The Skull (2 page)

"Quite so," the Speaker said. "But now we have them. Come along down the
hall."

They went across the room to a door. The Speaker pushed it open.
Technicians looked up. Conger saw machinery, whirring and turning;
benches and retorts. In the center of the room was a gleaming crystal
cage.

The Speaker handed a Slem-gun to Conger. "The important thing to
remember is that the skull must be saved and brought back—for
comparison and proof. Aim low—at the chest."

Conger weighed the gun in his hands. "It feels good," he said. "I know
this gun—that is, I've seen them before, but I never used one."

The Speaker nodded. "You will be instructed on the use of the gun and
the operation of the cage. You will be given all data we have on the
time and location. The exact spot was a place called Hudson's field.
About 1960 in a small community outside Denver, Colorado. And don't
forget—the only means of identification you will have will be the
skull. There are visible characteristics of the front teeth, especially
the left incisor—"

Conger listened absently. He was watching two men in white carefully
wrapping the skull in a plastic bag. They tied it and carried it into
the crystal cage. "And if I should make a mistake?"

"Pick the wrong man? Then find the right one. Don't come back until you
succeed in reaching this Founder. And you can't wait for him to start
speaking; that's what we must avoid! You must act in advance. Take
chances; shoot as soon as you think you've found him. He'll be someone
unusual, probably a stranger in the area. Apparently he wasn't known."

Conger listened dimly.

"Do you think you have it all now?" the Speaker asked.

"Yes. I think so." Conger entered the crystal cage and sat down, placing
his hands on the wheel.

"Good luck," the Speaker said.

"We'll be awaiting the outcome. There's some philosophical doubt as to
whether one can alter the past. This should answer the question once and
for all."

Conger fingered the controls of the cage.

"By the way," the Speaker said. "Don't try to use this cage for purposes
not anticipated in your job. We have a constant trace on it. If we want
it back, we can get it back. Good luck."

Conger said nothing. The cage was sealed. He raised his finger and
touched the wheel control. He turned the wheel carefully.

He was still staring at the plastic bag when the room outside vanished.

For a long time there was nothing at all. Nothing beyond the crystal
mesh of the cage. Thoughts rushed through Conger's mind, helter-skelter.
How would he know the man? How could he be certain, in advance? What had
he looked like? What was his name? How had he acted, before he spoke?
Would he be an ordinary person, or some strange outlandish crank?

Conger picked up the Slem-gun and held it against his cheek. The metal
of the gun was cool and smooth. He practiced moving the sight. It was a
beautiful gun, the kind of gun he could fall in love with. If he had
owned such a gun in the Martian desert—on the long nights when he had
lain, cramped and numbed with cold, waiting for things that moved
through the darkness—

He put the gun down and adjusted the meter readings of the cage. The
spiraling mist was beginning to condense and settle. All at once forms
wavered and fluttered around him.

Colors, sounds, movements filtered through the crystal wire. He clamped
the controls off and stood up.

He was on a ridge overlooking a small town. It was high noon. The air
was crisp and bright. A few automobiles moved along a road. Off in the
distance were some level fields. Conger went to the door and stepped
outside. He sniffed the air. Then he went back into the cage.

He stood before the mirror over the shelf, examining his features. He
had trimmed his beard—they had not got him to cut it off—and his hair
was neat. He was dressed in the clothing of the middle-twentieth
century, the odd collar and coat, the shoes of animal hide. In his
pocket was money of the times. That was important. Nothing more was
needed.

Nothing, except his ability, his special cunning. But he had never used
it in such a way before.

He walked down the road toward the town.

The first things he noticed were the newspapers on the stands. April 5,
1961. He was not too far off. He looked around him. There was a filling
station, a garage, some taverns, and a ten-cent store. Down the street
was a grocery store and some public buildings.

A few minutes later he mounted the stairs of the little public library
and passed through the doors into the warm interior.

The librarian looked up, smiling.

"Good afternoon," she said.

He smiled, not speaking because his words would not be correct; accented
and strange, probably. He went over to a table and sat down by a heap of
magazines. For a moment he glanced through them. Then he was on his feet
again. He crossed the room to a wide rack against the wall. His heart
began to beat heavily.

Newspapers—weeks on end. He took a roll of them over to the table and
began to scan them quickly. The print was odd, the letters strange. Some
of the words were unfamiliar.

He set the papers aside and searched farther. At last he found what he
wanted. He carried the
Cherrywood Gazette
to the table and opened it
to the first page. He found what he wanted:

PRISONER HANGS SELF

An unidentified man, held by the county sheriff's office for
suspicion of criminal syndicalism, was found dead this morning, by—

He finished the item. It was vague, uninforming. He needed more. He
carried the
Gazette
back to the racks and then, after a moment's
hesitation, approached the librarian.

"More?" he asked. "More papers. Old ones?"

She frowned. "How old? Which papers?"

"Months old. And—before."

"Of the
Gazette
? This is all we have. What did you want? What are you
looking for? Maybe I can help you."

He was silent.

"You might find older issues at the
Gazette
office," the woman said,
taking off her glasses. "Why don't you try there? But if you'd tell me,
maybe I could help you—"

He went out.

The
Gazette
office was down a side street; the sidewalk was broken and
cracked. He went inside. A heater glowed in the corner of the small
office. A heavy-set man stood up and came slowly over to the counter.

"What did you want, mister?" he said.

"Old papers. A month. Or more."

"To buy? You want to buy them?"

"Yes." He held out some of the money he had. The man stared.

"Sure," he said. "Sure. Wait a minute." He went quickly out of the room.
When he came back he was staggering under the weight of his armload, his
face red. "Here are some," he grunted. "Took what I could find. Covers
the whole year. And if you want more—"

Conger carried the papers outside. He sat down by the road and began to
go through them.

What he wanted was four months back, in December. It was a tiny item, so
small that he almost missed it. His hands trembled as he scanned it,
using the small dictionary for some of the archaic terms.

MAN ARRESTED FOR UNLICENSED DEMONSTRATION

An unidentified man who refused to give his name was picked up in
Cooper Creek by special agents of the sheriff's office, according to
Sheriff Duff. It was said the man was recently noticed in this area
and had been watched continually. It was—

Cooper Creek. December, 1960. His heart pounded. That was all he needed
to know. He stood up, shaking himself, stamping his feet on the cold
ground. The sun had moved across the sky to the very edge of the hills.
He smiled. Already he had discovered the exact time and place. Now he
needed only to go back, perhaps to November, to Cooper Creek—

He walked back through the main section of town, past the library, past
the grocery store. It would not be hard; the hard part was over. He
would go there; rent a room, prepare to wait until the man appeared.

He turned the corner. A woman was coming out of a doorway, loaded down
with packages. Conger stepped aside to let her pass. The woman glanced
at him. Suddenly her face turned white. She stared, her mouth open.

Conger hurried on. He looked back. What was wrong with her? The woman
was still staring; she had dropped the packages to the ground. He
increased his speed. He turned a second corner and went up a side
street. When he looked back again the woman had come to the entrance of
the street and was starting after him. A man joined her, and the two of
them began to run toward him.

He lost them and left the town, striding quickly, easily, up into the
hills at the edge of town. When he reached the cage he stopped. What had
happened? Was it something about his clothing? His dress?

He pondered. Then, as the sun set, he stepped into the cage.

Conger sat before the wheel. For a moment he waited, his hands resting
lightly on the control. Then he turned the wheel, just a little,
following the control readings carefully.

The grayness settled down around him.

But not for very long.

The man looked him over critically. "You better come inside," he said.
"Out of the cold."

"Thanks." Conger went gratefully through the open door, into the
living-room. It was warm and close from the heat of the little kerosene
heater in the corner. A woman, large and shapeless in her flowered
dress, came from the kitchen. She and the man studied him critically.

"It's a good room," the woman said. "I'm Mrs. Appleton. It's got heat.
You need that this time of year."

"Yes." He nodded, looking around.

"You want to eat with us?"

"What?"

"You want to eat with us?" The man's brows knitted. "You're not a
foreigner, are you, mister?"

"No." He smiled. "I was born in this country. Quite far west, though."

"California?"

"No." He hesitated. "In Oregon."

"What's it like up there?" Mrs. Appleton asked. "I hear there's a lot of
trees and green. It's so barren here. I come from Chicago, myself."

"That's the Middle West," the man said to her. "You ain't no foreigner."

"Oregon isn't foreign, either," Conger said. "It's part of the United
States."

The man nodded absently. He was staring at Conger's clothing.

"That's a funny suit you got on, mister," he said. "Where'd you get
that?"

Conger was lost. He shifted uneasily. "It's a good suit," he said.
"Maybe I better go some other place, if you don't want me here."

They both raised their hands protestingly. The woman smiled at him. "We
just have to look out for those Reds. You know, the government is always
warning us about them."

"The Reds?" He was puzzled.

"The government says they're all around. We're supposed to report
anything strange or unusual, anybody doesn't act normal."

"Like me?"

They looked embarrassed. "Well, you don't look like a Red to me," the
man said. "But we have to be careful. The
Tribune
says—"

Conger half listened. It was going to be easier than he had thought.
Clearly, he would know as soon as the Founder appeared. These people, so
suspicious of anything different, would be buzzing and gossiping and
spreading the story. All he had to do was lie low and listen, down at
the general store, perhaps. Or even here, in Mrs. Appleton's boarding
house.

"Can I see the room?" he said.

"Certainly." Mrs. Appleton went to the stairs. "I'll be glad to show it
to you."

They went upstairs. It was colder upstairs, but not nearly as cold as
outside. Nor as cold as nights on the Martian deserts. For that he was
grateful.

He was walking slowly around the store, looking at the cans of
vegetables, the frozen packages of fish and meats shining and clean in
the open refrigerator counters.

Ed Davies came toward him. "Can I help you?" he said. The man was a
little oddly dressed, and with a beard! Ed couldn't help smiling.

"Nothing," the man said in a funny voice. "Just looking."

"Sure," Ed said. He walked back behind the counter. Mrs. Hacket was
wheeling her cart up.

"Who's he?" she whispered, her sharp face turned, her nose moving, as if
it were sniffing. "I never seen him before."

"I don't know."

"Looks funny to me. Why does he wear a beard? No one else wears a
beard. Must be something the matter with him."

"Maybe he likes to wear a beard. I had an uncle who—"

"Wait." Mrs. Hacket stiffened. "Didn't that—what was his name? The
Red—that old one. Didn't he have a beard? Marx. He had a beard."

Ed laughed. "This ain't Karl Marx. I saw a photograph of him once."

Mrs. Hacket was staring at him. "You did?"

"Sure." He flushed a little. "What's the matter with that?"

"I'd sure like to know more about him," Mrs. Hacket said. "I think we
ought to know more, for our own good."

"Hey, mister! Want a ride?"

Conger turned quickly, dropping his hand to his belt. He relaxed. Two
young kids in a car, a girl and a boy. He smiled at them. "A ride?
Sure."

Conger got into the car and closed the door. Bill Willet pushed the gas
and the car roared down the highway.

"I appreciate a ride," Conger said carefully. "I was taking a walk
between towns, but it was farther than I thought."

"Where are you from?" Lora Hunt asked. She was pretty, small and dark,
in her yellow sweater and blue skirt.

"From Cooper Creek."

"Cooper Creek?" Bill said. He frowned. "That's funny. I don't remember
seeing you before."

"Why, do you come from there?"

"I was born there. I know everybody there."