“Let me in! I gotta conquer the world!”
“What now?” Gallagher said under his breath, as he went to the door and opened it. The back yard was empty save for three remarkable animals that now stood in a row facing him, their furry white bodies fat and pushy as pillows. Three pink noses twitched. Three pairs of golden eyes watched Gallegher steadily. Three pairs of dumpy legs moved in unison as the creatures scuttled over the threshold, nearly upsetting Gallegher as they rushed past.
That was that. Gallegher went hurriedly to his liquor organ, mixed a quick one, and siphoned it down. He felt a little better — not much. The three guests were sitting or standing in a row, as usual, watching him unblinkingly.
Gallagher sat down on the couch. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“We’re Lybblas,” said the foremost.
“Ah.” Gallegher thought for a moment. “What are Lybblas?”
“Us,” the Lybblas said.
It seemed to be a deadlock, broken when a shapeless bundle of blankets in one corner stirred and exposed a nutbrown, withered face, seamed with far too many wrinkles. A man emerged, thin, ancient and bright-eyed. “Well, stupid,” he said, “so you let ’em in, eh?”
Gallegher thought back. The old fellow, of course, was his grandfather, in Manhattan for a visit from his Maine farm. Last night — Hm-m-m. What happened last night? Dimly he recalled Grandpa boasting about his capacity for liquor, and the inevitable result: a contest. Grandpa had won. But what else had happened?
He inquired.
“Don’t you know?” Grandpa said.
“I never know,” Gallagher told him wearily. “That’s how I invent things. I get tight and work ’em out. Never know how, exactly. I invent by ear.”
“I know,” Grandpa nodded. “That’s just what you did. See that?” He pointed to a corner, where stood a tall, enigmatic machine Gallegher did not recognize. It buzzed quietly to itself.
“Oh? What is it?”
“You made it. Yourself. Last night.”
“I did, huh? Why?”
“How should I know?” Grandpa scowled. “ You started fiddling with gadgets and set the thing up. Then you said it was a time machine. Then you turned it on. Focused it into the back yard, for safety’s sake. We went out to watch, and those three little guys popped out of empty air. We came back — in a hurry, I recall. Where’s a drink?”
The Lybblas began to dance up and down impatiently. “It was cold out there last night,” one of them said reproachfully. “You should have let us in. The world is ours.”
Gallegher’s long, horselike face grew longer. “So. Well, if I built a time machine — though I don’t remember a thing about it — you must have come out of some different time, right?”
“Sure,” one of the Lybblas agreed. “Five hundred years or so.”
“You’re not — human? I mean — we’re not going to evolve into you?”
“No,” said the fattest Lybbla complacently, “it would take thousands of years for you to evolve into the dominant species. We’re from Mars.”
“Mars — the future. Oh. You — talk English.”
“There are Earth people on Mars in our day. Why not? We read English, talk the lingo, know everything.”
Gallegher muttered under his breath. “And you’re the dominant species on Mars?”
“Well, not exactly,” a Lybbla hesitated. “Not all Mars.”
“Not even half of Mars,” said another. “Just Koordy Valley,” the third announced. “But Koordy Valley is the center of the universe. Very highly civilized. We have books. About Earth and so on. We’re going to conquer Earth, by the way.”
“Are you?” Gallagher said blankly.
“Yes. We couldn’t in our own time, you know, because Earth people wouldn’t let us, but now it’ll be easy. You’ll all be our slaves,” the Lybbla said happily. He was about eleven inches tall.
“You got any weapons?” Grandpa asked. “We don’t need ’em. We’re clever. We know everything. Our memories are capacious as anything. We can build disintegrator guns, heat rays, spaceships—”
“No, we can’t,” another Lybbla countered. “We haven’t any fingers.” That was true. They had furry mittens, fairly useless, Gallegher thought.
“Well,” said the first Lybbla, “we’ll get Earth people to build us some weapons.”
Grandpa downed a shot of whiskey and shuddered. “Do these things happen all the time around here?” he wanted to know. “I’d heard you were a big shot scientist, but I figured scientists made atom-smashers and stuff like that. What good’s a time machine?”
“It brought us,” a Lybbla said. “Oh, happy day for Earth.”
“That,” Gallegher told him, “is a matter of opinion. Before you get around to sending an ultimatum to Washington, would you care for a spot of refreshment? A saucer of milk or something?”
“We’re not animals!” the fattest Lybbla said. “We drink out of cups, we do.” Gallegher brought three cups, heated some milk, and poured. After a brief hesitation, he put the cups on the floor. The tables were all far too high for the small creatures. The Lybblas, piping “Thank you,” politely, seized the cups between their hind feet and began to lap up the milk with long pink tongues.
“Good,” one said.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” cautioned the fattest Lybbla, who seemed to be the leader.
Gallegher relaxed on the couch and looked at Grandpa. “This time machine business—” he said. “I can’t remember a thing about it. We’ll have to send the Lybblas back home. It’ll take me a while to work out the method. Sometimes I think I drink too much.”
“Perish the thought,” Grandpa said. “When I was your age, I didn’t need a time machine to materialize little fellers a foot high. Corn likker did it,” he added, smacking withered lips. “ You work too hard, that’s what it is.”
“Well—” Gallegher said helplessly. “I can’t help it. What was my idea in building the thing, anyhow?”
“Dunno. You kept talking about killing your own grandfather or something. Or foretelling the future. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it myself.”
“Wait a minute. I remember — vaguely. The old time-traveling paradox. Killing your own grandfather—”
“I picked up an ax handle when you started in on that,” Grandpa said. “Not quite ready to cash in my chips yet, young fellow.” He cackled. “I can remember the gasoline age — but I’m still pretty spry.”
“What happened then?”
“The little guys came through the machine or whatever it was. You said you hadn’t adjusted it right, so you fixed it.”
“I wonder what I had in mind,” Gallegher pondered.
The Lybblas had finished their milk. “We’re through,” said the fat one. “Now we’ll conquer the world. Where’ll we begin?”
Gallegher shrugged, “I fear I can’t advise you, gentlemen. I’ve never had the inclination myself. Wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to go about it.”
“First we destroy the big cities,” said the smallest Lybbla excitedly, “then we capture pretty girls and hold them for ransom or something. Then everybody’s scared and we win.”
“How do you figure that out?” Gallegher asked.
“It’s in the books. That’s how it’s always done. We know. We’ll be tyrants and beat everybody. I want some more milk, please.”
“So do I,” said two other piping little voices.
Grinning, Gallegher served. “You don’t seem much surprised by finding yourselves here.”
“That’s in the books, too.” Lap-lap.
“You mean — this?” Gallegher’s eyebrows went up.
“Oh, no. But all about time-traveling. All the novels in our era are about science and things. We read lots. There isn’t much else to do in the Valley,” the Lybbla ended, a bit sadly.