Watchers of the Dark. Lloyd Biggle jr.

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СКАЧАТЬ leaps, each laboriously calculated. Area-transmitting, Smith called it: it involved a leap to a destination area, carefully selected to avoid suns; as distinguished from point-transmitting, which was used only for limited distances within a solar system, and even then was rarely attempted without a transmitting receiver. The ship’s final transmitting leap would be to the general area of its destination. There it would revert to the clumsy status of an atomic-powered rocket in order to reach its assigned transfer station.

      There were only an Earth day from Primores, the central sun of the galaxy, when Miss Schlupe finally spoke the thought that had been on both their minds since they started.

      “I don’t like it,” she said. “I wish Smith had come along.”

      “Smith was scared silly. Didn’t you notice?”

      She stared at him. “How could you tell?”

      “Various things. He was afraid of the Dark, no pun intended. He was afraid the Dark would somehow locate us and polish us off right under his indented nose. That’s why we were spirited away from Earth in a sealed compartment, and why we were then held incommunicado in sealed quarters, and why Smith made elaborate arrangements to put us on this ship without our passing through a transfer station. The crew on Smith’s ship didn’t know we were aboard. No one at Certification Group Headquarters—except Smith— knew we were there. And no one on this ship knows anything about us except that we’re here. Smith was scared silly that the Dark would find us.”

      “It doesn’t make sense,” Miss Schlupe said.

      “It makes a great deal of sense. It shows us how omnipotent this menace is. What it’s done is so utterly unbelievable that rational people like Smith are convinced it can do anything.”

      “It doesn’t make sense to me. If Smith feared for our safety, why did he kick us out on our own? Why didn’t he come with us?”

      “He’s a prominent certification official. He was afraid it would compromise our mission if he were seen with us. He was afraid to take steps to protect us, because they would only attract attention to us, and the omnipotent Dark would promptly finish us off. An escort would attract attention. A special ship would attract attention, because nobody travels on special ships. A disguise might be recognized as such, and make the Dark’s agents wonder what we were trying to hide. Our only chance of safety is to be so inconspicuous as to be beneath suspicion.”

      “All right. So we arrive at Primores, and this Biag-n, or whatever his name is, meets us, and everything is hunky-dory. But what if he doesn’t show?”

      “He’s an agent of Supreme, so he’s probably a highly capable person. He knows the ship we’re on. He knows what we look like. We know what he looks like. Nothing has been left to chance. At least, I hope not. I’m looking forward to meeting this Mr. Biag-n. If he really knows the Dark from personal experience, I want some long overdue answers to about a thousand questions.”

      “I still think Smith should have come with us.”

      “I think so, too, but there was no arguing with him. Like I said, he was scared silly.”

      They cleared away all traces of their occupancy, dumping the last of their Earth food into the disposal, and they were packed and waiting when the signal came to disembark. Each of them clutching a suitcase, they stepped through to Primores Transfer Station Twelve, Arrival Level.

      And into a surrealist’s private zoo.

      For all of Smith’s talk about the galaxy’s divergent life forms, nothing he said had quite prepared them for this. Long before their minds had decided to accept what their astonished eyes saw, the sounds and odors had overwhelmed them. Several ships were unloading simultaneously, and from the curving row of transmitters came striding things, leaping things, scurrying things, crawling things, slithering things, even bouncing things, all pouring nonchalantly into the milling press of the Arrival Level. Some carried luggage, some towed it floating above them or rolling along the floor. A few were carried by it, riding haughtily on purring, streamlined valises.

      Darzek, keeping a firm grip on his own suitcase, nudged Miss Schlupe out of the central flow of passengers and into a quiet eddy, where they both stood staring.

      “The mere thought of it would have driven Noah nuts,” Darzek observed. “I never realized what a relative thing beauty is. Take that snail, for example. Not that one, the one with legs and no shell. Its shape is unimaginably ugly and its colors are indescribably beautiful. Smith was right. We didn’t need a disguise. I couldn’t even imagine a shape that would be conspicuous in this mélange. Is that an octopus with wings?”

      “How will this Biag-n character locate us in this mob?”

      “We’ll be conspicuous enough to anyone who knows what we look like. No chance of confusing us with that insect, for example—are the flowers part of its head, or is it wearing a hat? Biag-n should be conspicuous, too. Just keep an eye open for Tweedledum in skirts.”

      They drifted in widening circles, adroitly dodging through the main currents of traffic and pausing frequently. The room began to thin out.

      “Somebody goofed,” Miss Schlupe announced firmly.

      “It would seem so. However, we must allow for the inevitable mix-up and the unavoidable delay. This is Transfer Station Twelve; our friend may be dashing from station to station looking for us. Let’s keep circulating.”

      They began another circuit of the room. More ships had docked, and the arrival gates debouched a fresh surge of passengers. “It may be that he’s here, but doesn’t think the moment propitious,” Darzek said. “He may want to check carefully to see if anyone is spying on him.”

      “Spying with what?” Miss Schlupe demanded irritably. “Some of these things don’t have eyes. Some are even luckier —they don’t have noses.”

      Darzek looked at her quickly and thought he detected a tinge of green in her normally ruddy complexion.

      “I don’t mind the way they look,” she went on, “and I could probably get used to all this hissing and squealing and honking, but the smells!”

      “It does seem that we’ve stumbled upon an unlimited market for perfumes and deodorants,” Darzek agreed. “We can’t be certain, though. Maybe what we smell is perfume and deodorant!”

      They joined the newcomers and again drifted slowly across the room toward the numbered transmitter gates that linked the transfer station with the planets of the Primores system. Before they reached them they turned aside, made a half-circuit of the room, and began the trip anew.

      “Somebody goofed,” Miss Schlupe said again.

      “I was wondering if for some reason or other they might have found it necessary to send a substitute, but none of these hallucinations seems to be looking for us. They’re all intent on going somewhere else, and it’s just occurred to me that we’d better do the same, before someone gets the idea that we’re behaving abnormally.”

      “Sure. Where will we go?”

      “Schluppy, you have a remarkable gift for placing your finger on the precise nub of the problem. Let’s give it one more try.”

      They joined another surge of newcomers, but Darzek felt certain, now, that they were wasting their time. They were not going to be met—by anyone.

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