His eye strayed to the young woman who sat quietly beside the man,
silently exercising her specialty. The plastic surgeons of her era had
done a beautiful and nearly perfect job on her body; but bone-deep,
in ways an observant man could sense, she was still not a twentieth
century woman. In a city full of women who made a profession of being
young and handsome, she too was young and handsome, but different.
Dolan was an observant man, and a curious one.
He looked back at Brown. "If you could just give me some idea--" he
said tentatively.
"The equipment, as I have said, is very intricate, and we are not
technicians. We prefer that you make your own diagnosis."
Dolan pursed his lips uncertainly. He glanced again at the girl.
"OK," he said at last, "I'll look at it. I can't promise anything."
He punched a button on the desk intercom. "Betty, I'm going out to look
at a job with Mr. Brown and Miss--uh--" he glanced at the girl.
"Jones," the gray-haired man said. "Miss Jones."
"Oh, yes, excuse me." Dolan smiled at the girl and drew a brief
quirk of the lips in response. "--with Mr. Brown and Miss Jones," he
continued. "Be back some time this afternoon."
"OK," he said to his clients. "Let's go see this intricate and delicate
problem."
* * * * *
For reasons compatible with the profession of gun running and the
nature of time travel, the time translator had been located outside of
urban limits--the city was to be rather systematically bombed in the
near future--on a secluded and stable granite dike, within the shell of
a frame cottage. Dolan observed all this without comment.
They were met outside the cottage by a man about Dolan's age.
"This is my colleague, Mr. Smith," Brown introduced him.
Mr. Smith offered his hand. As he turned to lead them inside, Dolan
noticed that the light summer jacket Smith wore did not drape well
over the right hip pocket. He filed this fact also for future reference.
"And here," Brown said, "is the machine we wish repaired."
In the center of the room was an orderly jumble of shiny black
geometric solids, laced together with wires and bars of silver, the
whole mounted on a polished ebony platform. It was handsome, in a
bizarre sort of way; but certainly it did not look like any electronic
gear Dolan had ever seen, and he had seen almost all there was, at one
time or another.
He studied it carefully, turning it this way and that in his mind,
trying to find some familiar feature to grasp it by. There was none.
"Well," he asked skeptically, "what is it? What does it do?"
Brown shook his head. "The purpose of the machine must remain secret,"
he said firmly. "We think the trouble may be superficial, some minor
thing an expert could quickly repair; and we wish you to work on it
from that viewpoint, without inquiring into its purpose."
"I see," Dolan said noncommittally. The whole business was screwy. For
two cents, he thought--
He glanced at the girl. She sat quietly on a chair, hands folded
demurely in her lap, watching him, practising her specialty. Well,
maybe, he thought, it wouldn't hurt to look, as long as he was here
anyway.
He walked over to the equipment and bent to examine it. The silver
conductors seemed to be uninsulated, although in places they were
closely paired. He frowned and scratched tentatively at one with his
fingernail. The metal showed bright. There was a slight tarnish, that
was all, no insulation.
He noticed something else. Back of the equipment, at an angle
unnoticeable from the side he had first approached, were several cut
and dangling wires, some of which had been partially replaced by quite
ordinary high tension cable. Spread about on the floor were lengths and
coils of wire.
"You've been working on it yourselves?" he asked Brown.
"No, no. As I told you, we are not technicians. Before we contacted
you, we had already tried another man. He proved unsatisfactory. We,
uh, paid him off and sought a better qualified person."
"Unsatisfactory, eh? Umm, I see." Dolan's eyes moved thoughtfully to
Smith, who lounged carelessly just inside the door. The coat now hung
smoothly, it was only when Smith moved that the hint of a bulge showed.
Dolan was a curious man, but also a prudent and thoughtful one. He
decided he did not want this job, it was time to get out. "I'll have to
go back for some equipment," he said casually. "Can you drive me in?"
He knew immediately that it was not going over. Brown frowned and
sucked thoughtfully at his lower lip.
"If you could make a list," Brown offered, "I could get it for you. You
could then be making a preliminary survey while I am gone. There is a
question of time involved, we wish these repairs made as quickly as
possible."
"Well ... I'm not sure ..."
"Miss Jones," Brown said persuasively, "is as well-versed as any of us
in the operation of the equipment. She could answer any questions you
might have."
The girl smiled and nodded. Smith, lounging by the door, casually moved
his hand to his belt, sweeping back his unbuttoned jacket slightly.
Brown stood waiting.
Dolan studied them silently for a moment. They couldn't force him to
take the job, he could simply turn them down and walk out. Or could
he? For some reason he did not quite understand, he was just a little
reluctant to test the idea.
"OK," he said shortly. He took his notebook and began to scribble a
list of equipment on a blank page. A message, he wondered, like they
do it in the movies? A request, maybe, for some outrageous piece of
equipment that would tip off the boys in the shop? No good, they
weren't that smart, and for that matter neither was he. Besides, what
did he really know? Nothing, except that he just didn't want this job
very much.
He tore the page out of the notebook and handed it to Brown. Brown
slipped it in his pocket and went out.
Dolan turned to the girl. "OK, Miss Jones," he said. "Now let's see
what we can figure out about this gear." He strolled completely around
it, eyeing it from all sides.
"Well ..." he said dubiously. "First, I guess, control. How do you
start it up, make it go?"
"We push these buttons, in this sequence," the girl told him. She moved
her fingers lightly over a series of studs set in a small cube.
"OK, push 'em. Let's see what happens."
"Nothing happens," the girl said. "The machine just doesn't work."
"Well, then, what's supposed to happen?"
The girl looked unhappy. "I'm sorry," she said finally, "didn't Mr.
Brown say you weren't to ask such questions?"
"OK," Dolan said resignedly, "we'll let that go then. How about this:
What indications do you have when it _is_ operating normally? Anything
light up, move, buzz, hum, spin around?"
The girl frowned thoughtfully and shook her head. "Nothing lights up,
moves, buzzes, hums, spins around. When the machine works, it ... well,
it just works, and that's all." She studied him with troubled eyes.
"You are an expert, it seems to me an expert should be able to look at
a machine and see what parts are faulty, isn't that true? Why must you
know what the machine does?"
Dolan leaned back against the machine and lit a cigarette. He squinted
thoughtfully at her through the smoke. Well, what the hell, with looks
like that, why should she need brains?
"Miss Jones," he said patiently, "I gather that you aren't a technical
person?"
"Not with machines, no."
It was an odd sort of answer. Did it imply that she had a technical
knowledge of something other than machines? Dolan considered it briefly
and decided to pass it up for now.
"I _am_ a technically trained person," he said, "an expert as you say;
and I can tell you this: machinery, electronic gear, anything like
that, is built to do a specific job. Before you can design, build, or
repair such equipment, the very first thing you have to know is: what
do you want it to do? For all I know, this machine here may just be an
overgrown coffee percolator. Now, suppose I go ahead and fix it with
that in mind, and when I get done it makes beautiful coffee, but it
turn out you wanted all along for it to get television programs, you're
going to be terribly disappointed. You see now why I have to know what
it does?"
The girl nodded seriously. "Yes," she admitted, "I can see that; but
I'm sorry, I still cannot tell you the purpose of the machine." She
glanced uncertainly at Smith. He shook his head minutely. "Perhaps,"
she said, "when Mr. Brown returns--"
* * * * *
Brown, however, did not convince easy.
Dolan puffed angrily at a cigarette, while Brown and the girl watched
him impassively.
"Damn it," he said, "it just won't work like this, that's all there is
to it." He kicked savagely at the base of the machine. "All I'm doing
is chasing my tail in circles. I know what part of the trouble is now,
somehow you've lost the insulation on your conductors--burned up,
evaporated, blew away, God knows what. Anyway, it's gone. But I can't
just spray some gunk back on and have it work like new, we just haven't
got that kind of insulation. Where'd you get that stuff, anyway. Can't
you get some more?"
"It was specially made for us," Brown told him. "We cannot get more
at ... present."
"I see." There had been a very slight accent on the "present". Did
it mean anything? And if so, what? "Well, I can rewire it for you,
use standard stuff, it won't look pretty but it might work, only what
should I use? I don't know what it needs--high voltage cable, or bell
wire; shielded or open. I've got to know what you've got in these black
boxes here--" he pounded gently on one, "before I know what to feed
them."
He snapped his cigarette into a corner, gloomily watched the smoke curl
up from it for a moment, then walked over and stepped heavily on it.
"So that's it," he said definitely. "I've been fooling with this thing
all day, and that's just exactly as far as I can go. It's up to you
people, you can give me the dope, I can't promise anything even then,
except just to try; or you might as well pay me off. I can hang around
here and put in more time, but you won't be getting anything out of it."
Brown studied his fingernails absently. "Perhaps you are right," he
said slowly. "However, I cannot act without consulting with Mr. Smith,
and he has gone into town to get some food for you, I am sure you must
be hungry. When he returns, I will let you know our decision."
"OK." Dolan mopped at his face with his handkerchief. "God, it's hot as
an oven in this shack," he said. Miss Jones smiled in sympathy, though
she looked cool enough.
"Come on, Miss Jones, let's get outside and cool off a bit."
"I think that would be nice," she agreed.
It was just turning dusk outside, and there was an agreeable breeze
coming up the valley. They walked over and sat down on a rocky ledge.
"Tell me, Miss Jones," he said suddenly, "do you like it here?"
"It's very pretty," she said. She looked out toward the ridge with the
sunset colors fading behind it. "Much nicer than the city."
"No, no," he said brusquely, "that's not what I mean. I mean, do you
like it _here_, in our world?"
"I don't think I understand you."
"I mean here, now, on this planet, in this time. Do you like it as well
as your own ... place?"
She stared up at him with wide puzzled eyes. "My own place? What other
planet or time do you think I might know?"
"I don't know, Miss Jones, I just...." He was not quite sure exactly
what he had been driving at, himself. "Forget it. Just a stupid idea."
He leaned back and let his eye follow the shadows up the valley. A
faint whiff of perfume reached him.
"Miss Jones," he said. "That's rather an awkward thing to call you. Do
you have a first name?"
"Jane Jones, naturally," she said, and smiled. "What else?"
"No good," he said firmly. "I might call you Mary, that's a nice
anonymous tag, and sounds better too ... or you could tell me your real
name, just the first name, that wouldn't give much away."
She considered silently. "Moirta," she said finally. "My name is
Moirta." She accented the syllables evenly.
"Moirta," he repeated. "Moirta." He rolled the "r" slightly, as she had
done. "That's much better, it fits you now, Moirta, and it fits the
cool shades of evenin'."
He looked down at her.
"Moirta," he said soberly. "It's a lovely name, truly."
He leaned forward and kissed her. Her lips met his, not coldly, and not
demandingly or fiercely, but gently and firmly, in the exact measure he
desired. He put his arms about her, and she came into them, supple but
not limp, as a beautifully trained dancer follows a lead. For a very
long moment they remained thus, lip to lip and breast to breast, the
yearning and response in each rising in swift even balance.
And then Brown opened the door, casting a shaft of light past them in
the dusk.
"Oh, Moirta," he called. "Are you there? Could you come here a moment,
please--"
* * * * *
The two male gun runners had stepped outside the cottage while Moirta
served Dolan his dinner. They found the smells and sounds of summer
night, the darkness itself--in their world there was no darkness except
in closed rooms--disturbing, but preferable to watching and hearing
Dolan eat.
"For primitive, natural," the senior gun runner said, "but--" he
winced, "_teeth!_"
"_Gnawing!_" the other agreed. He clicked his own non-functional
dentures experimentally, examined his fingers with fascinated
revulsion. Tender flesh, white teeth--ugh!
"Moirta," he said thoughtfully, "seems not to mind."
The senior gun runner cringed as a bat fluttered by. "Her specialty,"
he said absently, "not to mind." He strained his eyes to see into the
darkness. Was that a mouse rustling in the grass? Or worse yet, a
_snake_?
"Progress?" the younger man asked.
"Motivation set. Next, focus on problem. Pressure." It was _something_,
something small and alive, coming toward him. "Move nearer door," he
said abruptly. "Light."
* * * * *
"Mr. Smith and I have discussed the matter," Brown said, "and we have
decided to be completely frank with you." He paused, watching Dolan.
"The machine is a time translator," he said.