jackson; don't say anything. You said I could make a
statement. Thank you. Second, I will state that I am perfectly aware
of why the questions are being asked.
"No reaction, Mr. Jackson? You don't believe that? Very well. Let me
continue.
"On January twelve, nineteen-ninety, I was offered a job by certain
citizens of the Galactic Civilization. These citizens of the Galactic
Civilization wanted to take a shipload of Terrestrial animals to their
own planet, Gelakin. They knew almost nothing about the care and
feeding of Terrestrial animals. They needed an expert. They should
have taken a real expert--one of the men from the Bronx Zoo, for
instance. They didn't; they requested a zoologist. Because the request
was made here in America, I was the one who was picked. Any one of
seven other men could have handled the job, but I was picked.
"So I went, thus becoming the first Earthman ever to leave the Solar
System.
"I took care of the animals. I taught the Galactics who were with me
to handle and feed them. I did what I was paid to do, and it was a
hard job. None of them knew anything about the care and feeding of
elephants, horses, giraffes, cats, dogs, eagles, or any one of the
other hundreds of Terrestrial life forms that went aboard that ship.
"All of this was done with the express permission of the Terrestrial
Union Government.
"I was returned to Earth on July seventeen, nineteen-ninety-one.
"I was immediately taken to U.B.I. headquarters and subjected to
rigorous questioning. Then I was subjected to further questioning
while connected to a polyelectro-encephalograph. Then I was subjected
to hearing the same questions over again while under the influence of
various drugs--in sequence and in combination. The consensus at that
time was that I was not lying nor had I been subjected to what is
commonly known as 'brain washing'. My memories were accurate and
complete.
"I did not know then, nor do I know now, the location of the planet
Gelakin. This information was not denied me by the Galactics; I simply
could not understand the terms they used. All I can say now--and all
I could say then--is that Gelakin is some three point five kiloparsecs
from Sol in the general direction of Saggitarius."
"You don't know any more about that now than you did then?" Jackson
interrupted, suddenly and quickly.
"That's what I said," McLeod snapped. "And that's what I meant. Let me
finish.
"I was handsomely paid for my work in Galactic money. They use the
English word 'credit', but I'm not sure the English word has exactly
the same meaning as the Galactic term. At any rate, my wages, if such
I may call them, were confiscated by the Earth Government; I was given
the equivalent in American dollars--after the eighty per cent income
tax had been deducted. I ended up with just about what I would have
made if I had stayed home and drawn my salary from Columbia University
and the American Museum of Natural History.
"Please, Mr. Jackson. I only have a little more to say.
"I decided to write a book in order to make the trip pay off.
'Interstellar Ark' was a popularized account of the trip that made me
quite a nice piece of change because every literate and half-literate
person on Earth is curious about the Galactics. The book tells
everything I know about the trip and the people. It is a matter of
public record. Since that is so, I refused to answer a lot of
darn-fool questions--by which I mean that I refuse to answer any more
questions that you already know the answers to. I am not being
stubborn; I am just sick and tired of the whole thing."
Actually, the notoriety that had resulted from the trip and the book
had not pleased McLeod particularly. He had never had any strong
desire for fame, but if it had come as a result of his work in zoology
and the related sciences he would have accepted the burden. If his
"The Ecology of the Martian Polar Regions" had attracted a hundredth
of the publicity and sold a hundredth of the number of copies that
"Interstellar Ark" had sold, he would have been gratified indeed. But
the way things stood, he found the whole affair irksome.
Jackson looked at his notebook as if he expected to see answers
written there instead of questions. Then he looked back up at McLeod.
"All right then, professor, what about this afternoon's conference.
_That_ isn't a matter of public record."
"And technically it isn't any of your business, either," McLeod said
tiredly. "But since you have the whole conversation down on tape, I
don't see why you bother asking me. I'm well aware that you can pick
up conversations in my apartment."
Jackson pursed his lips and glanced at another of the agents, who
raised his eyebrows slightly.
McLeod got it in spite of the fact that they didn't intend him to. His
place was bugged, all right, but somehow the Galactic had managed to
nullify their instruments! No wonder they were in such a tizzy.
McLeod smiled, pleased with himself and with the world for the first
time that afternoon. He decided, however, that he'd better volunteer
the information before they threatened him with the Planetary Security
Act. That threat would make him angry, he knew, and he might say
something that would get him in real trouble.
It was all right to badger Jackson up to a certain point, but it would
be foolish to go beyond that.
"However," he went on with hardly a break, "since, as you say, it is
not a matter of public record, I'm perfectly willing to answer any
questions you care to ask."
"Just give us a general rundown of the conversation," Jackson said.
"If I have any questions, I'll ... uh ... ask them at the proper
time."
* * * * *
McLeod did the best he could to give a clear picture of what the
Galactic had wanted. There was really very little to it. The Galactic
was a member of a race that McLeod had never seen before: a humanoid
with red skin--fire-engine, not Amerindian--and a rather
pleasant-looking face, in contrast to the rather crocodilian features
of the Galactic resident. He had introduced himself by an
un-pronounceable name and then had explained that since the name meant
"mild" or "merciful" in one of the ancient tongues of his planet, it
would be perfectly all right if McLeod called him "Clement." Within
minutes, it had been "Clem" and "Mac."
McLeod could see that Jackson didn't quite believe that. Galactics, of
whatever race, were aloof, polite, reserved, and sometimes
irritatingly patronizing--never buddy-buddy. McLeod couldn't help what
Jackson might think; what was important was that it was true.
What Clem wanted was very simple. Clem was--after a manner of
speaking--a literary agent. Apparently the Galactic system of book
publishing didn't work quite the way the Terrestrial system did; Clem
took his commission from the publisher instead of the author, but was
considered a representative of the author, not the publisher. McLeod
hadn't quite understood how that sort of thing would work out, but he
let it pass. There were a lot of things he didn't understand about
Galactics.
All Clem wanted was to act as McLeod's agent for the publication of
"Interstellar Ark."
"And what did you tell him?" Jackson asked.
"I told him I'd think it over."
Jackson leaned forward. "How much money did he offer?" he asked
eagerly.
"Not much," McLeod said. "That's why I told him I'd think it over. He
said that, considering the high cost of transportation, relaying,
translation, and so on, he couldn't offer me more than one thousandth
of one per cent royalties."