The Variable Man - 2

in a group, gesturing frantically. He could hear their faint shrill
shouts.
But he had got away. He was safe. He slowed the horses down and began
to breathe again.
The woods were artificial. Some kind of park. But the park was wild
and overgrown. A dense jungle of twisted plants. Everything growing in
confusion.
The park was empty. No one was there. By the position of the sun he
could tell it was either early morning or late afternoon. The smell of
the flowers and grass, the dampness of the leaves, indicated morning.
It had been late afternoon when the tornado had picked him up. And the
sky had been overcast and cloudy.
Cole considered. Clearly, he had been carried a long way. The
hospital, the men with white faces, the odd lighting, the accented
words he had caught--everything indicated he was no longer in
Nebraska--maybe not even in the United States.
Some of his tools had fallen out and gotten lost along the way. Cole
collected everything that remained, sorting them, running his fingers
over each tool with affection. Some of the little chisels and wood
gouges were gone. The bit box had opened, and most of the smaller bits
had been lost. He gathered up those that remained and replaced them
tenderly in the box. He took a key-hole saw down, and with an oil rag
wiped it carefully and replaced it.
Above the cart the sun rose slowly in the sky. Cole peered up, his
horny hand over his eyes. A big man, stoop-shouldered, his chin gray
and stubbled. His clothes wrinkled and dirty. But his eyes were clear,
a pale blue, and his hands were finely made.
He could not stay in the park. They had seen him ride that way; they
would be looking for him.
Far above something shot rapidly across the sky. A tiny black dot
moving with incredible haste. A second dot followed. The two dots were
gone almost before he saw them. They were utterly silent.
Cole frowned, perturbed. The dots made him uneasy. He would have to
keep moving--and looking for food. His stomach was already beginning
to rumble and groan.
Work. There was plenty he could do: gardening, sharpening, grinding,
repair work on machines and clocks, fixing all kinds of household
things. Even painting and odd jobs and carpentry and chores.
He could do anything. Anything people wanted done. For a meal and
pocket money.
Thomas Cole urged the team into life, moving forward. He sat hunched
over in the seat, watching intently, as the Fixit cart rolled slowly
across the tangled grass, through the jungle of trees and flowers.
* * * * *
Reinhart hurried, racing his cruiser at top speed, followed by a
second ship, a military escort. The ground sped by below him, a blur
of gray and green.
The remains of New York lay spread out, a twisted, blunted ruin
overgrown with weeds and grass. The great atomic wars of the twentieth
century had turned virtually the whole seaboard area into an endless
waste of slag.
Slag and weeds below him. And then the sudden tangle that had been
Central Park.
Histo-research came into sight. Reinhart swooped down, bringing his
cruiser to rest at the small supply field behind the main buildings.
Harper, the chief official of the department, came quickly over as
soon as Reinhart's ship landed.
"Frankly, we don't understand why you consider this matter important,"
Harper said uneasily.
Reinhart shot him a cold glance. "I'll be the judge of what's
important. Are you the one who gave the order to bring the bubble back
manually?"
"Fredman gave the actual order. In line with your directive to have
all facilities ready for--"
Reinhart headed toward the entrance of the research building. "Where
is Fredman?"
"Inside."
"I want to see him. Let's go."
Fredman met them inside. He greeted Reinhart calmly, showing no
emotion. "Sorry to cause you trouble, Commissioner. We were trying to
get the station in order for the war. We wanted the bubble back as
quickly as possible." He eyed Reinhart curiously. "No doubt the man
and his cart will soon be picked up by your police."
"I want to know everything that happened, in exact detail."
Fredman shifted uncomfortably. "There's not much to tell. I gave the
order to have the automatic setting canceled and the bubble brought
back manually. At the moment the signal reached it, the bubble was
passing through the spring of 1913. As it broke loose, it tore off a
piece of ground on which this person and his cart were located. The
person naturally was brought up to the present, inside the bubble."
"Didn't any of your instruments tell you the bubble was loaded?"
"We were too excited to take any readings. Half an hour after the
manual control was thrown, the bubble materialized in the observation
room. It was de-energized before anyone noticed what was inside. We
tried to stop him but he drove the cart out into the hall, bowling us
out of the way. The horses were in a panic."
"What kind of cart was it?"
"There was some kind of sign on it. Painted in black letters on both
sides. No one saw what it was."
"Go ahead. What happened then?"
"Somebody fired a Slem-ray after him, but it missed. The horses
carried him out of the building and onto the grounds. By the time we
reached the exit the cart was half way to the park."
Reinhart reflected. "If he's still in the park we should have him
shortly. But we must be careful." He was already starting back toward
his ship, leaving Fredman behind. Harper fell in beside him.
Reinhart halted by his ship. He beckoned some Government guards over.
"Put the executive staff of this department under arrest. I'll have
them tried on a treason count, later on." He smiled ironically as
Harper's face blanched sickly pale. "There's a war going on. You'll be
lucky if you get off alive."
Reinhart entered his ship and left the surface, rising rapidly into
the sky. A second ship followed after him, a military escort. Reinhart
flew high above the sea of gray slag, the unrecovered waste area. He
passed over a sudden square of green set in the ocean of gray.
Reinhart gazed back at it until it was gone.
Central Park. He could see police ships racing through the sky, ships
and transports loaded with troops, heading toward the square of green.
On the ground some heavy guns and surface cars rumbled along, lines of
black approaching the park from all sides.
They would have the man soon. But meanwhile, the SRB machines were
blank. And on the SRB machines' readings the whole war depended.
About noon the cart reached the edge of the park. Cole rested for a
moment, allowing the horses time to crop at the thick grass. The
silent expanse of slag amazed him. What had happened? Nothing stirred.
No buildings, no sign of life. Grass and weeds poked up occasionally
through it, breaking the flat surface here and there, but even so, the
sight gave him an uneasy chill.
Cole drove the cart slowly out onto the slag, studying the sky above
him. There was nothing to hide him, now that he was out of the park.
The slag was bare and uniform, like the ocean. If he were spotted--
A horde of tiny black dots raced across the sky, coming rapidly
closer. Presently they veered to the right and disappeared. More
planes, wingless metal planes. He watched them go, driving slowly on.
Half an hour later something appeared ahead. Cole slowed the cart
down, peering to see. The slag came to an end. He had reached its
limits. Ground appeared, dark soil and grass. Weeds grew everywhere.
Ahead of him, beyond the end of the slag, was a line of buildings,
houses of some sort. Or sheds.
Houses, probably. But not like any he had ever seen.
The houses were uniform, all exactly the same. Like little green
shells, rows of them, several hundred. There was a little lawn in
front of each. Lawn, a path, a front porch, bushes in a meager row
around each house. But the houses were all alike and very small.
Little green shells in precise, even rows. He urged the cart
cautiously forward, toward the houses.
No one seemed to be around. He entered a street between two rows of
houses, the hoofs of his two horses sounding loudly in the silence. He
was in some kind of town. But there were no dogs or children.
Everything was neat and silent. Like a model. An exhibit. It made him
uncomfortable.
A young man walking along the pavement gaped at him in wonder. An
oddly-dressed youth, in a toga-like cloak that hung down to his knees.
A single piece of fabric. And sandals.
Or what looked like sandals. Both the cloak and the sandals were of
some strange half-luminous material. It glowed faintly in the
sunlight. Metallic, rather than cloth.
A woman was watering flowers at the edge of a lawn. She straightened
up as his team of horses came near. Her eyes widened in
astonishment--and then fear. Her mouth fell open in a soundless _O_
and her sprinkling can slipped from her fingers and rolled silently
onto the lawn.
Cole blushed and turned his head quickly away. The woman was scarcely
dressed! He flicked the reins and urged the horses to hurry.
Behind him, the woman still stood. He stole a brief, hasty look
back--and then shouted hoarsely to his team, ears scarlet. He had seen
right. She wore only a pair of translucent shorts. Nothing else. A
mere fragment of the same half-luminous material that glowed and
sparkled. The rest of her small body was utterly naked.
He slowed the team down. She had been pretty. Brown hair and eyes,
deep red lips. Quite a good figure. Slender waist, downy legs, bare
and supple, full breasts--. He clamped the thought furiously off. He
had to get to work. Business.
Cole halted the Fixit cart and leaped down onto the pavement. He
selected a house at random and approached it cautiously. The house was
attractive. It had a certain simple beauty. But it looked frail--and
exactly like the others.
He stepped up on the porch. There was no bell. He searched for it,
running his hand uneasily over the surface of the door. All at once
there was a click, a sharp snap on a level with his eyes. Cole glanced
up, startled. A lens was vanishing as the door section slid over it.
He had been photographed.
While he was wondering what it meant, the door swung suddenly open. A
man filled up the entrance, a big man in a tan uniform, blocking the
way ominously.
"What do you want?" the man demanded.
"I'm looking for work," Cole murmured. "Any kind of work. I can do
anything, fix any kind of thing. I repair broken objects. Things that
need mending." His voice trailed off uncertainly. "Anything at all."
"Apply to the Placement Department of the Federal Activities Control
Board," the man said crisply. "You know all occupational therapy is
handled through them." He eyed Cole curiously. "Why have you got on
those ancient clothes?"
"Ancient? Why, I--"
The man gazed past him at the Fixit cart and the two dozing horses.
"What's that? What are those two animals? _Horses?_" The man rubbed
his jaw, studying Cole intently. "That's strange," he said.
"Strange?" Cole murmured uneasily. "Why?"
"There haven't been any horses for over a century. All the horses were
wiped out during the Fifth Atomic War. That's why it's strange."
Cole tensed, suddenly alert. There was something in the man's eyes, a
hardness, a piercing look. Cole moved back off the porch, onto the
path. He had to be careful. Something was wrong.
"I'll be going," he murmured.
"There haven't been any horses for over a hundred years." The man came
toward Cole. "Who are you? Why are you dressed up like that? Where did
you get that vehicle and pair of horses?"
"I'll be going," Cole repeated, moving away.
The man whipped something from his belt, a thin metal tube. He stuck
it toward Cole.
It was a rolled-up paper, a thin sheet of metal in the form of a tube.
Words, some kind of script. He could not make any of them out. The
man's picture, rows of numbers, figures--
"I'm Director Winslow," the man said. "Federal Stockpile Conservation.
You better talk fast, or there'll be a Security car here in five
minutes."
Cole moved--fast. He raced, head down, back along the path to the
cart, toward the street.
Something hit him. A wall of force, throwing him down on his face. He
sprawled in a heap, numb and dazed. His body ached, vibrating wildly,
out of control. Waves of shock rolled over him, gradually diminishing.
He got shakily to his feet. His head spun. He was weak, shattered,
trembling violently. The man was coming down the walk after him. Cole
pulled himself onto the cart, gasping and retching. The horses jumped
into life. Cole rolled over against the seat, sick with the motion of
the swaying cart.
He caught hold of the reins and managed to drag himself up in a
sitting position. The cart gained speed, turning a corner. Houses flew
past. Cole urged the team weakly, drawing great shuddering breaths.
Houses and streets, a blur of motion, as the cart flew faster and
faster along.
Then he was leaving the town, leaving the neat little houses behind.
He was on some sort of highway. Big buildings, factories, on both
sides of the highway. Figures, men watching in astonishment.
After awhile the factories fell behind. Cole slowed the team down.
What had the man meant? Fifth Atomic War. Horses destroyed. It didn't
make sense. And they had things he knew nothing about. Force fields.
Planes without wings--soundless.
Cole reached around in his pockets. He found the identification tube
the man had handed him. In the excitement he had carried it off. He
unrolled the tube slowly and began to study it. The writing was
strange to him.
For a long time he studied the tube. Then, gradually, he became aware
of something. Something in the top right-hand corner.
A date. October 6, 2128.
Cole's vision blurred. Everything spun and wavered around him.
October, 2128. Could it be?
But he held the paper in his hand. Thin, metal paper. Like foil. And
it had to be. It said so, right in the corner, printed on the paper
itself.
Cole rolled the tube up slowly, numbed with shock. Two hundred years.
It didn't seem possible. But things were beginning to make sense. He
was in the future, two hundred years in the future.
While he was mulling this over, the swift black Security ship appeared
overhead, diving rapidly toward the horse-drawn cart, as it moved
slowly along the road.
Reinhart's vidscreen buzzed. He snapped it quickly on. "Yes?"
"Report from Security."
"Put it through." Reinhart waited tensely as the lines locked in
place. The screen re-lit.
"This is Dixon. Western Regional Command." The officer cleared his
throat, shuffling his message plates. "The man from the past has been
reported, moving away from the New York area."
"Which side of your net?"
"Outside. He evaded the net around Central Park by entering one of the
small towns at the rim of the slag area."
"_Evaded?_"
"We assumed he would avoid the towns. Naturally the net failed to
encompass any of the towns."
Reinhart's jaw stiffened. "Go on."
"He entered the town of Petersville a few minutes before the net
closed around the park. We burned the park level, but naturally found
nothing. He had already gone. An hour later we received a report from
a resident in Petersville, an official of the Stockpile Conservation
Department. The man from the past had come to his door, looking for
work. Winslow, the official, engaged him in conversation, trying to
hold onto him, but he escaped, driving his cart off. Winslow called
Security right away, but by then it was too late."
"Report to me as soon as anything more comes in. We must have him--and
damn soon." Reinhart snapped the screen off. It died quickly.
He sat back in his chair, waiting.
Cole saw the shadow of the Security ship. He reacted at once. A second
after the shadow passed over him, Cole was out of the cart, running
and falling. He rolled, twisting and turning, pulling his body as far
away from the cart as possible.
There was a blinding roar and flash of white light. A hot wind rolled
over Cole, picking him up and tossing him like a leaf. He shut his
eyes, letting his body relax. He bounced, falling and striking the
ground. Gravel and stones tore into his face, his knees, the palms of
his hands.
Cole cried out, shrieking in pain. His body was on fire. He was being
consumed, incinerated by the blinding white orb of fire. The orb
expanded, growing in size, swelling like some monstrous sun, twisted
and bloated. The end had come. There was no hope. He gritted his
teeth--
The greedy orb faded, dying down. It sputtered and winked out,
blackening into ash. The air reeked, a bitter acrid smell. His clothes
were burning and smoking. The ground under him was hot, baked dry,
seared by the blast. But he was alive. At least, for awhile.
Cole opened his eyes slowly. The cart was gone. A great hole gaped
where it had been, a shattered sore in the center of the highway. An
ugly cloud hung above the hole, black and ominous. Far above, the
wingless plane circled, watching for any signs of life.
Cole lay, breathing shallowly, slowly. Time passed. The sun moved
across the sky with agonizing slowness. It was perhaps four in the
afternoon. Cole calculated mentally. In three hours it would be dark.
If he could stay alive until then--
Had the plane seen him leap from the cart?
He lay without moving. The late afternoon sun beat down on him. He
felt sick, nauseated and feverish. His mouth was dry.
Some ants ran over his outstretched hand. Gradually, the immense black
cloud was beginning to drift away, dispersing into a formless blob.
The cart was gone. The thought lashed against him, pounding at his
brain, mixing with his labored pulse-beat. _Gone._ Destroyed. Nothing
but ashes and debris remained. The realization dazed him.
Finally the plane finished its circling, winging its way toward the
horizon. At last it vanished. The sky was clear.
Cole got unsteadily to his feet. He wiped his face shakily. His body
ached and trembled. He spat a couple times, trying to clear his mouth.
The plane would probably send in a report. People would be coming to
look for him. Where could he go?
To his right a line of hills rose up, a distant green mass. Maybe he
could reach them. He began to walk slowly. He had to be very careful.
They were looking for him--and they had weapons. Incredible weapons.
He would be lucky to still be alive when the sun set. His team and
Fixit cart were gone--and all his tools. Cole reached into his
pockets, searching through them hopefully. He brought out some small
screwdrivers, a little pair of cutting pliers, some wire, some solder,
the whetstone, and finally the lady's knife.
Only a few small tools remained. He had lost everything else. But
without the cart he was safer, harder to spot. They would have more
trouble finding him, on foot.
Cole hurried along, crossing the level fields toward the distant range
of hills.
The call came through to Reinhart almost at once. Dixon's features
formed on the vidscreen. "I have a further report, Commissioner."
Dixon scanned the plate. "Good news. The man from the past was sighted
moving away from Petersville, along highway 13, at about ten miles an
hour, on his horse-drawn cart. Our ship bombed him immediately."
"Did--did you get him?"
"The pilot reports no sign of life after the blast."
Reinhart's pulse almost stopped. He sank back in his chair. "Then he's
dead!"
"Actually, we won't know for certain until we can examine the debris.
A surface car is speeding toward the spot. We should have the complete
report in a short time. We'll notify you as soon as the information
comes in."
Reinhart reached out and cut the screen. It faded into darkness. Had
they got the man from the past? Or had he escaped again? Weren't they
ever going to get him? Couldn't he be captured? And meanwhile, the SRB
machines were silent, showing nothing at all.
Reinhart sat brooding, waiting impatiently for the report of the
surface car to come in.
* * * * *
It was evening.
"Come on!" Steven shouted, running frantically after his brother.
"Come on back!"
"Catch me." Earl ran and ran, down the side of the hill, over behind a
military storage depot, along a neotex fence, jumping finally down
into Mrs. Norris' back yard.
Steven hurried after his brother, sobbing for breath, shouting and
gasping as he ran. "Come back! You come back with that!"
"What's he got?" Sally Tate demanded, stepping out suddenly to block
Steven's way.
[Illustration]
Steven halted, his chest rising and falling. "He's got my intersystem
vidsender." His small face twisted with rage and misery. "He better
give it back!"
Earl came circling around from the right. In the warm gloom of evening
he was almost invisible. "Here I am," he announced. "What you going to
do?"
Steven glared at him hotly. His eyes made out the square box in Earl's
hands. "You give that back! Or--or I'll tell Dad."
Earl laughed. "Make me."
"Dad'll make you."
"You better give it to him," Sally said.
"Catch me." Earl started off. Steven pushed Sally out of the way,
lashing wildly at his brother. He collided with him, throwing him
sprawling. The box fell from Earl's hands. It skidded to the pavement,
crashing into the side of a guide-light post.
Earl and Steven picked themselves up slowly. They gazed down at the
broken box.
"See?" Steven shrilled, tears filling his eyes. "See what you did?"
"You did it. You pushed into me."
"You did it!"' Steven bent down and picked up the box. He carried it
over to the guide-light, sitting down on the curb to examine it.
Earl came slowly over. "If you hadn't pushed me it wouldn't have got
broken."
Night was descending rapidly. The line of hills rising above the town
were already lost in darkness. A few lights had come on here and
there. The evening was warm. A surface car slammed its doors, some
place off in the distance. In the sky ships droned back and forth,
weary commuters coming home from work in the big underground factory
units.
Thomas Cole came slowly toward the three children grouped around the
guide-light. He moved with difficulty, his body sore and bent with
fatigue. Night had come, but he was not safe yet.
He was tired, exhausted and hungry. He had walked a long way. And he
had to have something to eat--soon.
A few feet from the children Cole stopped. They were all intent and
absorbed by the box on Steven's knees. Suddenly a hush fell over the
children. Earl looked up slowly.
In the dim light the big stooped figure of Thomas Cole seemed extra
menacing. His long arms hung down loosely at his sides. His face was
lost in shadow. His body was shapeless, indistinct. A big unformed
statue, standing silently a few feet away, unmoving in the
half-darkness.
"Who are you?" Earl demanded, his voice low.
"What do you want?" Sally said. The children edged away nervously.
"Get away."
Cole came toward them. He bent down a little. The beam from the
guide-light crossed his features. Lean, prominent nose, beak-like,
faded blue eyes--
Steven scrambled to his feet, clutching the vidsender box. "You get
out of here!"
"Wait." Cole smiled crookedly at them. His voice was dry and raspy.
"What do you have there?" He pointed with his long, slender fingers.
"The box you're holding."
The children were silent. Finally Steven stirred. "It's my
inter-system vidsender."
"Only it doesn't work," Sally said.
"Earl broke it." Steven glared at his brother bitterly. "Earl threw it
down and broke it."
Cole smiled a little. He sank down wearily on the edge of the curb,
sighing with relief. He had been walking too long. His body ached with
fatigue. He was hungry, and tired. For a long time he sat, wiping
perspiration from his neck and face, too exhausted to speak.
"Who are you?" Sally demanded, at last. "Why do you have on those
funny clothes? Where did you come from?"
"Where?" Cole looked around at the children. "From a long way off. A
long way." He shook his head slowly from side to side, trying to clear
it.
"What's your therapy?" Earl said.
"My therapy?"
"What do you do? Where do you work?"
Cole took a deep breath and let it out again slowly. "I fix things.
All kinds of things. Any kind."
Earl sneered. "Nobody fixes things. When they break you throw them
away."
Cole didn't hear him. Sudden need had roused him, getting him suddenly
to his feet. "You know any work I can find?" he demanded. "Things I
could do? I can fix anything. Clocks, type-writers, refrigerators,
pots and pans. Leaks in the roof. I can fix anything there is."
Steven held out his inter-system vidsender. "Fix this."
There was silence. Slowly, Cole's eyes focussed on the box. "That?"
"My sender. Earl broke it."
Cole took the box slowly. He turned it over, holding it up to the
light. He frowned, concentrating on it. His long, slender fingers
moved carefully over the surface, exploring it.
"He'll steal it!" Earl said suddenly.
"No." Cole shook his head vaguely. "I'm reliable." His sensitive
fingers found the studs that held the box together. He depressed the
studs, pushing them expertly in. The box opened, revealing its complex
interior.
"He got it open," Sally whispered.
"Give it back!" Steven demanded, a little frightened. He held out his
hand. "I want it back."
The three children watched Cole apprehensively. Cole fumbled in his
pocket. Slowly he brought out his tiny screwdrivers and pliers. He
laid them in a row beside him. He made no move to return the box.
"I want it back," Steven said feebly.
Cole looked up. His faded blue eyes took in the sight of the three
children standing before him in the gloom. "I'll fix it for you. You
said you wanted it fixed."
"I want it back." Steven stood on one foot, then the other, torn by
doubt and indecision. "Can you really fix it? Can you make it work
again?"
"Yes."
"All right. Fix it for me, then."
A sly smile flickered across Cole's tired face. "Now, wait a minute.
If I fix it, will you bring me something to eat? I'm not fixing it for
nothing."
"Something to eat?"
"Food. I need hot food. Maybe some coffee."
Steven nodded. "Yes. I'll get it for you."
Cole relaxed. "Fine. That's fine." He turned his attention back to the
box resting between his knees. "Then I'll fix it for you. I'll fix it
for you good."
His fingers flew, working and twisting, tracing down wires and relays,
exploring and examining. Finding out about the inter-system vidsender.
Discovering how it worked.
Steven slipped into the house through the emergency door. He made his
way to the kitchen with great care, walking on tip-toe. He punched the
kitchen controls at random, his heart beating excitedly. The stove
began to whirr, purring into life. Meter readings came on, crossing
toward the completion marks.
Presently the stove opened, sliding out a tray of steaming dishes. The
mechanism clicked off, dying into silence. Steven grabbed up the
contents of the tray, filling his arms. He carried everything down the
hall, out the emergency door and into the yard. The yard was dark.
Steven felt his way carefully along.
He managed to reach the guide-light without dropping anything at all.
Thomas Cole got slowly to his feet as Steven came into view. "Here,"
Steven said. He dumped the food onto the curb, gasping for breath.
"Here's the food. Is it finished?"
Cole held out the inter-system vidsender. "It's finished. It was
pretty badly smashed."