_Just as medicine is not a science, but rather an art--a device, practised in a scientific manner, in its best manifestations--time-travel stories are not science fiction. Time-travel, however, has become acceptable to science fiction readers as a traditional device in stories than are otherwise admissible in the genre. Here, Frederik Pohl employs it to portray the amusingly catastrophic meeting of three societies. _ THE DAY OF THE BOOMER DUKES by Frederik Pohl _Illustrated by EMSH_ [Illustration: There was a silvery aura around the kid . . . The cops'guns hit him . . . But he didn't notice. . . . ] I Foraminifera 9 Paptaste udderly, semped sempsemp dezhavoo, qued schmerz--Excuse me. Imean to say that it was like an endless diet of days, boring, tedious. . . . No, it loses too much in the translation. Explete my reasons, I say. Domy reasons matter? No, not to you, for you are troglodytes, knowingnothing of causes, understanding only acts. Acts and facts, I will giveyou acts and facts. First you must know how I am called. My "name" is Foraminifera 9-HartBailey's Beam, and I am of adequate age and size. (If you doubt this, Iam prepared to fight. ) Once the--the tediety of life, as you might say, had made itself clear to me, there were, of course, only twoalternatives. I do not like to die, so that possibility was out; and theremaining alternative was flight. Naturally, the necessary machinery was available to me. I arrogated asmall viewing machine, and scanned the centuries of the past in the hopethat a sanctuary might reveal itself to my aching eyes. Kwel tedietythat was! Back, back I went through the ages. Back to the Century of theDog, back to the Age of the Crippled Men. I found no time better thanmy own. Back and back I peered, back as far as the Numbered Years. TheTwenty-Eighth Century was boredom unendurable, the Twenty-Sixth a morassof dullness. Twenty-Fifth, Twenty-Fourth--wherever I looked, tediety waswhat I found. * * * * * I snapped off the machine and considered. Put the problem thus: Wasthere in all of the pages of history no age in which a 9-Hart Bailey'sBeam might find adventure and excitement? There had to be! It was notpossible, I told myself, despairing, that from the dawn of the dreamingprimates until my own time there was no era at all in which I couldbe--happy? Yes, I suppose happiness is what I was looking for. But wherewas it? In my viewer, I had fifty centuries or more to look back upon. And that was, I decreed, the trouble; I could spend my life staring intothe viewer, and yet never discover the time that was right for me. Therewere simply too many eras to choose from. It was like an enormouslibrary in which there must, there had to be, contained the one fact Iwas looking for--that, lacking an index, I might wear my life away andnever find. "_Index!_" I said the word aloud! For, to be sure, it was the answer. I had thefreedom of the Learning Lodge, and the index in the reading room couldeasily find for me just what I wanted. Splendid, splendid! I almost felt cheerful. I quickly returned theviewer I had been using to the keeper, and received my deposit back. Ihurried to the Learning Lodge and fed my specifications into the index, as follows, that is to say: Find me a time in recent past where there isadventure and excitement, where there is a secret, colorful band ofdesperadoes with whom I can ally myself. I then added twospecifications--second, that it should be before the time of the highradiation levels; and first, that it should be after the discovery ofanesthesia, in case of accident--and retired to a desk in the readingroom to await results. It took only a few moments, which I occupied in making a list of thegear I wished to take with me. Then there was a hiss and a crackle, andin the receiver of the desk a book appeared. I unzipped the case, tookit out, and opened it to the pages marked on the attached reading tape. I had found my wonderland of adventure! * * * * * Ah, hours and days of exciting preparation! What a round of packing andbuying; what a filling out of forms and a stamping of visas; what anorgy of injections and inoculations and preventive therapy! Merelygetting ready for the trip made my pulse race faster and my adrenalinbalance rise to the very point of paranoia; it was like being given atrue blue new chance to live. At last I was ready. I stepped into the transmission capsule; set thedials; unlocked the door, stepped out; collapsed the capsule and storedit away in my carry-all; and looked about at my new home. Pyew! Kwel smell of staleness, of sourness, above all of coldness! Itwas a close matter then if I would be able to keep from a violenteructative stenosis, as you say. I closed my eyes and remembered warmviolets for a moment, and then it was all right. The coldness was not merely a smell; it was a physical fact. There was adamp grayish substance underfoot which I recognized as snow; and in ahard-surfaced roadway there were a number of wheeled vehicles moving, which caused the liquefying snow to splash about me. I adjusted my coatcontrols for warmth and deflection, but that was the best I could do. The reek of stale decay remained. Then there were also the buildings, painfully almost vertical. I believe it would not have disturbed me ifthey had been truly vertical; but many of them were minutes of arc froma true perpendicular, all of them covered with a carbonaceous materialwhich I instantly perceived was an inadvertent deposit from the air. Itwas a bad beginning! However, I was not _bored_. * * * * * I made my way down the "street, " as you say, toward where a group ofyoung men were walking toward me, five abreast. As I came near, theylooked at me with interest and kwel respect, conversing with each otherin whispers. I addressed them: "Sirs, please direct me to the nearest recruitingoffice, as you call it, for the dread Camorra. " They stopped and pressed about me, looking at me intently. They werehandsomely, though crudely dressed in coats of a striking orange color, and long trousers of an extremely dark material. I decreed that I might not have made them understand me--it is alwaysprobable, it is understood, that a quicknik course in dialects of thepast may not give one instant command of spoken communication in thefield. I spoke again: "I wish to encounter a representative of theCamorra, in other words the Black Hand, in other words the cruel andsinister Sicilian terrorists named the Mafia. Do you know where thesecan be found?" One of them said, "Nay. What's that jive?" I puzzled over what he had said for a moment, but in the end decreedthat his message was sensefree. As I was about to speak, however, hesaid suddenly: "Let's rove, man. " And all five of them walked quicklyaway a few "yards. " It was quite disappointing. I observed themconferring among themselves, glancing at me, and for a time proposedterminating my venture, for I then believed that it would be better toreturn "home, " as you say, in order to more adequately research thematter. * * * * * However, the five young men came toward me again. The one who had spokenbefore, who I now detected was somewhat taller and fatter than theothers, spoke as follows: "You're wanting the Mafia?" I agreed. Helooked at me for a moment. "Are you holding?" He was inordinately hard to understand. I said, slowly and withpatience, "Keska that 'holding' say?" "Money, man. You going to slip us something to help you find thesecats?" "Certainly, money. I have a great quantity of money instantlyavailable, " I rejoined him. This appeared to relieve his mind. There was a short pause, directly after which this first of the youngmen spoke: "You're on, man. Yeah, come with us. What's to call you?" Iqueried this last statement, and he expanded: "The name. What's thename?" "You may call me Foraminifera 9, " I directed, since I wished to beincognito, as you put it, and we proceeded along the "street. " All fiveof the young men indicated a desire to serve me, offering indeed to takemy carry-all. I rejected this, politely. I looked about me with lively interest, as you may well believe. Kweldirt, kwel dinginess, kwel cold! And yet there was a certain charm whichI can determine no way of expressing in this language. Acts and facts, of course. I shall not attempt to capture the subjectivity which is thecharm, only to transcribe the physical datum--perhaps even data, whoknows? My companions, for example: They were in appearance overwrought, looking about them continually, stopping entirely and drawing me withthem into the shelter of a "door" when another man, this one wearingblue clothing and a visored hat appeared. Yet they were clearly devotedto me, at that moment, since they had put aside their own projects inorder to escort me without delay to the Mafia. * * * * * Mafia! Fortunate that I had found them to lead me to the Mafia! For ithad been clear in the historical work I had consulted that it was notultimately easy to gain access to the Mafia. Indeed, so secret were theythat I had detected no trace of their existence in other histories ofthe period. Had I relied only on the conventional work, I might neverhave known of their great underground struggle against what you termsociety. It was only in the actual contemporary volume itself, thecuriosity titled _U. S. A. Confidential_ by one Lait and one Mortimer, that I had descried that, throughout the world, this great revolutionaryorganization flexed its tentacles, the plexus within a short distance ofwhere I now stood, battling courageously. With me to help them, whatheights might we not attain! Kwel dramatic delight! My meditations were interrupted. "Boomers!" asserted one of my fiveescorts in a loud, frightened tone. "Let's cut, man!" he continued, leading me with them into another entrance. It appeared, as well as Icould decree, that the cause of his ejaculative outcry was the discoveryof perhaps three, perhaps four, other young men, in coats of the sameshiny material as my escorts. The difference was that they were of adifferent color, being blue. * * * * * We hastened along a lengthy chamber which was quite dark, immediatelyafter which the large, heavy one opened a way to a serrated inclineleading downward. It was extremely dark, I should say. There was also anextreme smell, quite like that of the outer air, but enormouslyintensified; one would suspect that there was an incomplete combustionof, perhaps, wood or coal, as well as a certain quantity of generaldecay. At any rate, we reached the bottom of the incline, and my escortbehaved quite badly. One of them said to the other four, in these words:"Them jumpers follow us sure. Yeah, there's much trouble. What's toprime this guy now and split?" Instantly they fell upon me with violence. I had fortunately becomerather alarmed at their visible emotion of fear, and already had takenfrom my carry-all a Stollgratz 16, so that I quickly turned it on them. I started to replace the Stollgratz 16 as they fell to the floor, yet Irealized that there might be an additional element of danger. Instead ofputting the Stollgratz 16 in with the other trade goods, which I hadbrought to assist me in negotiating with the Mafia, I transferred it tomy jacket. It had become clear to me that the five young men of myescort had intended to abduct and rob me--indeed had intended it allalong, perhaps having never intended to convoy me to the office of theMafia. And the other young men, those who wore the blue jackets in placeof the orange, were already descending the incline toward me, quiterapidly. "Stop, " I directed them. "I shall not entrust myself to you until youhave given me evidence that you entirely deserve such trust. " * * * * * They all halted, regarding me and the Stollgratz 16. I detected that oneof them said to another: "That cat's got a zip. " The other denied this, saying: "That no zip, man. Yeah, look at themLeopards. Say, you bust them flunkies with that thing?" I perceived his meaning quite quickly. "You are 'correct', " I rejoined. "Are you associated in friendship with them flunkies?" "Hell, no. Yeah, they're Leopards and we're Boomer Dukes. You cool them, you do us much good. " I received this information as indicating that thetwo socio-economic units were inimical, and unfortunately lapsed into anexample of the Bivalent Error. Since p implied not-q, I sloppily assumedthat not-q implied r (with, you understand, r being taken as the classof phenomena pertinently favorable to me). This was a very poorconstruction, and of course resulted in certain difficulties. Qued, after all. I stated: "Them flunkies offered to conduct me to a recruiting office, as you say, of the Mafia, but instead tried to take from me the much money I amholding. " I then went on to describe to them my desire to attain contactwith the said Mafia; meanwhile they descended further and grouped aboutme in the very little light, examining curiously the motionless figuresof the Leopards. They seemed to be greatly impressed; and at the same time, very muchpuzzled. Naturally. They looked at the Leopards, and then at me. They gave every evidence of wishing to help me; but of course if I hadnot forgotten that one cannot assume from the statements "not-Leopardimplies Boomer Duke" and "not-Leopard implies Foraminifera 9" that, qued, "Boomer Duke implies Foraminifera 9" . . . If I had not forgottenthis, I say, I should not have been "deceived. " For in practice theywere as little favorable to me as the Leopards. A certain member oftheir party reached a position behind me. I quickly perceived that his intention was not favorable, and attemptedto turn around in order to discharge at him with the Stollgratz 16, buthe was very rapid. He had a metallic cylinder, and with it struck myhead, knocking "me" unconscious. II Shield 8805 This candy store is called Chris's. There must be ten thousand like itin the city. A marble counter with perhaps five stools, a display caseof cigars and a bigger one of candy, a few dozen girlie magazineshanging by clothespin-sort-of things from wire ropes along the wall. Ithas a couple of very small glass-topped tables under the magazines. Anda juke--I can't imagine a place like Chris's without a juke. I had been sitting around Chris's for a couple of hours, and I wasbeginning to get edgy. The reason I was sitting around Chris's was notthat I liked Cokes particularly, but that it was one of the hanging-outplaces of a juvenile gang called The Leopards, with whom I had beentrying to work for nearly a year; and the reason I was becoming edgy wasthat I didn't see any of them there. The boy behind the counter--he had the same first name as I, Walter inboth cases, though my last name is Hutner and his is, I believe, something Puerto Rican--the boy behind the counter was dummying up, too. I tried to talk to him, on and off, when he wasn't busy. He wasn't busymost of the time; it was too cold for sodas. But he just didn't want totalk. Now, these kids love to talk. A lot of what they say doesn't makesense--either bullying, or bragging, or purposeless swearing--but talkis their normal state; when they quiet down it means trouble. Forinstance, if you ever find yourself walking down Thirty-Fifth Street anda couple of kids pass you, talking, you don't have to bother lookingaround; but if they stop talking, turn quickly. You're about to bemugged. Not that Walt was a mugger--as far as I know; but that's thepattern of the enclave. * * * * * So his being quiet was a bad sign. It might mean that a rumble wasbrewing--and that meant that my work so far had been pretty nearly afailure. Even worse, it might mean that somehow the Leopards haddiscovered that I had at last passed my examinations and been appointedto the New York City Police Force as a rookie patrolman, Shield 8805. Trying to work with these kids is hard enough at best. They don't likeoutsiders. But they particularly hate cops, and I had been trying forsome weeks to decide how I could break the news to them. The door opened. Hawk stood there. He didn't look at me, which was a badsign. Hawk was one of the youngest in the Leopards, a skinny, very darkkid who had been reasonably friendly to me. He stood in the open door, with snow blowing in past him. "Walt. Out here, man. " It wasn't me he meant--they call me "Champ, " I suppose because I beatthem all shooting eight-ball pool. Walt put down the comic he had beenreading and walked out, also without looking at me. They closed thedoor. * * * * * Time passed. I saw them through the window, talking to each other, looking at me. It was something, all right. They were scared. That'sbad, because these kids are like wild animals; if you scare them, theyhit first--it's the only way they know to defend themselves. But on theother hand, a rumble wouldn't scare them--not where they would show it;and finding out about the shield in my pocket wouldn't scare them, either. They hated cops, as I say; but cops were a part of theirenvironment. It was strange, and baffling. Walt came back in, and Hawk walked rapidly away. Walt went behind thecounter, lit a cigaret, wiped at the marble top, picked up his comic, put it down again and finally looked at me. He said: "Some punk bustedFayo and a couple of the boys. It's real trouble. " I didn't say anything. He took a puff on his cigaret. "They're chilled, Champ. Five of them. " "Chilled? Dead?" It sounded bad; there hadn't been a real rumble inmonths, not with a killing. He shook his head. "Not dead. You're wanting to see, you go down Gomez'scellar. Yeah, they're all stiff but they're breathing. I be along soonas the old man comes back in the store. " He looked pretty sick. I left it at that and hurried down the block tothe tenement where the Gomez family lived, and then I found out why. * * * * * They were sprawled on the filthy floor of the cellar like winoes in analley. Fayo, who ran the gang; Jap; Baker; two others I didn't know aswell. They were breathing, as Walt had said, but you just couldn't wakethem up. Hawk and his twin brother, Yogi, were there with them, looking scared. Icouldn't blame them. The kids looked perfectly all right, but it wasobvious that they weren't. I bent down and smelled, but there was notrace of liquor or anything else on their breath. I stood up. "We'd better get a doctor. " "Nay. You call the meat wagon, and a cop comes right with it, man, " Yogisaid, and his brother nodded. I laid off that for a moment. "What happened?" Hawk said, "You know that witch Gloria, goes with one of the BoomerDukes? She opened her big mouth to my girl. Yeah, opened her mouth andmuch bad talk came out. Said Fayo primed some jumper with a zip and thepunk cooled him, and then a couple of the Boomers moved in real cool. Now they got the punk with the zip and much other stuff, real stuff. " "What kind of stuff?" Hawk looked worried. He finally admitted that he didn't know what kindof stuff, but it was something dangerous in the way of weapons. It hadbeen the "zip" that had knocked out the five Leopards. I sent Hawk out to the drug-store for smelling salts and containers ofhot black coffee--not that I knew what I was doing, of course, but theywere dead set against calling an ambulance. And the boys didn't seem tobe in any particular danger, only sleep. * * * * * However, even then I knew that this kind of trouble was something Icouldn't handle alone. It was a tossup what to do--the smart thing wasto call the precinct right then and there; but I couldn't help feelingthat that would make the Leopards clam up hopelessly. The six months Ihad spent trying to work with them had not been too successful--a lot ofthe other neighborhood workers had made a lot more progress than I--butat least they were willing to talk to me; and they wouldn't talk touniformed police. Besides, as soon as I had been sworn in, the day before, I had begun thepractice of carrying my . 38 at all times, as the regulations say. It wasin my coat. There was no reason for me to feel I needed it. But I did. If there was any truth to the story of a "zip" knocking out theboys--and I had all five of them right there for evidence--I had theunpleasant conviction that there was real trouble circulating aroundEast Harlem that afternoon. "Champ. They all waking up!" I turned around, and Hawk was right. The five Leopards, all of a sudden, were stirring and opening their eyes. Maybe the smelling salts hadsomething to do with it, but I rather think not. We fed them some of the black coffee, still reasonably hot. They werescared; they were more scared than anything I had ever seen in thosekids before. They could hardly talk at first, and when finally they camearound enough to tell me what had happened I could hardly believe them. This man had been small and peculiar, and he had been looking for, ofall things, the "Mafia, " which he had read about in historybooks--_old_ history books. Well, it didn't make sense, unless you were prepared to make a certainassumption that I refused to make. Man from Mars? Nonsense. Or from thefuture? Equally ridiculous. . . . * * * * * Then the five Leopards, reviving, began to walk around. The cellar wasdark and dirty, and packed with the accumulation of generations in theway of old furniture and rat-inhabited mattresses and piles ofnewspapers; it wasn't surprising that we hadn't noticed the littlegleaming thing that had apparently rolled under an abandoned potbellystove. Jap picked it up, squalled, dropped it and yelled for me. I touched it cautiously, and it tingled. It wasn't painful, but it wasan odd, unexpected feeling--perhaps you've come across the "buzzers"that novelty stores sell which, concealed in the palm, give a sudden, surprising tingle when the owner shakes hands with an unsuspectingfriend. It was like that, like a mild electric shock. I picked it up andheld it. It gleamed brightly, with a light of its own; it was round; itmade a faint droning sound; I turned it over, and it spoke to me. Itsaid in a friendly, feminine whisper: _Warning, this portatron attunedonly to Bailey's Beam percepts. Remain quiescent until the Adjustercomes. _ That settled it. Any time a lit-up cue ball talks to me, I refer thematter to higher authority. I decided on the spot that I was heading forthe precinct house, no matter what the Leopards thought. But when I turned and headed for the stairs, I couldn't move. My feetsimply would not lift off the ground. I twisted, and stumbled, and fellin a heap; I yelled for help, but it didn't do any good. The Leopardscouldn't move either. We were stuck there in Gomez's cellar, as though we had been nailed tothe filthy floor. III Cow When I see what this flunky has done to them Leopards, I call him a coolcat right away. But then we jump him and he ain't so cool. Angel andTiny grab him under the arms and I'm grabbing the stuff he's carrying. Yeah, we get out of there. There's bulls on the street, so we cut through the back and over thefences. Tiny don't like that. He tells me, "Cow. What's to leave thiscat here? He must weigh eighteen tons. " "You're bringing him, " I tellhim, so he shuts up. That's how it is in the Boomer Dukes. When Cowtalks, them other flunkies shut up fast. We get him in the loft over the R. And I. Social Club. Damn, but it'scold up there. I can hear the pool balls clicking down below so I passthe word to keep quiet. Then I give this guy the foot and pretty soon hewakes up. As soon as I talk to him a little bit I figure we had luck riding withus when we see them Leopards. This cat's got real bad stuff. Yeah, Inever hear of anything like it. But what it takes to make a fight he'sgot. I take my old pistol and give it to Tiny. Hell, it makes him happyand what's it cost me? Because what this cat's got makes that pistollook like something for babies. * * * * * First he don't want to talk. "Stomp him, " I tell Angel, but he's scared. He says, "Nay. This is a real weird cat, Cow. I'm for cutting out ofhere. " "Stomp him, " I tell him again, pretty quiet, but he does it. He don'thave to tell me this cat's weird, but when the cat gets the foot acouple of times he's willing to talk. Yeah, he talks real funny, butthat don't matter to me. We take all the loot out of his bag, and I makethis cat tell me what it's to do. Damn, I don't know what he's talkingabout one time out of six, but I know enough. Even Tiny catches on aftera while, because I see him put down that funky old pistol I gave himthat he's been loving up. I'm feeling pretty good. I wish a couple of them chicken Leopards wouldturn up so I could show them what they missed out on. Yeah, I'll take onthem, and the Black Dogs, and all the cops in the world all atonce--that's how good I'm feeling. I feel so good that I don't even likeit when Angel lets out a yell and comes up with a wad of loot. It's likeI want to prime the U. S. Mint for chickenfeed, I don't want it to comeso easy. But money's on hand, so I take it off Angel and count it. This cat wasreally loaded; there must be a thousand dollars here. I take a handful of it and hand it over to Angel real cool. "Get us somecharge, " I tell him. "There's much to do and I'm feeling ready for somecharge to do it with. " "How many sticks you want me to get?" he asks, holding on to that moneylike he never saw any before. I tell him: "Sticks? Nay. I'm for real stuff tonight. You find Four-Eyeand get us some horse. " Yeah, he digs me then. He looks like he's prettyscared and I know he is, because this punk hasn't had anything biggerthan reefers in his life. But I'm for busting a couple of caps of H, and what I do he's going to do. He takes off to find Four-Eye and therest of us get busy on this cat with the funny artillery until he getsback. * * * * * It's like I'm a million miles down Dream Street. Hell, I don't want towake up. But the H is wearing off and I'm feeling mean. Damn, I'll stomp mymother if she talks big to me right then. I'm the first one on my feet and I'm looking for trouble. The wholeplace is full now. Angel must have passed the word to everybody in theDukes, but I don't even remember them coming in. There's eight or tencats lying around on the floor now, not even moving. This won't do, Idecide. If I'm on my feet, they're all going to be on their feet. I start togive them the foot and they begin to move. Even the weirdie must've hadsome H. I'm guessing that somebody slipped him some to see what wouldhappen, because he's off on Cloud Number Nine. Yeah, they're feelingreal mean when they wake up, but I handle them cool. Even that littleflunky Sailor starts to go up against me but I look at him cool and hechickens. Angel and Pete are real sick, with the shakes and the heaves, but I ain't waiting for them to feel good. "Give me that loot, " I tellTiny, and he hands over the stuff we took off the weirdie. I start topass out the stuff. "What's to do with this stuff?" Tiny asks me, looking at what I'm givinghim. I tell him, "Point it and shoot it. " He isn't listening when theweirdie's telling me what the stuff is. He wants to know what it does, but I don't know that. I just tell him, "Point it and shoot it, man. "I've sent one of the cats out for drinks and smokes and he's back bythen, and we're all beginning to feel a little better, only still prettymean. They begin to dig me. "Yeah, it sounds like a rumble, " one of them says, after a while. I give him the nod, cool. "You're calling it, " I tell him. "There's muchfighting tonight. The Boomer Dukes is taking on the world!" IV Sandy Van Pelt The front office thought the radio car would give us a break in spotnews coverage, and I guessed as wrong as they did. I had been coveringCity Hall long enough, and that's no place to build a career--the PressAssociation is very tight there, there's not much chance of getting anykind of exclusive story because of the sharing agreements. So I put infor the radio car. It meant taking the night shift, but I got it. I suppose the front office got their money's worth, because they playedup every lousy auto smash the radio car covered as though it were thestory of the Second Coming, and maybe it helped circulation. But I hadbeen on it for four months and, wouldn't you know it, there wasn't adecent murder, or sewer explosion, or running gun fight between six P. M. And six A. M. Any night I was on duty in those whole four months. Whatmade it worse, the kid they gave me as photographer--Sol Detweiler, hisname was--couldn't drive worth a damn, so I was stuck with chauffeuringus around. We had just been out to LaGuardia to see if it was true that MarilynMonroe was sneaking into town with Aly Khan on a night plane--itwasn't--and we were coming across the Triborough Bridge, heading southtoward the East River Drive, when the office called. I pulled over andparked and answered the radiophone. * * * * * It was Harrison, the night City Editor. "Listen, Sandy, there's a gangfight in East Harlem. Where are you now?" It didn't sound like much to me, I admit. "There's always a gang fightin East Harlem, Harrison. I'm cold and I'm on my way down to NightCourt, where there may or may not be a story; but at least I can get myfeet warm. " "_Where are you now?_" Harrison wasn't fooling. I looked at Sol, on theseat next to me; I thought I had heard him snicker. He began to fiddlewith his camera without looking at me. I pushed the "talk" button andtold Harrison where I was. It pleased him very much; I wasn't more thansix blocks from where this big rumble was going on, he told me, and hemade it very clear that I was to get on over there immediately. I pulled away from the curb, wondering why I had ever wanted to be anewspaperman; I could have made five times as much money for half asmuch work in an ad agency. To make it worse, I heard Sol chuckle again. The reason he was so amused was that when we first teamed up I made themistake of telling him what a hot reporter I was, and I had been visiblycooling off before his eyes for a better than four straight months. Believe me, I was at the very bottom of my career that night. For fivecents cash I would have parked the car, thrown the keys in the EastRiver, and taken the first bus out of town. I was absolutely positivethat the story would be a bust and all I would get out of it would be abad cold from walking around in the snow. And if that doesn't show you what a hot newspaperman I really am, nothing will. * * * * * Sol began to act interested as we reached the corner Harrison had toldus to go to. "That's Chris's, " he said, pointing at a little candystore. "And that must be the pool hall where the Leopards hang out. " "You know this place?" He nodded. "I know a man named Walter Hutner. He and I went to schooltogether, until he dropped out, couple weeks ago. He quit college to goto the Police Academy. He wanted to be a cop. " I looked at him. "You're going to college?" "Sure, Mr. Van Pelt. Wally Hutner was a sociology major--I'mjournalism--but we had a couple of classes together. He had a part-timejob with a neighborhood council up here, acting as a sort of adultadviser for one of the gangs. " "They need advice on how to be gangs?" "No, that's not it, Mr. Van Pelt. The councils try to get their workersaccepted enough to bring the kids in to the social centers, that's all. They try to get them off the streets. Wally was working with a bunchcalled the Leopards. " I shut him up. "Tell me about it later!" I stopped the car and rolleddown a window, listening. * * * * * Yes, there was something going on all right. Not at the corner Harrisonhad mentioned--there wasn't a soul in sight in any direction. But Icould hear what sounded like gunfire and yelling, and, my God, evenbombs going off! And it wasn't too far away. There were sirens, too--squad cars, no doubt. "It's over that way!" Sol yelled, pointing. He looked as though he washaving the time of his life, all keyed up and delighted. He didn't haveto tell me where the noise was coming from, I could hear for myself. Itsounded like D-Day at Normandy, and I didn't like the sound of it. I made a quick decision and slammed on the brakes, then backed the carback the way we had come. Sol looked at me. "What--" "Local color, " I explained quickly. "This the place you were talkingabout? Chris's? Let's go in and see if we can find some of thesehoodlums. " "But, Mr. Van Pelt, all the pictures are over where the fight's goingon!" "Pictures, shmictures! Come on!" I got out in front of the candy store, and the only thing he could do was follow me. Whatever they were doing, they were making the devil's own racket aboutit. Now that I looked a little more closely I could see that they musthave come this way; the candy store's windows were broken; every otherstreet light was smashed; and what had at first looked like a flight ofsteps in front of a tenement across the street wasn't anything of thekind--it was a pile of bricks and stone from the false-front cornice onthe roof! How in the world they had managed to knock that down I had noidea; but it sort of convinced me that, after all, Harrison had beenright about this being a _big_ fight. Over where the noise was comingfrom there were queer flashing lights in the clouds overhead--reflectingexploding flares, I thought. * * * * * No, I didn't want to go over where the pictures were. I like living. Ifit had been a normal Harlem rumble with broken bottles and knives, ormaybe even home-made zip guns--I might have taken a chance on it, butthis was for real. "Come on, " I yelled to Sol, and we pushed the door open to the candystore. At first there didn't seem to be anyone in, but after we called a coupletimes a kid of about sixteen, coffee-colored and scared-looking, stuckhis head up above the counter. "You. What's going on here?" I demanded. He looked at me as if I wassome kind of a two-headed monster. "Come on, kid. Tell us whathappened. " "Excuse me, Mr. Van Pelt. " Sol cut in ahead of me and began talking tothe kid in Spanish. It got a rise out of him; at least Sol got ananswer. My Spanish is only a little bit better than my Swahili, so Imissed what was going on, except for an occasional word. But Sol wasgetting it all. He reported: "He knows Walt; that's what's botheringhim. He says Walt and some of the Leopards are in a basement down thestreet, and there's something wrong with them. I can't exactly figureout what, but--" "The hell with them. What about _that_?" "You mean the fight? Oh, it's a big one all right, Mr. Van Pelt. It's agang called the Boomer Dukes. They've got hold of some real gunssomewhere--I can't exactly understand what kind of guns he means, but itsounds like something serious. He says they shot that parapet downacross the street. Gosh, Mr. Van Pelt, you'd think it'd take a cannonfor something like that. But it has something to do with Walt Hutner andall the Leopards, too. " I said enthusiastically, "Very good, Sol. That's fine. Find out wherethe cellar is, and we'll go interview Hutner. " "But Mr. Van Pelt, the pictures--" "Sorry. I have to call the office. " I turned my back on him and headedfor the car. * * * * * The noise was louder, and the flashes in the sky brighter--it looked asthough they were moving this way. Well, I didn't have any money tied upin the car, so I wasn't worried about leaving it in the street. Andsomebody's cellar seemed like a very good place to be. I called theoffice and started to tell Harrison what we'd found out; but he stoppedme short. "Sandy, where've you been? I've been trying to call youfor--Listen, we got a call from Fordham. They've detected radiationcoming from the East Side--it's got to be what's going on up there!Radiation, do you hear me? That means atomic weapons! Now, you get th--" Silence. "Hello?" I cried, and then remembered to push the talk button. "Hello?Harrison, you there?" Silence. The two-way radio was dead. I got out of the car; and maybe I understood what had happened to theradio and maybe I didn't. Anyway, there was something new shining in thesky. It hung below the clouds in parts, and I could see it through thebottom of the clouds in the middle; it was a silvery teacup upside down, a hemisphere over everything. It hadn't been there two minutes before. * * * * * I heard firing coming closer and closer. Around a corner a bunch of copscame, running, turning, firing; running, turning and firing again. Itwas like the retreat from Caporetto in miniature. And what was chasingthem? In a minute I saw. Coming around the corner was a kid with alightning-blue satin jacket and two funny-looking guns in his hand;there was a silvery aura around him, the same color as the lights in thesky; and I swear I saw those cops' guns hit him twenty times in twentyseconds, but he didn't seem to notice. Sol and the kid from the candy store were right beside me. We tookanother look at the one-man army that was coming down the street towardus, laughing and prancing and firing those odd-looking guns. And thenthe three of us got out of there, heading for the cellar. Any cellar. V Priam's Maw My occupation was "short-order cook", as it is called. I practiced it ina locus entitled "The White Heaven, " established at Fifth Avenue, Newyork, between 1949 and 1962 C. E. I had created rapport with severalof the aboriginals, who addressed me as Bessie, and presumed to approvethe manner in which I heated specimens of minced ruminant quadrupedflesh (deceased to be sure). It was a satisfactory guise, althoughtiring. [Illustration] Using approved techniques, I was compiling anthropometric data while "I"was, as they say, "brewing coffee. " I deem the probability nearlyconclusive that it was the double duty, plus the datum that, as stated, "I" was physically tired, which caused me to overlook the first signalfrom my portatron. Indeed, I might have overlooked the second as wellexcept that the aboriginal named Lester stated: "Hey, Bessie. Ya got analarm clock in ya pocketbook?" He had related the annunciator signal ofthe portatron to the only significant datum in his own experience whichit resembled, the ringing of a bell. I annotated his dossier to provide for his removal in case it eventuatedthat he had made an undesirable intuit (this proved unnecessary) andretired to the back of the "store" with my carry-all. On identifyingmyself to the portatron, I received information that it was attuned to aBailey's Beam, identified as Foraminifera 9-Hart, who had refusedtreatment for systemic weltschmerz and instead sought to relieve hisboredom by adventuring into this era. I thereupon compiled two recommendations which are attached: 2, aproposal for reprimand to the Keeper of the Learning Lodge for failureto properly annotate a volume entitled _U. S. A. Confidential_ and, 1, aproposal for reprimand to the Transport Executive, for permittingBailey's Beam-class personnel access to temporal transport. Meanwhile, Ileft the "store" by a rear exit and directed myself toward the locus ofthe transmitting portatron. * * * * * I had proximately left when I received an additional information, namely that developed weapons were being employed in the area towardwhich I was directing. This provoked that I abandon guise entirely. Iwent transparent and quickly examined all aboriginals within view, todetermine if any required removal; but none had observed this. I rose toperhaps seventy-five meters and sped at full atmospheric driving speedtoward the source of the alarm. As I crossed a "park" I detected thedrive of another Adjuster, whom I determined to be Alephplex Priam'sMaw--that is, my father. He bespoke me as follows: "Hurry, BesplexPriam's Maw. That crazy Foraminifera has been captured by aboriginalsand they have taken his weapons away from him. " "Weapons?" I inquired. "Yes, weapons, " he stated, "for Foraminifera 9-Hart brought with himmore than forty-three kilograms of weapons, ranging up to and includingelectronic. " I recorded this datum and we landed, went opaque in the shelter of adoorway and examined our percepts. "Quarantine?" asked my father, and Ihad to agree. "Quarantine, " I voted, and he opened his carry-all andset-up a quarantine shield on the console. At once appeared the silveryquarantine dome, and the first step of our adjustment was completed. Nowto isolate, remove, replace. Queried Alephplex: "An Adjuster?" I observed the phenomenon to which hewas referring. A young, dark aboriginal was coming toward us on the"street, " driving a group of police aboriginals before him. He wasarmed, it appeared, with a fission-throwing weapon in one hand and somesort of tranquilizer--I deem it to have been a Stollgratz 16--in theother; moreover, he wore an invulnerability belt. The police aboriginalswere attempting to strike him with missile weapons, which the beltdeflected. I neutralized his shield, collapsed him and stored him in mycarry-all. "Not an Adjuster, " I asserted my father, but he had alreadyperceived that this was so. I left him to neutralize and collapse thepolice aboriginals while I zeroed in on the portatron. I did not envyhim his job with the police aboriginals, for many of them were "dead, "as they say. It required the most delicate adjustments. * * * * * The portatron developed to be in a "cellar" and with it were some nineor eleven aboriginals which it had immobilized pending my arrival. Onespoke to me thus: "Young lady, please call the cops! We're stuck here, and--" I did not wait to hear what he wished to say further, butneutralized and collapsed him with the other aboriginals. The portatronapologized for having caused me inconvenience; but of course it was notits fault, so I did not neutralize it. Using it for d-f, I quicklylocated the culprit, Foraminifera 9-Hart Bailey's Beam, nearby. He spokedespairingly in the dialect of the locus, "Besplex Priam's Maw, forGod's sake get me out of this!" "Out!" I spoke to him, "you'll wish younever were 'born, ' as they say!" I neutralized but did not collapse him, pending instructions from the Central Authority. The aboriginals whowere with him, however, I did collapse. Presently arrived Alephplex, along with four other Adjusters who hadarrived before the quarantine shield made it not possible for anyoneelse to enter the disturbed area. Each one of us had had to abandonguise, so that this locus of Newyork 1939-1986 must require newAdjusters to replace us--a matter to be charged against the guilt ofForaminifera 9-Hart Bailey's Beam, I deem. * * * * * This concluded Steps 3 and 2 of our Adjustment, the removal and theisolation of the disturbed specimens. We are transmitting same disturbedspecimens to you under separate cover herewith, in neutralized andcollapsed state, for the manufacture of simulacra thereof. One regretsto say that they number three thousand eight hundred forty-six, comprising all aboriginals within the quarantined area who hadfirst-hand knowledge of the anachronisms caused by Foraminifera'simportation of contemporary weapons into this locus. Alephplex and the four other Adjusters are at present reconstructingsuch physical damage as was caused by the use of said weapons. Simultaneously, while I am preparing this report, "I" am maintaining thequarantine shield which cuts off this locus, both physically andtemporally, from the remainder of its environment. I deem that ifreplacements for the attached aboriginals can be fabricated quicklyenough, there will be no significant outside percept of the shielditself, or of the happenings within it--that is, by maintaining aquasi-stasis of time while the repairs are being made, an outsideaboriginal observer will see, at most, a mere flicker of silver in thesky. All Adjusters here present are working as rapidly as we can to makesure the shield can be withdrawn, before so many aboriginals haveobserved it as to make it necessary to replace the entire city withsimulacra. We do not wish a repetition of the California incident, afterall. Transcriber's Note This etext was produced from _Future Science Fiction_ No. 30 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. Copyrighton this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errorshave been corrected without note.