was a very busy day.
Things have quieted down a good deal since then. Billy is out of the hospital and wearing my old sergeant’s stripes. Even Fats is back, though he is sober once in a while now and has trouble looking me in the eye. We don’t have much to do because in addition to being a quiet town this is now an honest one.
Ned is on foot patrol nights and in charge of the lab and files days. Maybe the Policeman’s Benevolent wouldn’t like that, but Ned doesn’t seem to mind. He touched up all the bullet scratches and keeps his badge polished. I know a robot can’t be happy or sad—but Ned seems to be happy.
Sometimes I would swear I can hear him humming to himself. But, of course, that is only the motors and things going around.
When you start thinking about it, I suppose we set some kind of precedent here. What with putting on a robot as a full-fledged police officer. No one ever came around from the factory yet, so I have never found out if we’re the first or not.
And I’ll tell you something else. I’m not going to stay in this broken-down town forever. I have some letters out now, looking for a new job.
So some people are going to be very surprised when they see who their new Chief of Police is after I leave.
Political Application
by John Victor Peterson
John Victor Peterson lives in Jackson Heights, almost a stone’s throw from La Guardia Airfield. But he doesn’t just stand and watch the big planes roar past overhead. He has the kind of brilliant technical know-how which makes what goes on inside of a plane of paramount interest to him. He’s interested, too, in the future superduper gadgetry, as this hilarious yarn attests.
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.
I went precipitously backward over a coffee table.
It stabilized, a dead mockery, replica of a Neanderthal.
A placard hung on its chest. I read this:
“Even some of the early huntsmen weren’t successful. Abandon the chase, Monk. I’ve things to do and this—your blood brother, no doubt—couldn’t catch me any more than you can!”
Which positively infuriated me.
Do you blame me?
A few cussing, cussed minutes later I realized what Al Benson had apparently done: solved the torchship’s fuel problem.
Oh, I’d seen Klein bottles and Mobius strips and other things that twist in on themselves and into other dimensions, twisting into microcosms and macrocosms—into elsewhere, in any event. And here I had visual evidence that Benson had had something nearly six feet tall and certainly two feet in breadth enclosed in a nearly weightless carton less than eight inches on the side!
Sufficient fuel for a Marstrip? Just wrap it up!
The stereo’s audio was saying: “… from the Museum of Natural History. Curators are compiling a list of the missing exhibits which we will reveal to you on this channel as soon as it’s available. Now we switch to Dick Joy at City Hall with news of the latest exhibit found. Come in, Dick!”
On the steps of City Hall was a full size replica of a mastodon over whose massive back was draped a banner bearing the slogan: “The Universal Party is for you! Don’t return to prehistory with Cadigan! Re-elect President Ollie James and go to the stars!”
And