Beyond the Barrier

Chapter Seven

The room in which the shadow-egg now floated was a gigantic hall, paved with some gleaming, hard substance that was at once like marble and like metal. The golden light surrounded them only in a circle a few yards wide; but in the darkness beyond, Naismith could make out the gleam of a pillar, a distant wall, the shapes of furniture. Here was the future: and it was a deserted marble hall, buried under a mound of earth.

“What is this place?” Naismith demanded.

“A ship. A buried ship.” The echoes of Churan’s voice whispered away into emptiness.

Naismith thought, A ship. What kind of a ship?

Now, in their circle of golden light, they were drifting along a spattered trail of bright-red pigment that began a few yards from the door. It looked as if paint had been dripped from a can along the shining floor, and then as if something else that Naismith could not quite understand had happened to it: the red pigment was crazed, checked, almost like weathered paint, and it was powdering away visibly, in streaks, toward the nearby wall.

Naismith bent to examine it as closely as he could through the shadow-egg. The only thing it suggested to him was a wind, drifting sand away from a dune: as if there were an impalpable slow wind here, drifting molecules of the red pigment across the floor….

He followed the red streaks to the wall, where, by squinting, he could make out a hairline of bright red along the join between wall and floor, running out of sight in either direction.

Did the floor reject anything that did not belong there? Were dust, dirt, and red pigment swept away automatically and disposed of?

He straightened. The wall itself was of the same metallic marble as the floor—marble, if such a thing were possible, with flecks and veins of gold diffused uniformly through it. A few feet farther on there was an elaborate metal frame on the wall, and Naismith’s interest quickened: but the frame was empty.

They floated through an archway, into a chamber only less gigantic than the first. Divans and tables stood here and there, in little, widely separated groups. Rich, soft rugs covered the floor; the red trail had been dripped indiscriminately over them, but here, too, the pigment was drifting away in long, faint streaks.

Some of the furniture looked like parodies of the over-stuffed sofas and armchairs of his own time—puffed, bulging things, looking inflated rather than upholstered, and apparently made all in one unit—no separate cushions, no legs underneath.

Other pieces were built on a different principle: these were suspended, like porch gliders, from metal frameworks which rose to cylinders at either end. Between these cylinders swung chairs and sofas which appeared neither stuffed nor inflated, but were as if poured from some taffy-like substance, in silky bright colors and with a curious, eye-deceiving mistiness of surface. They were like shapes of bright smoke poured out of the cylinders at either end; and Naismith had the fanciful thought that if one turned off the mechanism in those cylinders, the chair or sofa would dissolve into vapour.

The red trail led them down a corridor lined with more of the empty metal frames; then through another archway, up a stair and around a gallery, over an empty chamber still larger than anything Naismith had seen; up another stair, down a hall, through another doorway.

The room they now entered was a small lounge from which other doorways opened on all sides. Naismith’s first impression was of a fully illuminated room, more cluttered and disorderly than anything he had seen until now. Then his attention came to a sharp, incredulous focus: across the room, he saw the shadow-egg plainly reflected in a mirror… but his own image was not there.

He blinked and looked again. There was no mistake; only the reflections of Lall and Churan stared back at him… there was something wrong about them, too, in the way they were dressed, or—

Then the vision faded, became transparent and was gone.

There was no mirror. He realized abruptly that the image had not been reversed; his mind had supplied the mirror, an effort to make an intelligible pattern out of what he saw. But what had he seen?…

Beside him, Churan laughed—a hoarse, nervous bark. “Don’t worry, Mr. Naismith,” he said.

Naismith turned. Both aliens were glancing at him with malicious smiles, but their attention seemed elsewhere. Churan made a final adjustment on the polished surface of the machine as the shadow-egg touched the carpet: then, leaning upon the machine with one hand as if it were a tabletop, he got his legs out from under it and stood up. Over the stool on which he had been sitting, the machine hung in air, unsupported and im-movable.

Churan exchanged a few words with Lall; both looked serious and intent. Bending over the machine, Churan did something to it that Naismith could not follow: and the shadow-egg burst like a soap-bubble.

They were standing in the middle of the brilliantly lighted room, all three; Churan tucked the machine under his arm like a briefcase.

There was movement in one of the doorways, and a small creature walked out into view. Naismith had to look twice to see that it was a child.

Lall bent over the creature, smoothing its dull black hair mechanically with one hand. The child spoke to her in a high, thin whine; she answered perfunctorily and pushed it away.

With an incurious glance at Naismith, the child stumped off on its thick legs, sat down and began to play with a rag doll.

It was a quite incredibly ugly creature, greenish-brown-skinned, with sullen features. It looked like a caricature of Lall or Churan, everything about it coarsened and exaggerated.

“Is this your child?” Naismith asked, turning to Lall.

She nodded. “It is a female—her name is Yegga.” She added a sharp sentence to the child, which was picking its nose; it left off and screamed once at its mother, without changing its sullen expression, then bent over its doll once more.

Naismith glanced around the room. Clothing was strewn over chairs and carpet; there were crumpled papers, even bits of food dropped here and there.

The high walls were paneled in vivid magenta and ivory: the ivory, Naismith discovered, was the wall itself, a dull, texture-less surface; the wide magenta strips were hangings of the same substance as the suspended furniture, and had the same smoky outlines. Some of the chairs were of the same bright magenta; others were electric blue or ivory; the deep-piled carpet was apple green. The clothes piled carelessly here and there were of all hues.

“You left her here when you went back to my time?” Naismith asked, indicating the child.

Lall nodded again. “She would have interfered with our work.”

‘What if something had happened, and you’d never come back?”

“But we knew we would come back, Mr. Naismith,” said Churan, stepping nearer. “We saw ourselves arrive, just as we saw ourselves leave just now… remember?”

A tingling sensation went down Naismith’s spine as, with a renewed shock, he thought of the vision he had seen. If Churan were telling the truth, for an instant, just then, time had been doubled back on itself.

Naismith sat down on one of the armchairs, watching Churan as he stepped to the wall, opened a panel, and thrust the machine inside. Lall was stretching herself, looking relieved but abstracted, like any housewife returning after an absence.

“Let me understand this,” Naismith said vehemently. “You knew that your mission would be successful, then—because you saw yourselves coming back with me, before you left?”

“Yes. We knew.” Churan began unfastening his jacket and shirt, pulling them off. He threw them on the nearest sofa with a grunt of relief. His hairless chest from the neck down, and his arms as far as the elbow, were a brownish-green color, the green of algae; it was apparently the natural color of his skin.

“Sit down, Mr. Naismith,” said Lall, taking off her blouse.

“Dial for some food, Gunda.” Her body, the same brownish-green as Churan’s, was squat and soft-looking; the proportions were not quite human. Their bodies were mammalian, but entirely hairless, and, compared with a human being of Naismith’s time, hardly sexed at all. Lall’s breasts were almost as small and flat as Churan’s.

The child glanced up from its play, then bent over again. It was, Naismith saw with a shock of distaste, pushing long pins or wedges of metal into the soft body of the doll.

“There’s a paradox here, then,” he said, looking away with an effort. “Why not turn me over to your earlier selves? Then you wouldn’t have had to go at all.”

“No paradox. If we did that, it would pinch out the loop; then we would have to go just the same.” Seeing Naismith’s frown, Churan added. “Think of it as a short circuit, Mr.

Naismith; then you will understand.”

Ignoring the two men, Lall dropped her remaining garments and left the room. Churan, wearing nothing but sandals, went to one of the wall panels and paused with his hand on it. “You would like some food?” he said to Naismith. “Something hot?”

“I’m not hungry,” Naismith said.

“But you must eat to live. Let me offer you something, Mr.

Naismith; perhaps you will like it.” Pulling the panel aside, he rapidly thumbed down several movable strips, checkered green and white, which seemed painted on the wall and yet slid freely under his thumb. Interested, Naismith moved nearer, but Churan finished aligning the strips, closed the panel, opened another one. He reached in, took out steaming dishes one after another, and dropped them casually on a low, round table. “Please sit down, Mr. Naismith. I am going to wash now, then we shall eat and have a talk.” He smiled, showing his yellow stumps of teeth, and followed Lall into the adjoining room. The child got up and followed him, squalling something in its thin voice.

After a moment Naismith began to examine the food. There were four dishes, each containing a different mess, from which the diners were evidently intended to help themselves with their fingers. One was dark green and smelled like seaweed; one cream-colored, with pink lumps; one was a pasty mound; and the fourth was a varicolored mixture, with shreds of what looked like meat and vegetables in it.

From the other room came the muffled sound of voices.

Naismith turned, stepped to the wall where he had seen Churan put the machine away.

He touched the panel, tried to move it aside as Churan had done, but the stuff was half like cloth and half like water—it resisted, then seemed almost to flow between his fingers. The look and feel of it, no more definite of outline than it had seemed from a distance, were subtly unpleasant, and after a moment he gave it up. As he turned, Lall came out of the adjoining room, fastening a short-sleeved white tunic around her waist. Her skin, where it was visible, was now a uniform brown-tinted green; she had removed her makeup. So had Churan, who appeared behind her, dressed in sleeveless red pajamas. His pointed beard was gone; the whole shape of his face seemed different, and uglier, without it. Now Naismith realized something that had eluded him before—the Churan in the other shadow-egg had been beardless.

The child wandered in, seized a bowl of food from the table, spilling it, and took it to a corner, where it sat down and began stuffing itself.

“It is good to be clean again,” said Lall. “Pardon me, I did not think. Perhaps you would also like to bathe before eating, Mr. Naismith?”

“Later,” Naismith said. “Right now, I want to talk.”

Churan had seated himself at the table, and was tucking gobs of food into his mouth, using two fingers like a spoon. He grunted, chewing a mouthful that bulged his cheeks. “Good.”

Lall sat down and offered Naismith the place beside her.

“Please help yourself, Mr. Naismith. Forks are not used here, but I am sure you can manage.”

“I’m not hungry,” Naismith said impatiently. He sat; the cushioned stool was uncomfortably low, and he had to jack-knife his legs to get them under the table. “You eat, and I’ll ask questions. To begin with—”

‘ “Something to drink, then. Gunda, a cup of water.”

Without looking up, Churan reached out to the wall beside him, opened the panel, and withdrew a porcelain cup which he set on the table.

Naismith took it in his hand; it was half filled with clear water; the cup was chill to the touch. He hesitated, then put it down. Bathing had apparently removed the aliens’ perfume as well as their brown makeup; under the odors of the food and water, he could smell the cold, reptilian scent of their bodies.

I’m not thirsty, thank you.”

Lall paused with her fingers in the dish of cream-colored substance. “Mr. Naismith, our foods may be unfamiliar to you, but surely you can drink our water, which is chemically pure.”

Naismith stared at her. “Even water can be poisoned, or drugged.”

“Drugged!” she repeated, and wiped her fingers slowly on the side of her patterned tunic. “Mr. Naismith, if you could be drugged, do you think we would have been to so much trouble to get you here?” She paused, glanced at her fingers, then sucked them slowly clean. She pushed the dish away from her, leaned her elbow on the table, staring at him. The folds of her eyelids were odd, not quite human. “Think about it, Mr.

Naismith. Do you remember Bursar Ramsdell—and the lawyer, Jerome? The peculiar things they did and said? They were drugged; that was simple to do.” Churan had stopped eating to listen; his amber eyes were narrow and watchful. “But you are an altogether different problem, Mr. Naismith. Don’t you realize, haven’t you any idea— Think a moment, have you ever been ill?”

“My memory goes back only about four years. I don’t know.”

“But in those four years? An upset stomach? A cold? Even a headache?”

“I had a headache when you knocked me out, and another one when I left Wells’ office this afternoon. I mean—” He groped for a word to express the time that had elapsed, gave it up.

“Indeed? I don’t understand. Did he use drugs?”

“No, some gadget—a headband, with clamps.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Ah, I see. And the gadget gave you a headache. But aside from that, can you remember any slightest illness?”

“No,” Naismith admitted.

“No, of course not. The Shefth does not become ill, cannot be drugged or hypnotized; his body rejects most poisons. He is very hard to deal with, Mr. Naismith; he must be treated with respect. So if you are thirsty, please drink without fear.”

Naismith glanced down at the cup of water, then at the two aliens who sat watching him, motionless and intent. “I’ll drink this,” he said slowly, “when I understand one or two things a little better.”

“Ask,” said Lall, dipping up another lump of the cream-colored food.

“Let’s begin with this place—you call it a ship. Who left it here, and why?”

“It’s an interstellar liner. When the colonies were abandoned, in the hundred tenth century, there was no more need of it, they just left it. That was about a century ago.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

“To teach you, Mr. Naismith—certain things which—”

Naismith made an impatient gesture. “I mean why here?

Why couldn’t you have taught me things, whatever they are, back in Beverly Hills?”

She chewed, swallowed. “Let us say, there was a need to be inconspicuous. This is a dead period, for hundreds of years on either side. No one knows about this abandoned liner except us, and no one would think of looking here.”

Naismith knotted a fist impatiently, stared at the taut skin over the knuckles. “This is getting us nowhere,” he growled.

“You talk about a dead period, Shefthi, Zugs—it’s all Greek to me. How do I know there’s a word of truth in it anywhere?”

“You do not,” said Churan, leaning forward earnestly.

“You’re right, it is futile for us to talk about these things. Talk goes around and around, endlessly.” He made a circular motion.

“But there is another way.”

He got up, crossed to the opposite wall, where he opened one of the panels. He reached in and took out a metal framework, with an oblong box dangling from a strap. “This, Mr.

Naismith.”

Its resemblance to the machine Wells had used was obvious at a glance. Naismith pushed his stool back. “No,” he said.

Churan paused, disconcerted. “But I haven’t even told you about it yet.”

“It doesn’t matter—I’ve tried one. Once was enough.”

“You tried one?” Lall repeated, with a disbelieving smile.

“Where was this?”

“At Wells’ office. I blanked out, evidently— But you know all about that—that’s why the police were after me, back there at the campus.”

Both aliens looked alarmed. Lall turned and shot a question at Churan—rapid guttural syllables, in which Naismith caught the name “Wells.” Churan answered explosively, then both turned and stared at Naismith.

“This may be tremendously important, Mr. Naismith. Please describe the machine he used, and the effect it had on you.”

Naismith did so, as best he could. As he spoke, both aliens visibly relaxed; after a few moments, Lall raised her hand to stop him. “That’s enough, Mr. Naismith. It’s apparent that this was not exactly the same kind of machine.”

“I never said it was. But nobody is going to monkey with my mind again, with any kind of machine.”

“What are you afraid of, Mr. Naismith?” Churan asked softly.

Naismith said nothing for a moment. Then: “You’re the one who ought to be afraid. I killed Wells while that machine was operating.”

“Evidently because there is something in your past that you subconsciously did not wish to remember. That is not hard to understand. Let me put it this way, Mr. Naismith. This machine will not bring back any of your own memories. Instead, it will add certain memories which you never had before.”

“It’s put of the question,” Naismith said flatly. “Teach me the ordinary way, if it’s so damned important. Start with the language. Give me books, records, whatever there is. I happen to be quick at languages. Even if I weren’t, you’ve got plenty of time.”

Churan shook his head. “Books and records could be falsi-fied, Mr. Naismith.”

“So could that thing.”

“No, it could not,” Churan said hoarsely, blinking with anger. “When you experience it, you will know. That is why no other method will serve. It’s not just a question of time, Mr. Naismith. You must be convinced, beyond any possible doubt, that what we are going to tell you is true.”

They looked at each other in silence for a moment.

“Why?” Naismith asked bluntly.

The two aliens glanced at each other with resigned expressions. Churan sat down, holding the helmet and the control unit on his lap.

“Mr. Naismith,” Lall said after a pause, “what if you knew that the ruling class of your own people had deliberately thrown you back in time, to the year 1980, believing you would be killed?”

“Why should they do that?”

Her fingers stretched into claws, then relaxed. “Because they are selfish and cowardly. After they had made up their minds to create the Barrier, they felt the Shefthi would be more a danger than a—”

“Wait,” said Naismith with an impatient gesture. “The Barrier… tell me about that.”

“In our own time, the ruling caste found a way to make a Time Barrier that would pass only the Lenlu Din into the future. It would be tuned to their mind patterns, you see; in that way, on the far side there would be no more Zugs, and also no more Lenlu Om. Just Lenlu Din, all by themselves, safe and contented. You understand? But it is not going to work. We know, because they are sending back messages through the Barrier. There is one Zug up there, still alive. And they are very frightened.” He grinned unpleasantly.

“If none of this has happened yet, what makes you so sure it’s going to happen?”

The woman sighed. “These are only ways of speaking. Surely you understand that by now, Mr. Naismith. From your point of view in 1980, all this ‘has not happened yet.’ But here we are.

As for the Barrier, we know it exists in the future. We know it is going to work, except that one Zug will be left alive. As Gunda has just told you, we know all this because we have received messages from beyond the Barrier.”

Naismith sat back. “The future can communicate with the past?” he asked disbelievingly.

“Haven’t you seen that it can? Didn’t we go back to the twentieth century, and scoop you up like a fish in a net?” Lall’s amber eyes were brilliant, her fingers tense.

“Then why don’t they simply tell their earlier selves to do things differently, and eliminate the trouble?”

“They can’t find the trouble,” said Lall, her eyes shining. “It is impossible for a Zug to pass through the Barrier alive. But their detectors show that there is one, and that’s why they are so frantic. When we learned that, we saw our opportunity.”

She leaned forward, intent, lips moist. “We searched the main stem as far back as the twentieth century. Every anomaly above a certain value had to be investigated. It took years, subjective time. It was only the most incredible luck that we found you at all. Then we had to prepare this place; then go back to 1980

and learn the language, customs, everything, from the beginning. And now it all comes together. Because you see they are desperate. If you return, with some story of having built your own time generator, they will believe you—they have to, you are the last Shefth, and they need you.” Both aliens were breathing heavily, staring at Naismith across the low table.

“Then a Shefth can go through the Barrier?” asked Naismith.

“The Shefthi are Lenlu Din,” Churan answered. “If they had let well enough alone, all the Shefthi would be on the other side of the Barrier, and there would be no problem with the Zug. But they didn’t want any warriors in their safe future, without Zugs, without Lenlu Om. They would have killed you, but they were afraid. So they invented a story about an expedi-tion to kill Zugs in the past, and threw you all back. At random, without destination. Without protection. The shock of landing was to kill you all. Even if it did not, without equipment, you could never get back to bother them. That was their plan.”

“I see,” said Naismith.

“What is your reaction to this, Mr. Naismith?” Churan’s voice was strained.

“If it’s true, I’m… very interested,” said Naismith. “Now one more point. What’s this about the Lenlu Om? You said the Barrier was to keep them out too. Who are they, or what are they?”

“We are Lenlu Om,” said Churan quietly. “The name means

‘the Ugly People.’ We are their servants. They brought us from another place, centuries ago. We are not considered to be human.”

Naismith glanced up: the faces of all three aliens had turned hard and expressionless. He put the cylinder down carefully and stood up slowly, feeling their eyes on him. “And all this,”

he said, “in more detail, you would have taught me with that thing.” He nodded toward the device in Churan’s lap.

“As well as many other things. The language. We can teach you to speak it perfectly in less than two hours. And you must speak it perfectly. Then the City itself—the castes—forms of courtesy—a thousand and one things you must know, Mr.

Naismith. You can learn it all by primitive methods, of course, but believe me, it is not worth the effort.”

“But you used so-called primitive methods to learn English.”

Churan hesitated. “Yes and no. We employed the educator

—we recorded disks from the thoughts of natives whom we captured and drugged. But that is not the same as having an edited subject disk all prepared. It was tedious, it took time.

Then we also had to spend time establishing identities for ourselves. We took, I don’t know, perhaps six months, subjective time. Without the educator, it would have taken years.”

Something that had been bothering Naismith came abruptly into focus, and he swung around, with one foot up on the bench, facing Churan. “Tell me this,” he said. “Why not simply go back, learn what you need to know—then put it all on one disk—meet yourselves arriving, and cut out all the trouble?”

Churan sighed. “As I told you before, it would pinch out the loop. You cannot use time in that way.”