The Rule of the Door and Other Fanciful Regulations. Lloyd Biggle jr.

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СКАЧАТЬ are in charge. But I am going to invite more of these creatures here to try the Door. You can’t deny me that.”

      “No,” Skarn agreed. “I see no objection to that, as long as you invite them one at a time. You may use the reports and invite anyone you like.”

      In the morning there was a confidential message for Skarn. Dork Diffack had sent in an alarming complaint on Skarn’s management of his assignment, alleging that Skarn was deliberately delaying the selection of a proper specimen and displaying a suspicious penchant for native customs. The Prime Minister demanded an explanation.

      Skarn replied with a report on Dork’s treasonable suggestion that a specimen be obtained without the Door’s approval. He installed a mental lock on the master control, so Dork could not place the Door on manual operation without Skarn’s consent. For the moment Skarn’s position was secure, but he had a queasy feeling that time might be running out on him. His Imperial Majesty was not noted for his patience.

      * * * *

      Skarn walked to Centertown and wandered in and out of the stores, making casual purchases and attempting to engage the clerks in conversation. It puzzled him that they were, every one of them, obsessed with the weather. He could understand that a relatively primitive civilization that had not mastered weather control might regard the atmospheric conditions with awe and frustration, but he could not understand why every individual seemed to take a personal responsibility for it being the kind of day it was.

      “Nice day,” they would say. Or, “It sure is nice out.” Or, “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

      When Skarn attempted to direct the conversation into other channels, he was politely but firmly rebuffed. He would make his purchase and ask, “Do you know Jim Adams?”

      “Who doesn’t?” the clerk would say and move on to the next customer.

      “Do I know Chief White?” a shoeshine boy said. “I ain’t no criminal!”

      “What do I think of the mayor?” a waitress said. “I aim to vote for him. Another cup of coffee?”

      “Why—ah—yes,” Skarn said, and drank it, though it nauseated him.

      The natives he had invited to his home had talked volubly with him. Those he encountered about town were friendly enough if Skarn approached them first, but their restraint baffled him. What could account for such a fundamental difference in their behavior? It was a matter for profound psychological speculation.

      Skarn ate a revolting lunch at the drugstore and then cautiously descended the worn steps to the basement of the rickety city hall where police headquarters was located. Sam White was alone in the small headquarters room, chair tilted back, his feet resting comfortably on his desk.

      He nodded casually and pointed at a chair. “What brings you to the law?”

      “I am making a social call,” Skarn said politely.

      “Make yourself comfortable. Not many people come down here unless they have something to beef about.”

      “I suppose you meet more than your share of evil people,” Skarn said.

      “I wouldn’t say that. I really don’t believe there is such a thing as an evil person. We get some bad ones now and then, but there isn’t a one of them who couldn’t have been straightened out if someone had taken him in hand before he got too far out of line.”

      “Do you really believe that?”

      The chief smiled. “‘There is so much good in the worst of us, and so much bad in the best of us, that it hardly behooves any of us to talk about the rest of us.’ I might have written that myself if someone hadn’t beaten me to it.”

      “Do you really believe that?” Skarn persisted.

      “Of course I do. Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps me going.”

      “And yet you sometimes find it necessary to use violence on your prisoners.”

      Chief White’s feet hit the floor with a crash. “Nobody in this department uses violence on anybody!”

      “But I heard—”

      “Sure, you heard. You hear that about police anywhere. That’s a crook’s last line of defense. Catch him good and the only out he can think of is to try to blame something on the police. We have to be pretty damned careful to keep them from getting away with it.”

      “I see,” Skarn said meekly.

      The chief returned his feet to his desk, and Skarn lit a cigarette and sent a perfect smoke ring floating across the room The chief whistled.

      “You’ve got that down pat. What did I tell you?”

      “Your prediction was profoundly accurate.”

      “I’ll make another prediction. I think you’ll like chess. Want to learn?”

      Skarn watched curiously while the chief got out the board and arranged the oddly shaped pieces. “This,” the chief said, holding up a black one, “is a knight.”

      Skarn reached for a white one with identical shape. “And I suppose this is a day.”

      The chief flapped his arms and howled, and Skarn laughed with him, wondering why.

      It was dusk when Skarn walked slowly back up the hill. Dork was entertaining a guest—a female guest. Skarn slipped up the stairway unnoticed and activated the living room viewer. He had carefully avoided the native females in his own tests. Their psychology seemed infinitely more complex than that of the males, and their motives shrouded in fantastic obscurity.

      After a brief discussion Dork gave money to his female specimen, and she walked resolutely to the Door and shoved against it. It failed to open. A violent argument followed, and she flung the money at Dork and left.

      Dork did not offer to discuss the incident, and Skarn did not ask him about it.

      * * * *

      The stores were not yet open when Skarn reached Centertown the next morning. He walked the length of Main Street and back again, surprised at the number of familiar faces that he met. Jim Adams was slouched in front of the Center Bar, and when Skarn passed him a second time he squinted uncertainly and wiped a trembling hand across his eyes. “Oh, it’s you,” he said.

      “Nice morning, isn’t it?” Skarn found that he slipped into the native pattern of conversation with disconcerting ease. “This place will open in a few minutes. May I buy you a drink?”

      Adams said nothing. They were the first customers, and Skarn followed Adams to the bar, paid for the drink he ordered, and watched as he downed it greedily.

      “Another?” Skarn suggested.

      Adams wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared blankly at him. Skarn nodded at the bartender, who refilled the glass. Slumped over the bar, Adams gazed at it dumbly. Suddenly he clutched it and flung the contents into Skarn’s face.

      “I’m killing myself fast enough,” he said bitterly. “I don’t need your help.”

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