Читать книгу The Rule of the Door and Other Fanciful Regulations - Lloyd Biggle jr. - Страница 5

THE RULE OF THE DOOR

Professor Skarn Skukarn twisted abruptly on the billowy expanse of his bed and sat up. A glance at the pink-tinted indicator told him that the Time of Sleep was no more than half expired. He stretched himself, indulged in a leisurely yawn, rubbed his eyes.

“Strange,” he murmured. “Perhaps it was that sliff I had for dinner.”

He immediately rejected this idea as an assumption unworthy of a distinguished psychologist and padded softly into his laboratory. His lecture notes lay stacked neatly on his desk. He thumbed through the metallic sheets, mildly surprised that he felt no trace of fatigue. His mind was alert; his ideas flowed with sparkling clarity. For a moment he hesitated, thoughtfully gazing at his notes, and then he slipped into his flowing professorial gown and mounted the incongruously ornate lectern that stood in one corner of the laboratory. Smiling faintly, he pressed a button and waited.

Throughout the length and breadth of the great university city of Kuln, oaths and screams of dismay would be curdling the air as hundreds of students were tumbled from their beds by their tingling wrist bands. They would scramble for their viewers, asking themselves, “What’s the old fool up to now?”

The thought pleased him. He was not cruel like some of his colleagues, who took fiendish delight in tormenting their students during the Time of Sleep; but it would be an interesting psychological experiment, he told himself, to see how much knowledge a sleep-fogged mind could absorb. He would deliver one of his more difficult lectures and follow it immediately with an examination.

He waited the minimum time that custom allowed him, and began, “Lecture nine hundred seventy-two. The effect of radiation impulses on motor pathways of the subconscious.”

He hesitated. His own wrist band tingled sharply, almost painfully. With a sudden surge of panic he understood what it was that had awakened him. He bounded away, scrambled back to the lectern to announce, “To be continued,” pressed the cancellation button, and hurried off to his own viewer.

The Prime Minister’s face stared out at him, alarmingly pale, haggard, eyelashes crinkly with fatigue. Skarn could easily guess who it was that had disturbed his sleep. The Prime Minister scowled and said enviously, “You are looking well, Skarn.”

“Likewise,” Skarn murmured politely.

“I am not looking well. I am looking miserable. I’m tired.”

“Naturally,” Skarn agreed.

“An Imperial Assignment. You will begin at once.”

Skarn clucked his tongue ecstatically. Such an honor did not come more than two or three times in the entire span of living, even to a high-ranking professor of the Royal University. “I shall serve with pleasure,” he announced. “May I inquire—”

“You may. A patrol ship has discovered another inhabited planet. His Imperial Majesty desires a specimen of the dominant life form for the Royal Collection.”

Skarn stirred uneasily, and a bluish flush of irritation tinged the smooth white flesh of his face. “I am no pickler of lizards,” he growled.

“That you are not,” the Prime Minister acknowledged.

“May I inquire—”

“You may. The dominant life form on the planet is intelligent.”

“I still fail to comprehend why a psychologist is required.”

“The Rule of the Door applies.”

Skarn scratched his bald head thoughtfully and hoped he was not making a fool of himself. “That Rule is unfamiliar to me,” he admitted. “May I inquire—”

“You may. The Rule of the Door was propounded by the Great Kom when an Imperial Ancestor of His Imperial Majesty desired a specimen of an intelligent life form.”

Skarn bowed deeply at the mention of the venerable psychologist of psychologists. “It is no doubt an excellent Rule.”

“It has been canonized, along with the other magnificent Rules propounded by the Great Kom. However, this being only the second time in countless glims that an Imperial Majesty has requested an intelligent specimen, the Rule has not been much used.”

“Naturally,” Skarn agreed.

“In fact, the Rule is no longer included in the Canon of Rules. Were it not for the superb memory of His Imperial Majesty’s Prime Minister, the Rule would not have been followed at this time of crisis.”

“You are to be congratulated.”

“His Imperial Majesty has already done so.”

“The Rule of the Door,” Skarn mused. “May I inquire—”

“You may. The content of the Rule has been lost”

“In my most humble opinion, the Rule can then be followed only with extreme difficulty.”

“His Imperial Majesty does not minimize the difficulty. It was this problem that caused him to summon such a distinguished psychologist as yourself. At my suggestion, of course. Your task is to rediscover the content of the Rule of the Door, to follow it scrupulously, and to obtain for His Imperial Majesty the desired specimen.”

Skarn bowed. “I shall direct all of my unworthy talent to the task.”

“Naturally,” the Prime Minister said. “You will, of course, be granted an unlimited expense account.”

“Naturally. I shall also require unlimited time.”

“Naturally.”

“I shall also,” Skarn said, pausing to cluck his tongue in anticipation, “require Imperial Permission to search the Sacred Archives.”

“Naturally. I shall expect your presence at the Imperial Palace immediately.”

The viewer darkened. Skarn manipulated the dials, saw the acceptance light flash, and stepped through to the Imperial Palace.

* * * *

For three full cycles of Sleep and Consciousness Skarn tirelessly prowled through the Sacred Archives, probing pile after pile of metallic sheets until his fingers became clumsy with numbness and his eyes so encrusted with fatigue that he almost leafed past the lost Theorems of Wukim without recognizing them. So exhausted was he when he came upon the legendary Speculations of Kakang that he wept; he could no longer read with comprehension. Not until he finally discovered, in a damp corner, the stack of sheets as tall as himself that were the notebooks of the Great Kom, did he observe a Time of Sleep.

He returned to them refreshed, and duty and curiosity waged a heated contest within him until he effected a deft psychological compromise. He read through the notebooks with reverent care, but only until he found the Rule of the Door. No further. He carried two of the sheets to have impressions made, sadly returned the originals to the Sacred Archives, and sought out the Prime Minister.

“I have found the content of the Rule of the Door,” he announced.

“Excellent! Your name shall appear high on the next achievement citations. What is the content?”

Skarn bowed. “I do not entirely understand it, but this much is apparent: the Rule of the Door consists of—a Door. Here. I have copies of the notes of the Great Kom.”

The Prime Minister squinted uncomprehendingly at the ancient script. “It is a fitting tribute to the logic of the Great Kom that the Rule of the Door should consist of a Door. You can read this?”

“Much of it is clear to me,” Skarn admitted cautiously.

“I see. And the diagram. Now this would be an ancient model of a matter transmitter.”

“Naturally. And this, you see, is the Door. The desired specimen steps through the Door and is immediately transmitted—perhaps to a self-sealing specimen bottle.”

“The Door appears to be exceedingly complicated.”

“Naturally. It involves, you see, a thought-wave analyzer and a subconsciousness prober. This instrument would appear to be an ancient model of a personality computer. The other components are strange to me, but I assume that this one is a data analyzer which will make the final decision.”

“Amazing!”

“In his inestimable wisdom, the Great Kom realized that the disruption of the life process of an intelligent being was not a project to be undertaken impulsively. He formulated a series of maxims: ‘Spare the humble one, for his nature is sublime. Spare the wise one, for his nature is rare. Spare the one who loves others more than himself, for love is the ultimate meaning of life. Spare the head of a family, for his loss would injure many. Spare the weak, for their weakness renders them harmless. Spare the generous, for their acts merit generosity.’ There is much more. Some of it I do not understand.”

“The Rule of the Door must be extremely difficult to apply,” the Prime Minister mused.

“Praise be to the Great Kom, we do not have to apply the Rule. We have only to assemble the Door, and the Door will select a proper specimen for his Imperial Majesty.”

The Prime Minister thumped his feet gleefully. “Excellent! You will proceed at once to this planet and put the Door in operation.”

* * * *

The citizens of Centertown, Indiana, were agog with excitement. A fabulous mansion was being erected on the outskirts of their fair community by a retired Texas oil millionaire. Or a maharaja who had escaped from his irate subjects with a fortune and a few paltry dozen of his wives and was settling in Indiana. Or a wealthy manufacturer who was going to develop Centertown into a sprawling metropolis.

At any rate, someone was building it, price no object, and he was in a hurry. Centertown was sorely taxed to supply the necessary labor force. Men were imported from Terre Haute, and an Indianapolis contractor put in a winding asphalt drive through the trees to the top of the wooded hill where the house was taking shape. On Sunday afternoons the citizens of Centertown turned out en masse to inspect and comment on the week’s progress.

When the structure neared completion, the general reaction was one of disillusionment. Its architecture was conservative. Several of Centertown’s moderately wealthy boasted more elaborate dwellings. The mysterious mansion proved to be, in disappointing fact, merely another large house.

But the inside—ah, there was something to talk about! The good citizens of Centertown hung eagerly on the words of the carpenters who described it. There was no basement, and except for a lavatory and a small utilities room, most of the first floor was a vast living room.

And the owner had a positive mania for closets and doors. Along one entire wall of that spacious living room were closets, large, windowless closets. Their doors were structural monstrosities, fully two feet thick, that functioned strangely and were hung with a strange type of hinge none of the carpenters had ever seen before. And the doors opened inward. Who ever heard of a closet with a door that opened inward? There were eleven of them, and the central closet was left unfinished and doorless.

Clearly, this new resident of Centertown was a most peculiar person. If the workmen were to be believed, he even looked peculiar. The painters, returning from putting finishing touches on the living room, added another wrinkle to the mystery. Overnight a door had been placed on the central closet. A locked door.

Skarn Skukarn, Jonathan Skarn to the citizens of Centertown, took up his residence in the new house on a crisp fall day and led a newly arrived, shivering assistant on a tour of inspection. Skarn’s pleasure in the house was more than offset by his displeasure with the assistant. The squat, ill-tempered Dork Diffack was grumpy, insulting and generally obnoxious. Skarn confidently expected that he would add treachery to these sterling qualities at the first opportunity; would in fact be immensely pleased if he could bring about Skarn’s failure, since the whole disgrace would be Skarn’s.

Praise be to the Great Kom, Skarn also knew that he could not fail.

Dork snorted disdainfully as they completed their circuit of the grounds. “Abominable climate,” he growled. “And these barbarians—I must admit they have intelligence, since they have a civilization of sorts, but it can’t be much intelligence.”

“Nevertheless,” Skarn said, “they are intelligent, so the Rule of the Door must apply.”

“Intolerable nonsense. Why go to all this bother and expense to collect one specimen? Why not just pack one off and have done with it? There are enough of the creatures running around here.” Dork glanced toward the highway, where several cars were parked, their occupants staring at the house. “The patrol captain could have done it,” he went on. “He should have done it. It’s a pretty mess when men of our distinction have to go chasing around the galaxy just to satisfy old Kegor’s whims about his Biological Museum.”

“His Imperial Majesty does not have whims!” Skarn said sternly.

Dork, being a native of Huzz, one of the Empire’s outlying worlds, frequently displayed a boorish, provincial disrespect for His Imperial Majesty. He also displayed disrespect for Skarn, but that was motivated by jealousy over the fact that Skarn’s professorship at the Royal University was vastly superior to the one Dork held on Huzz. Dork was competent enough, however, and praise be to the Great Kom, the assignment shouldn’t take long.

“I never heard of this Rule of the Door on Huzz,” Dork said.

“There had been no reason for its use for so long that it was almost forgotten on the Mother Planet,” Skarn said. “It seems to have been invoked only once, and that during the Great Kom’s lifetime.”

They entered the house and crossed the expanse of living room. Dork gave the Door a peevish kick. “Built precisely to the Great Kom’s specifications, I suppose.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, you said the servants will be here tomorrow. Maybe one of them will blunder through it and then we can go home.”

Skarn smiled. “It won’t be quite that simple. The qualifications are rather restrictive, you know.”

“I have read the content of the Rule,” Dork said haughtily. “Do you imagine for one moment that these barbarians possess such qualities as love and wisdom and generosity?”

“Yes,” Skarn said. “Yes, I do.”

“Anyway, that’s not our problem. The Door will decide.”

“Perhaps. The Great Kom designed the Door for the inhabitants of a world that is unknown to us. These—ah—barbarians may have an entirely different mental structure. That would mean that we would have to adapt the Door to them, and I must confess that I don’t know how to go about it. Some of the instrumentation is exceedingly strange.”

“How do you know the Great Kom did not design the Door for the inhabitants of this world?”

“I suppose that is possible,” Skarn said doubtfully. “I hadn’t thought of it.”

“Everything else is arranged?”

“Completely. We have only to throw the activating switch. The relay stations are set up and operating. Once the Door accepts a specimen, it is immediately transmitted all the way to the Royal Museum. It is sealed into a specimen bottle before it knows what’s happened, and that’s the end of it.”

“Then our only problem will be adapting the Door to the specimen.”

Skarn took a package of cigarettes, fumbled awkwardly with a cigarette lighter and got one lit. He puffed deeply and went into a paroxysm of coughing. Dork glared disdainfully, but Skarn ignored him. He found the taste abominable and the effect on his throat distressing, but the idea of blowing smoke from his mouth and nose fascinated him. He had seen a carpenter blow smoke rings, and he was determined to acquire that skill himself. He would acquire it, even if he had to transport a quantity of these odd objects back to the Royal University and spend the remainder of his life span practicing.

“I don’t know that the Door will have to be adapted,” he said. “I only acknowledge that possibility. We must expose the Door to a large number of these creatures and study the reactions of the instruments. If the reactions are normal, we should be able to proceed. If not, perhaps suitable adjustments will occur to us.”

Dork sneered. “And I suppose these creatures will willingly present themselves to us for study. We have only to issue an invitation and they will come and form a line at the Door.”

“Something like that,” Skarn agreed. “We merely announce an odd ceremony which these natives call ‘open house.’ It seems to be a well-established custom. I understand that a great many natives will respond eagerly.”

“I suppose there’s no harm in trying it,” Dork said grudgingly.

The entire population of Centertown and the surrounding countryside turned out for Jonathan Skarn’s open house. The wooded hill was packed with cars, the highway was lined with parked cars, and the State Police had to call in reinforcements to keep traffic moving.

Jonathan Skarn, eccentric old gentleman that he was, stationed himself in the front yard, greeted all the visitors warmly, and told them to go right in and make themselves at home. This they did, and after a rapacious assault on the heavily laden refreshment tables, they swarmed through the house.

Though the occasion had to be termed an overwhelming social success, the guests, without exception, emerged disappointed. The door to the upstairs was kept locked. The utilities room and the lavatory were, after all, just a utilities room and a lavatory. And the living room, for all its unusual size and expensive furnishings, was not, as a bright high school student remarked, anything to write home about.

Since the quaint Mr. Skarn remained outside, and since the servants were busily engaged in supplying the refreshment tables—without, however, neglecting to keep the upstairs door locked—the guests pried into all of the strange, empty closets, marveled at the thick doors, and congregated in large numbers around the center door that looked exactly like the others but refused to open.

Upstairs in the laboratory, Dork disgustedly watched their antics in a viewer and kept a sharp eye on his humming instruments; and at the end of the day he announced to Skarn that they had collected sufficient data.

The last of the guests had departed, the servants had restored a semblance of order and wearily headed homeward, and Skarn and Dork relaxed on hassocks in the laboratory and studied the information that drifted slowly across a wall screen.

“These creatures are little more than animals,” Dork declared. “But then, that was precisely what I expected. Consider their hideous patches of hair, and their odors, and the fact that they occasionally kill one another, individually or collectively. They hate, they are dominated by greed and jealousy, and I’d say that they’re totally lacking in wisdom. Most of all, they lust. They sicken me—every one of them. I didn’t find a single worthy creature in the entire pack.”

Skarn was attempting to smoke a cigar. His natural bluish tint had deepened to a violent purple, and he felt ill. He coughed out a cloud of smoke and regarded the cigar warily.

“Then our task should be a simple one,” he remarked.

“You,” Dork exclaimed, “are fully as disgusting as these natives! Must you do that?”

“It is important that we understand the ways of these creatures,” Skarn said complacently.

“Surely we can understand them without degrading ourselves!”

Skarn deposited the cigar butt in an ashtray. A touch of a button and it disappeared. The apparent ingenuity of the device, and its basic crudeness, delighted him.

“Whatever else these creatures may be,” he said, “they are not simple.” He reached for another cigar.

“I tested the Door this morning with the servants,” Dork said.

Skarn whirled about incredulously, dropping his cigar. “Without consulting me?”

“It rejected them. I’ve noticed how they try to open it, now and then, perhaps thinking we may have left it unlocked. So, while they were arranging the food, I activated the Door. Both of them tried it”

“Of course!” Skarn said scornfully. “Why do you think I had this house built? These creatures are intelligent. That means they are curious. There isn’t one of them, young or old, who wouldn’t attempt to open my mysterious Door if he had a chance. But I want this understood—I am in charge of this assignment. The Door is not to be activated except by my orders.”

Dork’s eyes gleamed hatred, but he gestured indifferently. “How many glims do we sit around waiting for you to make up your mind?”

“We must proceed cautiously. If the Door had accepted one servant with the other present—”

“What does it matter? We can make our own departure as soon as we’ve found a specimen. We’ll leave nothing that would reveal our origin.”

“No,” Skarn said. “We must not attract suspicion to ourselves. There must be no witnesses when the Door accepts a specimen. And after that we must wait a suitable period of time so that our departure will not be connected with the disappearance. These creatures may some day learn to transmit themselves. We must not leave an impression that they have enemies on other worlds. Those are stern orders from His Imperial Highness himself.”

“So what do you propose to do?”

Skarn unlocked his desk and removed an enormous stack of papers. He plunked it onto the floor, restacked it when it toppled over, and sat back regarding it wearily.

“I located a peculiarly functioning organization called a detective agency. It is furnishing me with detailed reports on these creatures. We need only to study each report and ask ourselves, is this subject humble? Is he wise? Is he the head of a family? And so on. We shall select the few who seem best-qualified and invite them, one at a time, to be our guests. Their curiosity will impel them to try the Door. It will certainly accept one of them. After a suitable waiting period to divert suspicion from ourselves, we can dispose of this dwelling and leave.”

“It is well arranged,” Dork conceded enviously. “But what a frightful bother just to capture a specimen for old Kegor!”

The Door’s instruments—those Skarn and Dork were familiar with—reacted normally to the open house guests. Those with which they were not familiar reacted, but normally or not they could not say. They tested the transmitter relay, sending through a stray dog, a cat, and an assortment of live creatures that Skarn obtained from a neighboring farmer.

The Director of the Royal Museum responded promptly. All specimens received in excellent condition and already on display. His Imperial Majesty highly pleased. Now—where was the specimen of the intelligent creature?

Skarn advised the Director to expect it momentarily. He closed the Door and attached a small metal plate that advised, “Push.” He activated it and stood nearby, listening to the barely perceptible purring of the instruments. He cautiously tested it on himself and found that it would not open. Everything was ready.

With Dork, he spent hours sifting through the stack of reports. Three-fourths of the citizens were eliminated immediately, a figure that Skarn thought spoke well for these natives. The remaining fourth they studied, compared and debated. They reduced their list to a hundred names, to fifty, and finally to ten. Each of the ten they compared conscientiously with the maxims of the Great Kom. In the end they had four names.

“I don’t think this was necessary,” Dork said. “But perhaps you are right. This may be the more efficient approach. Certainly the Door will accept any of these.”

Skarn nodded and shuffled the reports. He was learning to smoke a pipe, and already the effort had cost him five teeth. New teeth had not yet grown in, and his gums pained him as he grimly mouthed the pipestem.

Whenever he used his hand to support the pipe’s bowl, he burned himself. He bit down hard on the stem, winced painfully, removed it. His attempted smoke ring poured forth in a turbulent cloud.

He read the four reports again. The Honorable Ernest Schwartz, Mayor of Centertown. Married. He and his wife hated each other devoutly. He had no children, no family dependent upon him. There were multitudinous rumors about him, to be gleaned everywhere in Centertown and environs. He was a liar. He was also a thief. He had betrayed the trust of his office repeatedly to enrich himself. He had betrayed his friends. He was greedy and evil and held affection for no one. He had carried on what the natives boorishly called love affairs with the wives of his friends, and pushed his own wife into an affair for his political advantage. He seemed to bewitch the voters at election time.

Skarn frowned. Election time? He would have to investigate that. Whatever it meant bewitching the voters seemed an immoral thing to do.

He turned to the next report. Sam White, Centertown Chief of Police. A bachelor with no known relatives. He kept his job, it was said, by cooperating with the mayor’s crooked schemes. Some of his police officers called him a petty tyrant. He was adept at obtaining confessions. He had several times been accused of brutality toward prisoners.

Jim Adams, the Centertown drunk. He never worked, lived off his wife’s meager earnings, and beat his wife and family mercilessly, drunk or sober. Technically he was the head of a family; in actuality his family would be far better off without him.

Elmer Harley, a ne’er-do-well mechanic. A good mechanic, it was said, when he worked at it. He had been convicted and served jail terms for several crimes. Terre Haute police had given him a standing order to stay out of town. Centertown tolerated him warily. He had no family and no friends. He worked when he could, if he felt like it, at either of Centertown’s two garages. One of the proprietors liked him, it was said, because he was adroit at padding repair bills. That proprietor would have stood high on Skarn’s list had it not been for the fact that he verifiedly loved his wife and children.

“When do we start?” Dork asked.

Skarn removed his pipe from his lips and made another blundering attempt at a smoke ring. “Tomorrow. I’ll ask this Mayor Schwartz to have dinner with me.”

* * * *

The Honorable Ernest Schwartz entered Skarn’s enormous living room with the air of belonging there. A big man, hearty, robust, his hair shining black despite his sixty years, his booming voice and laugh seemed to conjure up unnatural echoes, as though some left over from the open house had been lying inert behind the furniture awaiting a clarion invocation. The mayor had the voice for it. While Skarn was placing his coat, hat and cane in one of the closets, his commonplace compliments about the house filled the living room and shook every somnolent echo into wakefulness.

Skarn turned, absently rubbing his ears, and regarded the mayor strangely. He was seeing him, not as the Honorable Mayor of Centertown, Indiana, but as a specimen in sealed plastic in the Royal Museum. He was seeing him as one of a long row of bottled monstrosities that His Imperial Majesty’s patrol ships had sent in from a multitude of planets. He was seeing His Imperial Majesty himself, cackling with delight, leading a noisy crowd of visiting dignitaries through the displays and stopping to point out Mayor Schwartz’s ridiculous black hair, his smug little mustache, his flamboyant clothing, the sparkling cuff links, the gold chain that hung from his vest pocket.

It seemed wrong. Alien though he was, Skarn could sense the man’s personal charm. He was friendly. He was obviously intelligent.

Skarn shrugged. The decision was not his to make. The Door would decide.

“Excuse me, please,” he said. “I do not like to entertain with servants around. I’ll bring the food myself. If you’ll make yourself comfortable—”

“Why, certainly,” Schwartz boomed. “Anything I can do to help?”

“No, thank you. I can manage nicely.”

Skarn joined Dork in the laboratory, and the two of them sat watching Schwartz in the viewer. Dork was jubilant.

“What a specimen he’ll make!” he exulted. “He’s a big one. Do you suppose the specimen bottle will hold him?”

“It held that thing they call a calf,” Skarn said.

Schwartz had taken a seat, but the reflected light from the sign on the Door caught his attention. He calmly got to his feet, crossed the room and read the label. The sign instructed him to push. He pushed. The Door resisted firmly.

Dork explosively released a series of involved Huzzian oaths. “Why? Why? There isn’t a creature in our files better qualified than this one!”

Skarn said thoughtfully, “So it would seem. We must have made a mistake. Perhaps I can find out what it was. If you’d care to take notes—”

“Not me. He shouts. Even with the volume turned down he gives me a headache. I’m going to bed.”

Skarn wheeled a serving cart into the living room. The mayor hurriedly got to his feet and helped him place the dishes on the table. They took their places, and Skarn poured the cocktails.

The mayor raised his glass and said seriously, “May your residence in Centertown be a long and happy one.”

“Thank you,” Skarn said, feeling strangely moved.

The mayor sniffed hungrily as Skarn uncovered the dishes. He said with a sly grin, “I have a confession to make. The reason I jumped at this invitation was because I knew you’d hired Lucy Morgan.”

Skarn said indifferently, “She seems capable.” He found the native foods so strange that he had to measure the cooks’ skills in terms of more or less indigestion.

“Man, she’s marvelous!” the mayor exclaimed. “She used to work for me.”

“Indeed? But if you like the food she prepares, why didn’t you keep her in your employment?”

The mayor scowled. “Women get funny notions. That was years ago. Lucy was in her early twenties, and my wife couldn’t get it through her head that it was Lucy’s cooking that I was interested in. Are you married?”

“Not now,” Skarn answered cautiously.

The mayor nodded and helped himself to steak. He concentrated on his food and talked little between mouthfuls, mainly about Centertown. Skarn ate sparsely and tried to appear interested.

“I appreciate this,” the mayor said suddenly. “Don’t often get a quiet evening. The mayor’s time belongs to everyone, day or night. Complaints about taxes, or the garbage service, or a hole in the street, or anything else. Each time I’m elected I swear it’ll be the last time. But here I am—ten straight terms and I’ll probably go on until I die. Unless the voters decide to throw me out.”

“To throw you—” Skarn paused. “I see. You were expressing it symbolically. I don’t understand these elections of yours. We don’t have them where I come from.”

“I figured you were one of those refugees. Well, it seems simple to us, but I suppose it really isn’t. Two or three men run for mayor, and the people vote their choice, and the one that gets the most votes is elected. For two years. Then there’s another election and the defeated candidates try again. Or maybe some new candidates. All it amounts to is that the people decide who runs things—those of them that take the trouble to vote.”

“This voting is not required?”

“Purely voluntary. Sometimes the turnout isn’t so hot.”

Skarn considered this with a deep frown. “Wouldn’t it be simpler just to have your—” He thought for a moment and attempted a translation. “Have your Director of Vocational Assignments appoint a mayor?”

“You’re thinking of the city manager sort of thing,” the mayor said. “Some places have them, but it’s usually the city council that does the appointing. Those places usually have mayors, too.”

Skarn squirmed uncomfortably and tried again. “Your Director of Vocational Assignments—”

“We haven’t got anything like that”

“Then who assigns the vocations?”

“Nobody. People work at what they want, if they can get it, and if they can’t they work at what they can get. It isn’t like those Iron Curtain countries. If a man doesn’t like his job, or his boss, or if he can get something better, he quits. The people run the show here. Sometimes they get the wool pulled over their eyes, but not for long.”

“And—you’re going to be mayor until you die?”

“I suppose it’ll work out that way, unless the people throw me out”

“When are you going to die?”

The mayor winced. “For God’s sake!” He dissolved in laughter, booming out great reverberating rolls of sound until he gasped for breath. “How do I know? I might get hit by a car on the way home, or drop dead from overeating. Or I might live to be a hundred. What a question!”

Skarn leaned back to stare at the mayor. Ideas were coming at him so fast that he could not get a grip on them, and his thoughts whirled dizzily.

“I came up the hard way,” the mayor said. “I made my money honestly and I went into politics honestly. I’ve kept my hands about as clean as a politician can. Most of the people know that, which is why they vote for me. It’s petty politics. I’m just a big frog in a small puddle, but I like it that way. I know everyone personally and everyone knows me. Every time a new baby is born, I have a new boss. I’m as happy as the proud parents. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“But politics is a dirty business. Some people had it all their own way in this town before I was elected, and they’d like to have it that way again. They’ve pulled every foul trick in the books, and some so low that no book would be nasty enough to mention them. They spread the damnedest lies about me, and my wife just can’t take that. We were happily married until I got elected mayor, but now—I suppose anything a man accomplishes has its price, but if I had it to do over again, I don’t know.” Suddenly he grinned. “I’ll tell you what—I’ve got a book on the American system of government I’ll send it over. It explains things a lot better than I could tell them to you.”

“I would appreciate that,” Skarn said. “I would appreciate that very much.”

* * * *

Chief of Police Sam White arrived on foot to be Skarn’s luncheon guest. A tall, slim, dignified man, his manner was soft-spoken, his eyes hard and searching but none the less friendly. Skarn, on the basis of his report had visualized him in some dismal dungeon furiously lashing a prisoner, and the chief did not seem to belong in that role. Silvery-gray hair crowned a wrinkled, sympathetic face. There was gentleness in his handshake, in his mannerisms, in his voice. Skarn began to visualize him in a different setting—in a sealed specimen bottle—and felt uncomfortable.

Skarn left him alone in the living room, and he and Dork watched anxiously from the laboratory. The chief shocked them thoroughly—he seated himself and waited quietly without so much as a glance in the direction of the mysterious Door. Later Skarn lured him into making the attempt by asking his assistance in opening it. And the Door ignored him.

After lunch they sat together on the sofa and talked and smoked, the chief describing his various hobbies with dry humor and Skarn listening intently. Did Skarn ever do any fishing? Or hunting?

“I’ll take you with me the next time I go out,” the chief said. “If you’re interested, that is.” Skarn was interested. “Ever play any chess?” Skarn did not know the game. “Drop in sometime when you’re uptown. Things are usually pretty quiet around the police department of a town this size. I’ll teach you.”

The chief sent a smoke ring sailing across the room, and Skarn looked after it enviously. His own effort was a formless catastrophe.

When Skarn had stopped coughing, the chief said gently, “You go at it the wrong way. You can’t form a smoke ring by blowing. You have to do it with your mouth. Look.” Skarn watched, made the effort, failed miserably. “Try it again,” the chief suggested.

Skarn tried. His tenth attempt was a definite smoke ring, wobbly, lopsided and short-lived, but still a ring. Skarn watched it with delight.

“Keep working at it,” the chief said. “A little practice and you’ll be an expert”

“I will,” Skarn promised fervently, and felt forever beholden to him.

Afterward, Dork stormed angrily about the laboratory while Skarn restudied his reports. “The detective agency is in error,” Skarn announced. “Those men are not evil.”

“They’re evil,” Dork said, “but they’re important. They have positions of responsibility. The Door may consider that.”

“True.”

“The other two have no importance whatsoever.”

“True.”

“So let’s get on with it. We only need one specimen.”

Jim Adams arrived early that evening. He was wearing his best—or only—dress suit, a shabby, threadbare garment that flapped loosely on his slight form, but he’d forgotten to shave. He extended a trembling hand for Skarn to shake, and then, fixing the eyes of the utterly damned on him, whined, “I need a drink. Haven’t had one today. Will you give me a drink?”

Skarn patted his shoulder gently. “Of course. You can have all you want.” He led the slight, stumbling figure across the living room. “I keep it there—in the center closet. You help yourself while I’m getting the food.”

Adams pushed at the door, beat on it hurled his scant weight against it shrieked and kicked and clawed and finally slumped to the floor sobbing brokenly. Skarn and Dork’s disgust abruptly changed to disbelief. The Door was rejecting him.

Skarn returned with the food and a supply of liquor, and Adams ate little and drank much, drank himself into a reeking, slobbering intoxication and collapsed. Skarn examined his unconscious body doubtfully and finally became sufficiently alarmed to call Sam White.

“I have Jim Adams here for dinner,” he said, “and—”

The chief chuckled. “Say no more. I’ll send someone to collect him.”

A police officer hauled away Adams’s inert form, leaving Skarn both relieved and puzzled.

“And just how do you account for the Door not taking him?” Dork demanded.

“I don’t,” Skarn said. “I can’t account for it at all.”

* * * *

Elmer Harley arrived in a belligerent mood, thumping rudely on the door, making no motion to accept Skarn’s outstretched hand, and ignoring his invitation to enter. “Mind telling me why you asked me out here?”

“I’m getting acquainted with some of the people of Centertown,” Skarn said uneasily. “I hope that the invitation does not offend you.”

Harley shrugged and offered his hand. “Just wondered. I heard you had Jim Adams here, and let him drink himself to the gills.”

“Yes, but—”

“And before that you entertained the mayor and Sam White?”

“Yes.”

“And now me. It doesn’t make sense.”

“How much of life does make sense?”’

Harley grinned. “You said a mouthful there,” he announced bitterly.

He followed Skarn into the living room. “I’ll bring in the food,” Skarn said. “The liquor is in the middle closet. Pick out what you’d like to have.”

A moment later, watching from the laboratory, Skarn and Dork saw him push once on the Door, hard, and then walk over to a sofa and sit down.

Dork stomped off to his bedroom, and Skarn returned to the living room with the serving cart

“The door’s locked,” Harley said.

“It doesn’t have a lock,” Skarn replied. “I’m afraid it’s stuck. I’ve been having trouble with it.”

Harley bounced to his feet “That so? I’ll take a look at it”

He applied his shoulder to the Door. A moment later he backed away, red-faced and breathing heavily. “It’s really stuck. If you have some tools, I’ll see what I can do about it”

“It’s not that important,” Skarn said.

Harley stepped to the next closet. He pushed the thick door inward and peered admiringly at the hinges. “That’s really slick. Slides the door back and then lets it open. Never saw anything like it. Is the other door hung like this one?”

“Why, yes,” Skarn said.

Harley moved the door slowly, watching the action of the hinges. “That’s really slick,” he said again. “I don’t see how anything could have gone wrong. Did you make these things yourself?”

Skarn maintained an embarrassed silence.

“You ought to patent them. There might be some money in it”

“Our food will be getting cold,” Skarn said.

“No kidding. Safes and refrigerators, things with thick doors—they could use a hinge like that. If I was you, I’d patent it.”

“Thank you for the suggestion. I’ll consider it.”

Harley ate hungrily, accepting second and third helpings, and afterward he relaxed and talked about automobiles. Skarn listened attentively and managed an occasional smoke ring.

Harley knew automobiles. He discussed them collectively and individually, their good points and weak points, their trade-in values, their economy or lack of it, where they were most likely to break down and why.

“When you get around to buying a car,” he said, “ask me. I can keep you from going wrong on a new one, and if it’s a used one, I can tell you if you’re getting your money’s worth.”

“I’ll remember that,” Skarn promised. “I’ve heard that you are a very good mechanic.”

“I get by.”

“With so many automobiles to work on, a good mechanic should do well.”

“Not in Centertown,” Harley said grimly. “Not unless he’s willing to go along with the crooks that own the garages.”

Skarn studied him bewilderedly. He was a muscular man of medium height. His suit was worn but freshly pressed, his dark hair neatly trimmed. The fine scar line that curved around his left cheek was noticeable but not disfiguring. He was clean-shaven. He looked respectable.

Skarn could not envision him as the man the report described.

Nor in a specimen bottle. “If you had your life to live over,” he said, “is there anything you’d do differently?”

Harley smiled wistfully. “There isn’t much that I wouldn’t do differently.”

“For example?”

“I pulled a couple of jobs when I was young. Small stuff, but I did some time. Now, whenever anything happens, the police come looking for me. Ex-con, you know. I can’t get a decent job. I shouldn’t have come back to Centertown, but my mother was here, and just coming out of the pen that way I couldn’t make a home for her anywhere else. She died four years ago and I’m still here. In a rut”

* * * *

Dork had returned to the laboratory. Skarn found him there after Harley left, glumly looking at the view of the darkened living room. “I heard,” Dork said. “He loved his mother. That is considered an overpowering virtue among these creatures.”

“Perhaps so,” Skarn said.

“Invite one of them back,” Dork urged earnestly. “Any one. We can put the Door on manual and shove him through and have done with it. This planet will be a better place, and in Old Kegor’s museum he’ll at least have some slight ornamental value. And we can go home.”

“No!” Skarn said sharply. “We must not contest the wisdom of the Great Kom.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I must think the matter out carefully. Perhaps there are no evil creatures in Centertown, and we must search elsewhere.”

Dork got to his feet and paced back and forth, his squat figure leaning forward at a tense angle, his eyes blazing angrily, his face a violent shade of blue. “All right,” he said finally. “You are in charge. But I am going to invite more of these creatures here to try the Door. You can’t deny me that.”

“No,” Skarn agreed. “I see no objection to that, as long as you invite them one at a time. You may use the reports and invite anyone you like.”

In the morning there was a confidential message for Skarn. Dork Diffack had sent in an alarming complaint on Skarn’s management of his assignment, alleging that Skarn was deliberately delaying the selection of a proper specimen and displaying a suspicious penchant for native customs. The Prime Minister demanded an explanation.

Skarn replied with a report on Dork’s treasonable suggestion that a specimen be obtained without the Door’s approval. He installed a mental lock on the master control, so Dork could not place the Door on manual operation without Skarn’s consent. For the moment Skarn’s position was secure, but he had a queasy feeling that time might be running out on him. His Imperial Majesty was not noted for his patience.

* * * *

Skarn walked to Centertown and wandered in and out of the stores, making casual purchases and attempting to engage the clerks in conversation. It puzzled him that they were, every one of them, obsessed with the weather. He could understand that a relatively primitive civilization that had not mastered weather control might regard the atmospheric conditions with awe and frustration, but he could not understand why every individual seemed to take a personal responsibility for it being the kind of day it was.

“Nice day,” they would say. Or, “It sure is nice out.” Or, “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

When Skarn attempted to direct the conversation into other channels, he was politely but firmly rebuffed. He would make his purchase and ask, “Do you know Jim Adams?”

“Who doesn’t?” the clerk would say and move on to the next customer.

“Do I know Chief White?” a shoeshine boy said. “I ain’t no criminal!”

“What do I think of the mayor?” a waitress said. “I aim to vote for him. Another cup of coffee?”

“Why—ah—yes,” Skarn said, and drank it, though it nauseated him.

The natives he had invited to his home had talked volubly with him. Those he encountered about town were friendly enough if Skarn approached them first, but their restraint baffled him. What could account for such a fundamental difference in their behavior? It was a matter for profound psychological speculation.

Skarn ate a revolting lunch at the drugstore and then cautiously descended the worn steps to the basement of the rickety city hall where police headquarters was located. Sam White was alone in the small headquarters room, chair tilted back, his feet resting comfortably on his desk.

He nodded casually and pointed at a chair. “What brings you to the law?”

“I am making a social call,” Skarn said politely.

“Make yourself comfortable. Not many people come down here unless they have something to beef about.”

“I suppose you meet more than your share of evil people,” Skarn said.

“I wouldn’t say that. I really don’t believe there is such a thing as an evil person. We get some bad ones now and then, but there isn’t a one of them who couldn’t have been straightened out if someone had taken him in hand before he got too far out of line.”

“Do you really believe that?”

The chief smiled. “‘There is so much good in the worst of us, and so much bad in the best of us, that it hardly behooves any of us to talk about the rest of us.’ I might have written that myself if someone hadn’t beaten me to it.”

“Do you really believe that?” Skarn persisted.

“Of course I do. Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps me going.”

“And yet you sometimes find it necessary to use violence on your prisoners.”

Chief White’s feet hit the floor with a crash. “Nobody in this department uses violence on anybody!”

“But I heard—”

“Sure, you heard. You hear that about police anywhere. That’s a crook’s last line of defense. Catch him good and the only out he can think of is to try to blame something on the police. We have to be pretty damned careful to keep them from getting away with it.”

“I see,” Skarn said meekly.

The chief returned his feet to his desk, and Skarn lit a cigarette and sent a perfect smoke ring floating across the room The chief whistled.

“You’ve got that down pat. What did I tell you?”

“Your prediction was profoundly accurate.”

“I’ll make another prediction. I think you’ll like chess. Want to learn?”

Skarn watched curiously while the chief got out the board and arranged the oddly shaped pieces. “This,” the chief said, holding up a black one, “is a knight.”

Skarn reached for a white one with identical shape. “And I suppose this is a day.”

The chief flapped his arms and howled, and Skarn laughed with him, wondering why.

It was dusk when Skarn walked slowly back up the hill. Dork was entertaining a guest—a female guest. Skarn slipped up the stairway unnoticed and activated the living room viewer. He had carefully avoided the native females in his own tests. Their psychology seemed infinitely more complex than that of the males, and their motives shrouded in fantastic obscurity.

After a brief discussion Dork gave money to his female specimen, and she walked resolutely to the Door and shoved against it. It failed to open. A violent argument followed, and she flung the money at Dork and left.

Dork did not offer to discuss the incident, and Skarn did not ask him about it.

* * * *

The stores were not yet open when Skarn reached Centertown the next morning. He walked the length of Main Street and back again, surprised at the number of familiar faces that he met. Jim Adams was slouched in front of the Center Bar, and when Skarn passed him a second time he squinted uncertainly and wiped a trembling hand across his eyes. “Oh, it’s you,” he said.

“Nice morning, isn’t it?” Skarn found that he slipped into the native pattern of conversation with disconcerting ease. “This place will open in a few minutes. May I buy you a drink?”

Adams said nothing. They were the first customers, and Skarn followed Adams to the bar, paid for the drink he ordered, and watched as he downed it greedily.

“Another?” Skarn suggested.

Adams wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared blankly at him. Skarn nodded at the bartender, who refilled the glass. Slumped over the bar, Adams gazed at it dumbly. Suddenly he clutched it and flung the contents into Skarn’s face.

“I’m killing myself fast enough,” he said bitterly. “I don’t need your help.”

Skarn accepted a paper napkin from the bartender and dried his face. “Let’s sit down,” he said. “Is there something you’d rather have? Food, maybe?”

He led Adams over to a booth.

Adams said incredulously, “You ain’t sore?”

“I think,” Skarn said, “that you are a very sick man.”

Adams buried his face in his arms and sobbed. “When I ain’t drunk, I’m a louse because I want to get drunk. And when I’m drunk I’m a louse.”

“Isn’t there anything you can do about it?”

“In this hick town? Big cities got Alcoholics Anonymous and things like that. Here there ain’t nothing. Doc Winslow says go in the hospital and get cured, but that costs money an’ I ain’t got money. Won’t ever have none unless I get cured, an’ I can’t get cured unless I have some. So I drink myself to death. Who the hell cares?”

Skarn got to his feet and took a firm grip on Adams’s arm. “Let’s go and talk with your Doctor Winslow,” he said.

Doctor Winslow made a series of long-distance telephone calls and struggled valiantly to describe hospital expenses in terms understandable to Skarn. Then he jovially slapped Adams on the back and shook Skarn’s hand. And at noon Skarn was at the railroad station seeing that a somewhat bewildered Adams got aboard the train that would take him to a hospital.

Mrs. Adams was there, a slight, pale-faced woman, and with her were the seven Adams children. Mrs. Adams sank to her knees before Skarn and clutched his legs tearfully. Skarn gently raised her to her feet.

“It’s all right,” Skarn said. “Jim is going to come back cured. Aren’t you, Jim?”

“I sure am,” Adams promised.

“He’s been a sick man, but he’s going to be all right. And then your worries will be over.”

“God bless you,” Mrs. Adams sobbed. Skarn patted her shoulder awkwardly. “If you need anything in the meantime,” he heard himself say, “don’t hesitate to call on me.”

As soon as the train left Skarn walked over to the Centertown Bank and arranged to have a weekly allowance paid to the Adams family. Coming out of the bank he met Chief of Police White.

White’s hand clamped painfully on Skarn’s. “I heard about what you did,” he said

They walked together along Main Street. The president of the bank stopped to shake hands with Skarn. Faces familiar and unfamiliar smiled and spoke pleasantly. In one block Skarn was offered seven free beers, three dinners and a lodge membership.

“What’s happened?” he asked bewilderedly. White grinned at him. “In a town this size, word gets around fast. Jim Adams has been kind of a civic problem for years. Everyone felt responsible for him, but nobody knew what to do about him. You solved the problem at one crack. That’s what’s happened.”

They paused in front of the city hall, and White gripped Skarn’s hand again. “These small towns are peculiar places,” he said. “A person can come from the outside and live in one for years and never make the grade. And then sometimes—well, whether you like it or not, you’re one of us.”

Mayor Schwartz lumbered up, breathing heavily. “I chased you a block,” he panted. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

“No, I didn’t” Skarn said. “I’m very sorry if—”

“Heard what you did for Jim Adams. Wonder why we didn’t think of it years ago. Look. We’ve got a vacancy on the planning commission and I think you’re just the man for it. I’ve talked with the council members, and if it’s all right with you we’ll make it official at the meeting tonight.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Skarn confessed.

“It’s nothing complicated. The commission meets once a month and mostly just talks. But you’re a newcomer and you might see things the rest of us have been overlooking for years, like Jim Adams. Why not give it a try? You can always resign if it’s too much of an imposition.”

Skarn looked at Chief White. White nodded gravely.

“Why, yes,” Skarn said. “I’d be honored.”

He found Elmer Harley at work in Merrel’s Garage. Harley slammed down a wrench and went over to wash up before he would accept Skarn’s hand.

“Naw, nobody will care if I have a beer with you,” he said, when Skarn timidly extended the invitation.

They crossed the street to the Center Bar. The bartender brought the beers to their booth, and Skarn took a sip and grimaced.

“I heard what you did for Jim Adams,” Harley said. “And—hell, it was a fine thing to do.”

“Do you think he’ll reform?” Skarn asked.

“With half a chance, I’m sure he will.”

“Then it was time someone did something about it.”

Harley nodded and took another gulp of beer. “Jim wasn’t a bad guy,” he said. “He was weak and he got himself trapped. You thinking of reforming me?”

“I had given it some thought,” Skarn conceded.

“I suppose it’s time somebody did something about that, too,” Harley said.

“I was thinking of opening a garage. An honest garage. Do you think there’s a place for one here?”

“There’s a place for an honest garage anywhere.”

“Do you think you could run one for me?”

“Try me!”

“See if you can find a place for it, and let me know what you’d need.”

“Right away,” Harley said. “Just as soon as I tell Merrel to go to hell.”

The house was dark when Skarn returned, dark upstairs and down. He moved easily through the darkness to the laboratory, heard Dork’s quick breathing, and settled himself on a hassock near him. Dork preferred the darkness. He did not like the confusing alternation of night and day. On his native planet it was always dark or never dark, and Dork claimed that the revolutions of this primitive planet endangered his health.

Skarn lit a cigarette, and Dork winced in the flash of light “Do you have a specimen ready?” he demanded.

“No,” Skarn said. “Do you have one?”

“I heard about what you’ve been doing. I made a full report, and I have a reply. You are relieved of your assignment and ordered to report to the Mother Planet immediately.”

Skarn smiled. “And you are to complete the assignment, I suppose.”

“On personal orders from His Imperial Majesty.”

“Following the Rule of the Door explicitly, I suppose.”

Dork’s laughter was hideous. “The Great Kom is beyond caring. As for His Imperial Majesty, when he wants a specimen he wants it. He doesn’t expect the Rules to be followed; he only wants to be told that they were followed. Your stupidity in the handling of this assignment has been a disgrace, Skarn Skukarn. I very much doubt that you will be permitted to fulfill your span of living.”

“Would you mind telling me how you plan to obtain a specimen?”

“I’ll invite the specimens you’ve already selected. Three of them, since you’ve sent the other away.”

“The Door won’t accept them. I doubt that it will accept any resident of Centertown.”

“The Door will accept them. I’ll operate it on manual and send all three of them through and get away from this cursed planet.”

“I have the master control on mental lock. I won’t release it to you.”

“You’ll release it” Dork said grimly. “There are worse penalties than death, you know.”

“Yes,” Skarn murmured. “Life.”

There’d been a lovely young wife whom he loved, and an exalted minister who took her from him, and after that—emptiness. Glim after glim replete with a nonsensical sifting of trivialities. Having nothing else to live for, he’d lived for his work and risen to the top of his profession because he could perform his sifting tirelessly, with no distractions except his memories. It had always been life that he feared—not death. He tried to imagine how it must be for these natives, who left their life spans to chance instead of making them a matter of law.

Condemned to a life without purpose, he had at least maintained his integrity. “These natives are friends of mine,” he said. “Skarn Skukarn does not betray a friend.”

“I will ask for new equipment,” Dork said.

“When I make known the reason for your request, it will be refused.”

Dork laughed harshly. “How will you make it known? His Imperial Majesty has not ordered your recall to ask your advice.”

Suddenly he leaped to his feet. “What was that?” His hands closed on Skarn’s arm. “Did you hear it? Someone is downstairs.”

Skarn activated the viewer and flooded the living room with invisible light.

“We have a visitor,” Dork hissed. “Skarn—we’re being robbed!”

A shabby figure fumbled awkwardly through the darkness, clumsily feeling its way around the furniture. A handkerchief covered the face below the eyes.

“He’s heard about our Door,” Skarn said. “He probably thinks we keep riches behind it.”

Dork cackled gleefully. “Our task is finished. The Door will certainly accept a specimen that approaches it to commit an evil act.”

“His evil act may have a noble purpose,” Skarn said.

The intruder blundered across the room, lunged into one of the closets, emerged a moment later and felt his way along the wall toward the Door. Dork sucked his breath noisily and released it in a spasm of profanity when the Door failed to move.

“Set the Door on manual,” he snarled. “I’ll push him through. No one knows he’s here. No one will miss him. We can get off this damnable world immediately.”

“The Rule of the Door—”

“Damn the Rule! Do you know this native? Do you claim him for a friend?”

“No,” Skarn admitted. “I don’t know him.”

“Set the Door on manual,” Dork ordered. The sneering authority in his voice made Skarn cringe. Dork swaggered away, and Skarn sank back wearily.

Truly, the Great Kom had acted with awesome foresight in devising such a Door. Perhaps it was never meant to open. Who could say, after all, that the Imperial Majesty of that ancient time had actually obtained an intelligent specimen? Perhaps in his immortal wisdom the Great Kom had deliberately devised a plan to prevent that. And now this—this circumventing of the Door. It was a terrible thing.

Let Dork do his worst, but Skarn would not release the Door to him. He could not.

In the room below, the intruder was assaulting the Door with his shoulder. The lights came on Dork entered the room, hands raised in mock fear of the thief s clumsy weapon.

“Certainly I’ll open it for you,” he said. “Come and help me push.”

Dork moved toward the door, paused, half-turned to say something.

Suddenly the Door swished open. Dork was sucked through in an instant, and as the startled thief leaped after him the Door slammed in his face. He beat upon it angrily.

Skarn jerked to his feet, fists clenched, his mind paralyzed with shock. He tried to envision what was happening, knowing that while he thought about it, it had already happened—the body of Dork Diffack whipped at many times the speed of light from relay station to relay station across space and sealed into a specimen bottle at the Royal Museum, to the colossal consternation of the attendants. They would recognize him immediately, of course, but it would be too late.

Skarn bowed humbly to the memory of the Great Kom. Perhaps the Door had been attuned to the characteristics of one people only, the inhabitants of Dork’s planet Huzz, discovered back in those remote times when the ships of the Empire were first creeping outward from the Mother Planet. Or perhaps not. But manifestly, the Door had been designed so that only a creature like Dork would be accepted, a creature devoid of love and friendship and kindness, an evil creature surprised in a sinister plot against another intelligent being. The wisdom of the Great Kom was absolute.

Skarn acted quickly. He dared not return to the Mother Planet; but he liked these natives. He admired the freedom they enjoyed and the curious blend of good and bad in their characters. He had many years to live as the natives measured time. He had the allowance of precious metals furnished to him for his assignment He had the house. He had—yes, in Centertown he had friends.

He opened a panel in the wall and closed the switch that sent the transmitter hurtling back through space. In succession the relay stations would fold in on each other and all return to the Mother Planet. The enraged Imperial Majesty might send an expedition after Skarn, but it didn’t matter. Only Dork knew where Skarn had located on this planet and Dork’s knowledge was safe for an eternity. So was Skarn.

He went to the telephone and called Sam White. “I have been reflecting upon that game which you call chess. I believe the next time I can defeat you. Is it too late to try tonight?”

“Hell, no!” White said. “Come on over.”

“Shortly,” Skarn said. “I have a small matter to attend to here.”

The removal of the mechanism had released the door, and the thief was bewilderedly staring into the central closet. Skarn paralyzed him with a nerve gun, took the threatening revolver and released him. The young eyes that stared at him over the handkerchief were terrified.

“What happened to that guy? That closet—it’s empty!”

“Of course it’s empty,” Skarn said. “That’s why the door opened so easily. Now tell me, my friend. Why is it that you need money?”