_by ... John Victor Peterson_
If matter transference really works--neanderthalers can pop up
anywhere. And that's very hard on politicians!
Some say scientists should keep their noses out of politics. Benson
says it's to prevent damage to their olfactory senses. Benson's a
physicist.
I've known Allan Benson for a long time. In fact I've bodyguarded him
for years and think I understand him better than he does himself. And
when he shook security at White Sands, my boss didn't hesitate to tell
me that knowing Benson as I do I certainly shouldn't have let him skip
off. Or crisp words to that effect.
The pressure was on. Benson was seeking a new fuel--or a way of
compressing a known fuel--to carry a torchship to Mars. His loss could
mean a delay of decades. We knew he'd been close, but not _how_ close.
My nickname's Monk. I've fought it, certainly, but what can you do
when a well-wishing mother names you after a wealthy uncle and your
birth certificate says Neander Thalberg? As early as high school some
bright pundit noted the name's similarity to that of a certain
prehistoric man. Unfortunately the similarity is not in name alone:
I'm muscular, stooped, and, I must admit, not handsome hero model
material.
Well, maybe the nickname's justified, but still, Al Benson didn't have
to give the crowning insult. And yet, if he hadn't, there probably
wouldn't be a torchship stern-ending on Mars just about now.
C. I. (Central Intelligence, that is) at the Sands figured Benson
would head for New York. Which is why the boss sent me here. I
registered in a hotel in the 50's and, figuring that whatever Benson
intended to do would have spectacular results, I kept the stereo on
News.
Benson's wife hadn't yielded much info. Sure she described the clothes
he was wearing and said he'd taken nothing else except an artist's
case. What was in that was anybody's guess; his private lab is such a
jumble nobody could tell what, if anything, was missing.
C. I. knew his political feelings. Seems he'd been talking wild about
the upcoming presidential election and had sworn he'd nip the
draft-Cadigan movement in the bud. Cadigan's Mayor of New York City.
He's anti-space. In fact, Cadigan's anti just about everything in
science except intercontinental missiles. Strictly for defense, of
course. Cadigan says.
* * * * *
A weathercaster was making rash promises on the stereo when the potray
dinged. The potray? I certainly wasn't expecting mail. Only C. I. knew
where I was and they'd have closed-circuited me on visio if they
wanted contact.
The potray dinged and there was a package in it.
Now matter transference I knew. It put mailmen out of business.
There's a potray in every domicile and you can put things in it, dial
the destination and they come out there. They come out the same size
and weight and in the same condition as they went in, provided they
didn't go in alive. Life loses, as many a shade of a hopeful guinea
pig could relate.
So the potray dinged and here was this package. At first glance it
looked like one of those cereal samples manufacturers have been
everlastingly sending through since postal rates dropped after cost of
the potrays had been amortized. But cereal samples don't come through
at midday; they're night traffic stuff.
The package was light, its wrapping curiously smooth. There was an
envelope attached with my correct name and potray number. Whoever had
mailed it must be in C. I. or must know someone in C. I. who knew
where I was.
The postmark was blurred but I could make out that it had been cast
from Grand Central. Time didn't matter. It couldn't have been cast
more than a microsecond earlier.
The envelope contained a card upon which was typed:
"Caution! Site on cylinder of 2 ft. radius and 6 ft. height. Unwrap at
armslength."
Now what? A practical joke? If so, it must be Benson's work. He's
played plenty, from pumping hydrogen sulphide (that's rotten egg gas,
as you know) into the air-conditioning system at high school to
calling a gynecologist to the launching stage at the Sands to sever an
umbilical cord which he neglected to say was on a Viking rocket.
I followed the instructions. As I bent back the first fold of the
strange wrapping it came alive, unfolding itself with incredible
swiftness.
Something burst forth like a freed djinn--almost instantaneously
lengthening, spreading--a thing with beetling brows, low, broad
forehead, prognathous jaw, and a hunched, brutally muscular body, with
a great club over its swollen shoulder.