'That's impossible. It's a joke. You're kidding.'
'I'm not kidding - I'm just terribly upset. Nobody in our world ever knew that you could build complex modem machinery out of wood, as these people have. If they can manage to do that, although God knows how long it took them to do it, they can do anything. At least, that's the way it strikes me. I'm going to set the jet-hopper down in Normandy tomorrow with my heart in my mouth, and I've been to more star-systems than any other human being; don't forget that. I've seen a lot of alien worlds.'
Somberly, Jim Briskin picked up the photo of the wooden engine and once more studied it.
'Of course,' Frank added, 'I keep saying to myself, "Look what we can learn." And look what they can learn from us.'
'Yes,' Jim agreed, 'we have to look on this as an opportunity,' His tone, however, was grave.
'You know, just as I know, that something is awfully wrong.'
Jim Briskin nodded.
In the middle of the night Don Stanley, administrative assistant to Leon Turpin, was awakened by the ringing of his vidphone.
Sitting up groggily, he managed to locate the receiver in the dark. 'Yes ?' he said, switching on the light. In the bed, his wife slept on.
On the vidscreen the physiognomy of a top-level TD researcher came into view. 'Mr. Stanley, we're calling you instead of Mr. Turpin. Somebody at policy has to know this.' The researcher's voice was jumpy with tension. 'The QB is down.'
'Down what ?' Stanley could not focus his faculties.
"They shot it down. God knows how. Just now, not ten minutes ago. We don't know whether we should try to put up another one to replace it or just wait.'
Stanley said, 'Maybe the QB merely malfunctioned. Maybe it's up there coasting around dead.'
'It's not up there at all; we've got a number of instruments capable of registering that. You know, bringing down an orbiting satellite requires a pretty exact science of weapons development; it's not easy to do.'
Still half-asleep, Don Stanley had a momentary hypnogogic vision of an enormous crossbow with a cord capable of being stretched back a mile. He shook the vision off and said, 'Maybe we shouldn't send Woodbine over there tomorrow. We don't want to lose him.'
'Whatever you and Mr. Turpin decide,' the researcher said. 'But sooner or later we have to make formal contact with them, don't we ? So why not right away ? It seems to me that, in view of their maneuver against the QB, we can't afford to wait. We've got to know what they possess.'
'We'll go ahead,' Stanley decided, 'but we'll see that Woodbine is accompanied by company police. And we'll keep in constant radio contact with him all the time he's there.'
' "Company police,"' the researcher said in disgust. 'What Woodbine needs is the United States
Army.'
'We don't want the government meddling into this,' Stanley said sharply. 'If TD can't handle this, we'll shut down the 'scuttler and abolish the nexus. Forget the entire matter.' He felt irritable.
This puts an entirely new light on everything, this about the QB, he realized. In no way - or at least in no important way - are these people lagging behind as. We're not going to be able to get away with trading them a basketful of glass beads in exchange for North America. He recalled the leather bag of uncut diamonds found in this glider. They may not be able to finish up stones, he though , but at least they know what's really valuable. There's a crucial difference between carrying around a bagful of rough diamonds and, say, a bagful of seashells.
'You've still got a team on the other side, don't you' Stanley said. 'You didn't pull them back over here.'
'They're there,' the researcher said, 'but they're just standing by, waiting for dawn and the party of university professors and the linguistics machines, all that stuff that's been promised.
'We don't want to get into a brawl with these people,,' Stanley said, 'even if they did get to our satellite. TD wants industrial techniques from them, wants their know-how hardwarewise. Let's not spoil that. Okay ?'
'Okay,' the researcher agreed, 'and lots of luck.'
Don Stanley hung up, sat for a time, then rose and walked to the kitchen of his conapt to fix himself something to eat.
Tomorrow's going to be quite a day, he said to himself. I wish I was going along, but, in view of this, I think I'll stay on this side. After all, I'm a desk man, not a leg man; let somebody else do it.
Somebody like Woodbine who's paid to take risks. This is exactly why we hired him.
He did not envy Woodbine.
And then all at once it occurred to him that old Leon Turpin might order him to go along. In which case he would have to - or lose his job. And losing one's job, these days, was no joke.
His appetite was gone. Leaving the kitchen, Don Stanley returned to his bed, gloomily aware that with such thoughts on his mind he would probably be unable to get back to sleep.
It turned out that he was right.
10
Because the defective Jiffi-scuttler technically belonged to him, Darius Pethel could not effectively be denied permission to cross over, along with the group of top scientific and linguistic experts leaving in the morning. Wearing a carefully ironed and starched white shut and new tie, he arrived at TD's central administrative offices in Washington, D.C., at exactly eight a. m. He felt confident. TD employees had treated him with deference ever since he had turned the defective 'scuttler over to them. After all, he could take it back... or, at least, so Pethel reasoned.
Two officials of the company, both of them tense, accompanied him to Mr. Turpin's office on the twentieth floor, depositing him there, and at once hurrying off. Now he was on his own.
The board chairman of TD did not awe Darius Pethel. 'Morning, Mr. Turpin,' he said in greeting.
'I hope I'm not late.' He was not sure where the group was assembling. Probably down in the subsurface labs near the 'scuttler.
'Ump,' the old man said, glancing at him sideways, the wrinkled neck twisting like a turkey's.
'Oh, yes. Pedal.'
'Pethel.'
'So you want to be in on things, do you ?' Leon Turpin studied him, smiling a thin, gleeful smile.
'I want to keep in touch,' Pethel said. He pointed out: 'After all, it is my, property.'
'Oh, yes, we're very conscious of that, Pethel. You're a highly important figure in all that's going on. Being a businessman, you'll no doubt be useful on this mission; you can establish trade relations with these people. In fact, we expect you to start selling them 'scuttlers.' Leon Turpin laughed. 'All right, Mr. Pethel. You go ahead downstairs to the labs and join the group; make yourself at home here at TD. Do whatever you feel like. I myself - I'm staying here. One trip across is enough for a man of my age; I’m sure you can appreciate that.'
Conscious that he had been made fun of, Darius Pethel left Mr. Turpin's office and took the elevator down. Smouldering, he said to himself, I can be important in this. The people on this alternative Earth or whatever it is can probably use an improved method of transportation even better than we can. After all, from what the TV newsman said, they seem to be backward, compared to us. There was something about a primitive ship or airplane. Something obsolete in our world several centuries ago.
The elevator let him off at the guarded lower floors of the building, and he made his way down the corridor, following the instructions painted on the walls, to the main lab proper.
When he opened the lab door he found himself facing a man whom he had seen many times on
TV. It was the Republican-Liberal candidate for president, James Briskin, and Pethel halted in awe and surprise.
'Let's get a shot of you standing at the entrance hoop,' a photographer was saying to Briskin.
'Could you move over there, please ?'
Obligingly, Briskin walked to the 'scuttler.
This is the big time, Pethel realized. Our next president is here along with me. I wonder what would happen if I said hello to him, he wondered. Would he answer back ? Probably would because he's campaigning; after he gets into office, he won't have to.