“Not an inkling,” said Lansing.
“Our host claims that he knows nothing,” said the Parson, speaking sourly. “He says he only operates the inn and that he asks no questions. Principally, I gather, because there is no one to ask questions of. I think the man is lying.”
“You judge him too quickly and too harshly,” said the poetess, Sandra Carver. “He has an honest and an open face.”
“He looks like a pig,” the Parson said. “And he allows abominations to take place beneath his roof. Those men playing cards—”
“You’ve been slopping up the booze,” said the Brigadier, “mug for mug with me.”
“Drinking is no sin,” the Parson said. “The Bible says a little wine for the stomach’s sake…”
“Pal,” said the Brigadier. “This stuff isn’t wine.”
“Perhaps if we calmed down a bit and compared what we know of the situation,” said Mary, “we might arrive at some understanding. Who exactly are we and how we got here and any thoughts we may have upon the matter.”
“That is the first sensible thing that anyone has said,” the Parson told them. “Has anyone objection to telling who they are?”
“I have none,” said Sandra Carver, speaking so softly that the others were forced to listen closely to catch her words. “I am a certified poetess in the Academy of Very Ancient Athens and I can speak fourteen tongues, although I only write or sing in one—one of the dialects of Former Gaul, the most expressive language in the entire world. How I came here I do not entirely understand. I was listening to a concert, a new composition played by an orchestra from the Land Across the Western Sea, and in all my life I’ve never heard anything so powerful and so poignant. It seemed to lift me out of my corporeal body and launch my spirit into another place and when I came back again into my body, both I, my soaring spirit, and my body were in a different place, a pastoral place of astounding beauty. There was a path and I followed it and—”
“The year?” asked the Parson. “What year, pray?”
“I don’t understand your question, Parson.”
“What year was it? Your measurement of time.”
“The sixty-eighth of the Third Renaissance.”
“No, no, I don’t mean that. Anno Domini—the year of Our Lord.”
“What lord do you speak of? In my day there are so many lords.”
“How many years since the birth of Jesus?”
“Jesus?”
“Yes, the Christ.”
“Sir, I have never heard of Jesus nor of Christ.” The Parson appeared on the verge of apoplexy. His face became red and he pulled at his collar as if fighting for air. He tried to speak and strangled on his words.
“I’m sorry if I have distressed you,” said the poetess. “I did it unknowingly. I would not willingly cause offense.”
“It’s all right, my dear,” said the Brigadier. “It’s only that our friend the Parson is suffering culture shock. Before all this is over he may not be the only one. I begin to catch a glint of the situation in which we find ourselves. It is, for me, entirely unbelievable, but as we go on it may become at least marginally believable, although I have the feeling that most of us may come to that realization with a great deal of difficulty.”
“You are saying,” said Lansing, “that all of us may come from different cultures and perhaps from different worlds, although I am not sure about the worlds.” Surprised to hear himself speaking so and thinking back to the time, a few hours before, when Andy Spaulding, speculating idly and certainly meaning none of it, had prattled about alternate worlds, although, he recalled, he had blanked out the prattle.
“But we all speak English,” said Mary Owen, “or we can speak English. How many languages, Sandra, did you say you spoke?”
“Fourteen,” said the poetess. “Some of them rather badly.”
“Lansing voiced a good preliminary grasp of what may have happened to us,” said the Brigadier. “I congratulate you, sir, on your sharp perception. It may not be exactly as you say, but you may be nibbling close to truth. As to the English that we speak, let us speculate a little further. We are one little band, all speaking English. Might there not be other bands? French bands, Latin bands, Greek bands, Spanish bands—small groups of people who can get along together because they speak a common language?”
The Parson shouted, “That is sheer speculation! It is madness to suggest, to even think, of such a concept as the two of you seem to be putting together. It goes against everything that is known of Heaven or of Earth.”
“The knowledge that we have of Heaven and of Earth,“ the Brigadier said, tartly, ”is a mere pinch against the entire truth. We cannot blink our being here, and certainly our being here and the method of our coming does not square with any knowledge that we have.”
“I think that what Mr. Lansing told us…” said Mary. “Lansing, what is your Christian name? We can’t go on calling you Lansing.”
“My name is Edward.”
“Thank you. I think that Edward’s suggestion may be a tad romantic, even visionary. But if we are to seek the knowledge of where we are and the reason for our being here, it would seem that we may be forced to strike out in some new directions in our thinking. I happen to be an engineer, and I live in a highly technical society. Any sort of thinking that projects itself beyond the known or the solidly theoretical grates upon my nerves. There is nothing in any methodology that I can summon up that would provide any explanation. There may be others of you who are better based to suggest an explanation. How about our robot friend?”
“I also have a technical background,” said Jurgens, “but I am not aware of any methodology—”
“Why do you ask him?” shouted the Parson. “You call him a robot and that is a word that slips easily off the tongue, but when you come right down to it, he is no more than a machine, a mechanical contrivance.”
“You go too far,” said the Brigadier. “I happen to live in a world where mechanical contrivances have fought a war for years and have fought it intelligently and well, with an imagination that sometimes surpasses a human’s.”
“How horrible,” said the poetess.
“You mean, I suppose,” said the Brigadier, “that war is horrible.”
“Well, isn’t it?” she asked.
“War is a natural human function,” said the Brigadier. “There is an aggressive, competitive urge in the race that responds to conflict. If this were not so, there would not have been so many wars.”
“But the human suffering. The agony. The blasted hopes.”
“In my day it has become a game,” said the Brigadier. “As it was with many early human tribes. The Indians of the Western Continent looked upon it as a game. A young tribesman did not become a man until he’d counted his first coup. All that is manly and noble stems from war. There might have been times in the past when excessive zeal resulted in some of the consequences that you mention. Today little blood is spilled. We play it as one plays a game of chess.”
“Using robots,” said Jurgens.
“We don’t call them robots.”
“Perhaps not. Mechanicals. Mechanicals that have personal identity and the ability to think.”
“That’s correct. Well built, magnificently trained. They help us plan as well as fight. My staff is very heavily weighed with mechanicals. In many ways their grasp of a military situation is at times superior to mine.”
“And the field of battle is littered with mechanicals?”
“Yes, of course. We salvage those we can.”
“And fix them up and send them out again?”
“Why, certainly,” said the Brigadier. “In war you conserve your resources very jealously.”
“General,” said Jurgens, “I do not think I would like to live in the kind of world you have.”
“What is your kind of world? If you wouldn’t want to live in my kind of world, tell me the kind of world you do live in.”
“A peaceful world. A kindly wor
ld. We have compassion for our humans.”
“It sounds sickening,” said the Brigadier. “You have compassion for your humans. Your humans?”
“In our world there are few humans left. We take care of them.”
“Much as it goes against my gram,” said the Parson, “I’m coming to the conclusion that Edward Lansing may be right. Listening, it becomes apparent that we all do come from different worlds. A cynical world that regards war as a simple game—”
“It is not a simple game,” said the Brigadier. “At times it is complex.”
“A cynical world,” said the Parson, “that regards war as a complex game. A world of poetess and poet, of music and academies. A world in which robots take kindly care of humans. And in your world, my lady, a society where a woman may become an engineer.”
“And what is wrong with that?” asked Mary.
“The wrongness is that women should not be engineers. They should be faithful wives, competent keepers of the home, efficient raisers of children. These activities are the natural sphere of women.”
“In my world women are not only engineers,” said Mary. “They are physicists, physicians, chemists, philosophers, paleontologists, geologists, members of the board of great corporations, presidents of prestigious companies, lawyers and lawmakers, heads of executive agencies. The list could be greatly added to.”
Mine Host came bustling up to the table.
“Make way,” he said. “Make way for supper. I hope you’ll find it to your liking.”
THE MEAL WAS FINISHED, a most satisfactory one. Now, the table pushed back, they sat in front of the blazing fire. Back of them, in the other corner of the room, the card players were hunched above their table.
Lansing made a thumb over his shoulder in their direction. “What about them? They did not join us at supper.”
Mine Host made a gesture of contempt. “They will not leave their play. We served them sandwiches and they continued with their game. They will not cease until early in the morning and then be up again after little sleep. Then they hold a prayer breakfast and go back to the cards.”
“To whom do they pray?” asked Mary. “The gods of chance, perhaps.”
Mine Host shook his head. “I do not know. I have never eavesdropped.”
“It seems to me you are a most incurious man,” said the Parson. “You know less of common matters than any man I have ever met. You do not know what land we’re in. You do not know why we’re here or what we’re supposed to do.”
“I tell you true,” said Mine Host. “I do not know these things and I have never asked.”
“Could it be true that there is no one for you to ask? No one we can ask?”
“I think that is a fair statement,” said Mine Host.
“So we’ve been dumped here,” said Mary, “without knowledge and without instructions. Someone, or some agency, must have dumped us here for whatever reason. Do you have the slightest idea of—”
“I have none whatsoever, my lady. I can tell you this—the other groups that have come here have left this place, following an ancient road to seek out what lies beyond.”
“So there have been other groups?”
“Oh, yes. Very many of them. But at long intervals.”
“And do they return?”
“Seldom. Only stragglers now and then.”
“What happens when the stragglers return?”
“That I do not know. I close up for winter.”
“The ancient road you speak of,” said the Brigadier. “Can you tell us more of it? Where it might go or what’s to be found along the way?”
“Only rumors. There are rumors of a city and rumors of a cube.”
“Rumors only?”
“That is all.”
“A cube?” asked Lansing.
“That is all I know,” said Mine Host. “I know naught other of it. And now a matter that I hesitate to mention, but that must be done.”
“What is it?” asked the Parson.
“It is the matter of payment. I must be paid for my lodging and the meals, and I run a small commissary from which you might wish to purchase food and other items before you set out upon your way.”
“I have no money on me,” said the Brigadier. “I seldom carry any. Had I known I was coming here, I would have obtained some cash.”
“I have but a few bills and a handful of change,” the Parson told Mine Host. “As are all the clergy in my country, I am very poor.”
“I could write you a check,” said Mary.
“I am sorry. I can accept no checks. I must have cold, hard cash.”
Sandra Carver complained, “I do not understand all this. Cash and checks?”
“He is talking about money,” said the Brigadier. “You must know of money.”
“But I don’t. Pray tell me—what is money?”
The Brigadier answered gently. “It is a token, either paper or metal, that has a stated value. It is used to pay for goods or services. You must use it, certainly, to buy what you need, your food and clothing.”
“We do not buy,” she said. “We give. I give my poems and my songs. Others give me food and clothing as I have need of them.”
“A perfect communistic society,” said Lansing.
“I see no reason for all of you to look so shocked and puzzled,” Jurgens said. “Sandra’s way is the only sensible way for a society to operate.”
“Which means, I suppose,” said the Brigadier, “that you have no money, either.”
He turned to Mine Host and said, “Sorry, old chap. It seems you’re out of luck.”
“Hold up for a moment,” said Lansing. To Mine Host he said, “Does it sometimes happen that only one member of a group carries money? Money possibly supplied by the agency that has initiated each particular wild goose chase?”
“It sometimes happens that way,” said Mine Host. “As a matter of fact, it almost always happens that way.”
“Then why didn’t you say so?”
“Well,” said Mine Host, licking his lips, “a man can never know. And he must be careful.”
“Do I gather,” asked the Parson, “that you, Mr. Lansing, are the treasurer for our group?”
“It would seem so,” Lansing said. “I wondered at the time.”
He took one of the golden coins out of his jacket pocket and flipped it to the innkeeper.
“That is honest gold,” he said, not knowing if it was or not. “How far can that coin cover us?”
“Two more like this,” said Mine Host, “will take care of the meal tonight, the night’s lodgings and tomorrow’s breakfast.”
“I think, Mr. Lansing,” said the Parson, “that he may be gouging you.”
“I think so, too,” said Lansing. “I think the one coin might cover all of it. But out of sheer generosity, I’ll give you another, but no more.”
Mine Host whined. “With costs going up and labor so expensive…”
“One more,” said Lansing, holding up the second coin, “but that is all.”
“All right,” said Mine Host. “The next group may prove more generous.”
The Parson said, “I still think it’s too much.”
Lansing flipped the coin, and the innkeeper grabbed it with a swoop of his flabby hand.
“It well may be too much,” Lansing told the Parson, “but I do not wish him saying that we cheated him.”
Mine Host got slowly to his feet. “When you wish to retire,” he said, “call me and you’ll be shown to your rooms.”
When he was gone Mary said, “What a strange way to finance an expedition. You could have said nothing, Edward, and hung onto the money.”
“It wouldn’t have washed,” he said. “He knew that someone had it.”
“It appears, from this matter of the money,” she said, “that someone sent us here.”
“Or something.”
“That is right. Or something. They must want us here quite badly to have paid our way.”
“In
that case wouldn’t you think they would have told us what they wanted?”
“Yes, one would. We are dealing with strange people.”
“Mr. Lansing, it may be none of our business,” said the Brigadier, “but I wonder if you’d mind telling us how you got the money.”
“I’d be glad to,” Lansing said. “First of all, have any of you ever heard of a slot machine?”
It seemed none of them had.
“Well, then,” said Lansing, “I’ll tell you a tale of students and of slot machines and of an eccentric friend of mine.”
He told them and they listened, paying close attention.
“I must say,” said the Brigadier when Lansing had finished, “that your experience was excessively involved.”
“All the time that it was happening,” said Lansing, “I had the feeling that I was being taken. And yet I had to go ahead with it. My curiosity drove me to it.”
“Perhaps it was a good thing that you were driven to it,” said the Brigadier. “Otherwise the rest of us would have been stranded here without a penny to our name.”
“It is strange,” said Sandra, “how differently we were translated to this place—I through listening to music, you through the agency of these things you call slot machines.”
“I was done in,” said Mary, “by, of all things, a blueprint. A fellow engineer brought it to me, claiming there was something in it that he did not understand. He insisted I have a look at it, and he pointed with his finger to where he wanted me to look. It was nothing I had ever seen before and as I struggled to make some sense of it, I was caught up in the configuration that was represented on it and the next I knew I was standing in a forest. I am struck by the coincidence that both Edward and myself were trapped by another human—in his case a student, in my case another engineer. This would argue that whoever, or whatever, did this to us has agents on our worlds.”
“For a time I thought,” Lansing said to Mary, “that you and I might be from the same world, the same culture. Our societies seemed very much the same. But I was looking at you when I said a certain word and I could tell that you were puzzled by it. It seemed you didn’t know what communistic meant.”