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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Star-Sent
Knaves
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
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you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Star-Sent Knaves

Author: Keith Laumer

Illustrator: Jack Gaughan

Release date: August 20, 2016 [eBook #52855]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STAR-SENT

KNAVES ***
 THE STAR-SENT KNAVES

BY KEITH LAUMER

Illustrated by Gaughan

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
 When the Great Galactic Union first
encounters
Earth ... is this what is going to happen?

I
Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,
with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-
shouldered in a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan
Slane's travel-stained six foot one.
"Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me." He nodded
toward the florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like
something that needed oiling. "Something about important
information regarding safeguarding my paintings."
"That's right, Mr. Snithian," Dan said. "I believe I can be of great
help to you."
"Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me...." The red eyes bored
into Dan like hot pokers.
"Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of
guards here—the papers are full of it—"
"Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,
I'd have no concern for my paintings today!"
"Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been left
unguarded."
"Now, wait a minute—" Kelly started.
"What's that?" Snithian cut in.
"You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds
day and night—"
"Two hundred and twenty-five," Kelly snapped.
"—but no one at all in the vault with the paintings," Slane finished.
"Of course not," Snithian shrilled. "Why should I post a man in the
vault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside."
"The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault," Dan
said. "There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken."
"By the saints, he's right," Kelly exclaimed. "Maybe we ought to have
a man in that vault."
"Another idiotic scheme to waste my money," Snithian snapped.
"I've made you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no
more nonsense. And throw this nincompoop out!" Snithian turned
and stalked away, his cloak flapping at his knees.
"I'll work cheap," Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. "I'm an
art lover."
"Never mind that," Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. He
turned in at an office and closed the door.
"Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. If
those pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.
Just how cheap would you work?"
"A hundred dollars a week," Dan said promptly. "Plus expenses," he
added.
Kelly nodded. "I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. If
you're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet."

Dan looked around at the gray walls, with shelves stacked to the low
ceiling with wrapped paintings. Two three-hundred-watt bulbs shed
a white glare over the tile floor, a neat white refrigerator, a bunk, an
arm-chair, a bookshelf and a small table set with paper plates,
plastic utensils and a portable radio—all hastily installed at Kelly's
order. Dan opened the refrigerator, looked over the stock of salami,
liverwurst, cheese and beer. He opened a loaf of bread, built up a
well-filled sandwich, keyed open a can of beer.
It wasn't fancy, but it would do. Phase one of the plan had gone off
without a hitch.
Basically, his idea was simple. Art collections had been disappearing
from closely guarded galleries and homes all over the world. It was
obvious that no one could enter a locked vault, remove a stack of
large canvases and leave, unnoticed by watchful guards—and
leaving the locks undamaged.
Yet the paintings were gone. Someone had been in those vaults—
someone who hadn't entered in the usual way.
Theory failed at that point; that left the experimental method. The
Snithian collection was the largest west of the Mississippi. With such
a target, the thieves were bound to show up. If Dan sat in the vault
—day and night—waiting—he would see for himself how they
operated.
He finished his sandwich, went to the shelves and pulled down one
of the brown-paper bundles. Loosening the string binding the
package, he slid a painting into view. It was a gaily colored view of
an open-air cafe, with a group of men and women in gay-ninetyish
costumes gathered at a table. He seemed to remember reading
something about it in a magazine. It was a cheerful scene; Dan liked
it. Still, it hardly seemed worth all the effort....
He went to the wall switch and turned off the lights. The orange
glow of the filaments died, leaving only a faint illumination from the
night-light over the door. When the thieves arrived, it might give him
a momentary advantage if his eyes were adjusted to the dark. He
groped his way to the bunk.
So far, so good, he reflected, stretching out. When they showed up,
he'd have to handle everything just right. If he scared them off
there'd be no second chance. He would have lost his crack at—
whatever his discovery might mean to him.
But he was ready. Let them come.

Eight hours, three sandwiches and six beers later, Dan roused
suddenly from a light doze and sat up on the cot. Between him and
the crowded shelving, a palely luminous framework was
materializing in mid-air.
The apparition was an open-work cage—about the size and shape of
an out-house minus the sheathing, Dan estimated breathlessly. Two
figures were visible within the structure, sitting stiffly in contoured
chairs. They glowed, if anything, more brightly than the framework.
A faint sound cut into the stillness—a descending whine. The cage
moved jerkily, settling toward the floor. Long blue sparks jumped,
crackling, to span the closing gap; with a grate of metal, the cage
settled against the floor. The spectral men reached for ghostly
switches....
The glow died.
Dan was aware of his heart thumping painfully under his ribs. His
mouth was dry. This was the moment he'd been planning for, but
now that it was here—
Never mind. He took a deep breath, ran over the speeches he had
prepared for the occasion:
Greeting, visitors from the Future....
Hopelessly corny. What about: Welcome to the Twentieth Century....
No good; it lacked spontaneity. The men were rising, their backs to
Dan, stepping out of the skeletal frame. In the dim light it now
looked like nothing more than a rough frame built of steel pipe, with
a cluster of levers in a console before the two seats. And the thieves
looked ordinary enough: Two men in gray coveralls, one slender and
balding, the other shorter and round-faced. Neither of them noticed
Dan, sitting rigid on the cot. The thin man placed a lantern on the
table, twiddled a knob. A warm light sprang up. The visitors looked
at the stacked shelves.
"Looks like the old boy's been doing all right," the shorter man said.
"Fathead's gonna be pleased."
"A very gratifying consignment," his companion said. "However, we'd
best hurry, Manny. How much time have we left on this charge?"
"Plenty. Fifteen minutes anyway."
The thin man opened a package, glanced at a painting.
"Ah, magnificent. Almost the equal of Picasso in his puce period."
Manny shuffled through the other pictures in the stack.
"Like always," he grumbled. "No nood dames. I like nood dames."
"Look at this, Manny! The textures alone—"
Manny looked. "Yeah, nice use of values," he conceded. "But I still
prefer nood dames, Fiorello."
"And this!" Fiorello lifted the next painting. "Look at that gay play of
rich browns!"
"I seen richer browns on Thirty-third Street," Manny said. "They was
popular with the sparrows."
"Manny, sometimes I think your aspirations—"
"Whatta ya talkin? I use a roll-on." Manny, turning to place a
painting in the cage, stopped dead as he caught sight of Dan. The
painting clattered to the floor. Dan stood, cleared his throat. "Uh...."
"Oh-oh," Manny said. "A double-cross."
"I've—ah—been expecting you gentlemen," Dan said. "I—"
"I told you we couldn't trust no guy with nine fingers on each hand,"
Manny whispered hoarsely. He moved toward the cage. "Let's blow,
Fiorello."
"Wait a minute," Dan said. "Before you do anything hasty—"
"Don't start nothing, Buster," Manny said cautiously. "We're plenty
tough guys when aroused."
"I want to talk to you," Dan insisted. "You see, these paintings—"
"Paintings? Look, it was all a mistake. Like, we figured this was the
gent's room—"
"Never mind, Manny," Fiorello cut in. "It appears there's been a
leak."
Dan shook his head. "No leak. I simply deduced—"
"Look, Fiorello," Manny said. "You chin if you want to; I'm doing a
fast fade."
"Don't act hastily, Manny. You know where you'll end."
"Wait a minute!" Dan shouted. "I'd like to make a deal with you
fellows."
"Ah-hah!" Kelly's voice blared from somewhere. "I knew it! Slane,
you crook!"

Dan looked about wildly. The voice seemed to be issuing from a

speaker. It appeared Kelly hedged his bets.
"Mr. Kelly, I can explain everything!" Dan called. He turned back to
Fiorello. "Listen, I figured out—"
"Pretty clever!" Kelly's voice barked. "Inside job. But it takes more
than the likes of you to out-fox an old-timer like Eddie Kelly."
"Perhaps you were right, Manny," Fiorello said. "Complications are
arising. We'd best depart with all deliberate haste." He edged toward
the cage.
"What about this ginzo?" Manny jerked a thumb toward Dan. "He's
on to us."
"Can't be helped."
"Look—I want to go with you!" Dan shouted.
"I'll bet you do!" Kelly's voice roared. "One more minute and I'll have
the door open and collar the lot of you! Came up through a tunnel,
did you?"
"You can't go, my dear fellow," Fiorello said. "Room for two, no
more."
Dan whirled to the cot, grabbed up the pistol Kelly had supplied. He
aimed it at Manny. "You stay here, Manny! I'm going with Fiorello in
the time machine."
"Are you nuts?" Manny demanded.
"I'm flattered, dear boy," Fiorello said, "but—"
"Let's get moving. Kelly will have that lock open in a minute."
"You can't leave me here!" Manny spluttered, watching Dan crowd
into the cage beside Fiorello.
"We'll send for you," Dan said. "Let's go, Fiorello."
The balding man snatched suddenly for the gun. Dan wrestled with
him. The pistol fell, bounced on the floor of the cage, skidded into
the far corner of the vault. Manny charged, reaching for Dan as he
twisted aside; Fiorello's elbow caught him in the mouth. Manny
staggered back into the arms of Kelly, bursting red-faced into the
vault.
"Manny!" Fiorello released his grip on Dan, lunged to aid his
companion. Kelly passed Manny to one of three cops crowding in on
his heels. Dan clung to the framework as Fiorello grappled with Kelly.
A cop pushed past them, spotted Dan, moved in briskly for the
pinch. Dan grabbed a lever at random and pulled.
Sudden silence fell as the walls of the room glowed blue. A spectral
Kelly capered before the cage, fluorescing in the blue-violet. Dan
swallowed hard and nudged a second lever. The cage sank like an
elevator into the floor, vivid blue washing up its sides.
Hastily he reversed the control. Operating a time machine was tricky
business. One little slip, and the Slane molecules would be squeezing
in among brick and mortar particles....
But this was no time to be cautious. Things hadn't turned out just
the way he'd planned, but after all, this was what he'd wanted—in a
way. The time machine was his to command. And if he gave up now
and crawled back into the vault, Kelly would gather him in and pin
every art theft of the past decade on him.
It couldn't be too hard. He'd take it slowly, figure out the controls....

Dan took a deep breath and tried another lever. The cage rose
gently, in eerie silence. It reached the ceiling and kept going. Dan
gritted his teeth as an eight-inch band of luminescence passed down
the cage. Then he was emerging into a spacious kitchen. A blue-
haloed cook waddled to a luminous refrigerator, caught sight of Dan
rising slowly from the floor, stumbled back, mouth open. The cage
rose, penetrated a second ceiling. Dan looked around at a carpeted
hall.
Cautiously he neutralized the control lever. The cage came to rest an
inch above the floor. As far as Dan could tell, he hadn't traveled so
much as a minute into the past or future.
He looked over the controls. There should be one labeled "Forward"
and another labeled "Back", but all the levers were plain, unadorned
black. They looked, Dan decided, like ordinary circuit-breaker type
knife-switches. In fact, the whole apparatus had the appearance of
something thrown together hastily from common materials. Still, it
worked. So far he had only found the controls for maneuvering in
the usual three dimensions, but the time switch was bound to be
here somewhere....
Dan looked up at a movement at the far end of the hall.
A girl's head and shoulders appeared, coming up a spiral staircase.
In another second she would see him, and give the alarm—and Dan
needed a few moments of peace and quiet in which to figure out the
controls. He moved a lever. The cage drifted smoothly sideways,
sliced through the wall with a flurry of vivid blue light. Dan pushed
the lever back. He was in a bedroom now, a wide chamber with
flouncy curtains, a four-poster under a flowered canopy, a dressing
table—
The door opened and the girl stepped into the room. She was
young. Not over eighteen, Dan thought—as nearly as he could tell
with the blue light playing around her face. She had long hair tied
with a ribbon, and long legs, neatly curved. She wore shorts and
carried a tennis racquet in her left hand and an apple in her right.
Her back to Dan and the cage, she tossed the racquet on a table,
took a bite of the apple, and began briskly unbuttoning her shirt.
Dan tried moving a lever. The cage edged toward the girl. Another;
he rose gently. The girl tossed the shirt onto a chair and undid the
zipper down the side of the shorts. Another lever; the cage shot
toward the outer wall as the girl reached behind her back....
Dan blinked at the flash of blue and looked down. He was hovering
twenty feet above a clipped lawn.
He looked at the levers. Wasn't it the first one in line that moved the
cage ahead? He tried it, shot forward ten feet. Below, a man
stepped out on the terrace, lit a cigarette, paused, started to turn his
face up—
Dan jabbed at a lever. The cage shot back through the wall. He was
in a plain room with a depression in the floor, a wide window with a
planter filled with glowing blue plants—
The door opened. Even blue, the girl looked graceful as a deer as
she took a last bite of the apple and stepped into the ten-foot-
square sunken tub. Dan held his breath. The girl tossed the apple
core aside, seemed to suddenly become aware of eyes on her,
whirled—
With a sudden lurch that threw Dan against the steel bars, the cage
shot through the wall into the open air and hurtled off with an
acceleration that kept him pinned, helpless. He groped for the
controls, hauled at a lever. There was no change. The cage rushed
on, rising higher. In the distance, Dan saw the skyline of a town,
approaching with frightful speed. A tall office building reared up
fifteen stories high. He was headed dead for it—
He covered his ears, braced himself—
With an abruptness that flung him against the opposite side of the
cage, the machine braked, shot through the wall and slammed to a
stop. Dan sank to the floor of the cage, breathing hard. There was a
loud click! and the glow faded.
With a lunge, Dan scrambled out of the cage. He stood looking
around at a simple brown-painted office, dimly lit by sunlight filtered
through elaborate venetian blinds. There were posters on the wall, a
potted plant by the door, a heap of framed paintings beside it, and
at the far side of the room a desk. And behind the desk—Something.

II
Dan gaped at a head the size of a beachball, mounted on a torso
like a hundred-gallon bag of water. Two large brown eyes blinked at
him from points eight inches apart. Immense hands with too many
fingers unfolded and reached to open a brown paper carton, dip in,
then toss three peanuts, deliberately, one by one, into a gaping
mouth that opened just above the brown eyes.
"Who're you?" a bass voice demanded from somewhere near the
floor.
"I'm ... I'm ... Dan Slane ... your honor."
"What happened to Manny and Fiorello?"
"They—I—There was this cop. Kelly—"
"Oh-oh." The brown eyes blinked deliberately. The many-fingered
hands closed the peanut carton and tucked it into a drawer.
"Well, it was a sweet racket while it lasted," the basso voice said. "A
pity to terminate so happy an enterprise. Still...." A noise like an
amplified Bronx cheer issued from the wide mouth.
"How ... what...?"
"The carrier returns here automatically when the charge drops below
a critical value," the voice said. "A necessary measure to discourage
big ideas on the part of wisenheimers in my employ. May I ask how
you happen to be aboard the carrier, by the way?"
"I just wanted—I mean, after I figured out—that is, the police ... I
went for help," Dan finished lamely.
"Help? Out of the picture, unfortunately. One must maintain one's
anonymity, you'll appreciate. My operation here is under wraps at
present. Ah, I don't suppose you brought any paintings?"
Dan shook his head. He was staring at the posters. His eyes,
accustoming themselves to the gloom of the office, could now make
out the vividly drawn outline of a creature resembling an alligator-
headed giraffe rearing up above scarlet foliage. The next poster
showed a face similar to the beachball behind the desk, with red
circles painted around the eyes. The next was a view of a yellow
volcano spouting fire into a black sky.
"Too bad." The words seemed to come from under the desk. Dan
squinted, caught a glimpse of coiled purplish tentacles. He gulped
and looked up to catch a brown eye upon him. Only one. The other
seemed to be busily at work studying the ceiling.
"I hope," the voice said, "that you ain't harboring no reactionary
racial prejudices."

"Gosh, no," Dan reassured the eye. "I'm crazy about—uh—"

"Vorplischers," the voice said. "From Vorplisch, or Vega, as you call
it." The Bronx cheer sounded again. "How I long to glimpse once
more my native fens! Wherever one wanders, there's no pad like
home."
"That reminds me," Dan said. "I have to be running along now." He
sidled toward the door.
"Stick around, Dan," the voice rumbled. "How about a drink? I can
offer you Chateau Neuf du Pape, '59, Romance Conte, '32, goat's
milk, Pepsi—"
"No, thanks."
"If you don't mind, I believe I'll have a Big Orange." The Vorplischer
swiveled to a small refrigerator, removed an immense bottle fitted
with a nipple and turned back to Dan. "Now, I got a proposition
which may be of some interest to you. The loss of Manny and
Fiorello is a serious blow, but we may yet recoup the situation. You
made the scene at a most opportune time. What I got in mind is,
with those two clowns out of the picture, a vacancy exists on my
staff, which you might well fill. How does that grab you?"
"You mean you want me to take over operating the time machine?"
"Time machine?" The brown eyes blinked alternately. "I fear some
confusion exists. I don't quite dig the significance of the term."
"That thing," Dan jabbed a thumb toward the cage. "The machine I
came here in. You want me—"
"Time machine," the voice repeated. "Some sort of chronometer,
perhaps?"
"Huh?"
"I pride myself on my command of the local idiom, yet I confess the
implied concept snows me." The nine-fingered hands folded on the
desk. The beachball head leaned forward interestedly. "Clue me,
Dan. What's a time machine?"
"Well, it's what you use to travel through time."
The brown eyes blinked in agitated alternation. "Apparently I've
loused up my investigation of the local cultural background. I had no
idea you were capable of that sort of thing." The immense head
leaned back, the wide mouth opening and closing rapidly. "And to
think I've been spinning my wheels collecting primitive 2-D art!"
"But—don't you have a time machine? I mean, isn't that one?"
"That? That's merely a carrier. Now tell me more about your time
machines. A fascinating concept! My superiors will be delighted at
this development—and astonished as well. They regard this planet
as Endsville."

"Your superiors?" Dan eyed the window; much too far to jump.
Maybe he could reach the machine and try a getaway—
"I hope you're not thinking of leaving suddenly," the beachball said,
following Dan's glance. One of the eighteen fingers touched a six-
inch yellow cylinder lying on the desk. "Until the carrier is fueled, I'm
afraid it's quite useless. But, to put you in the picture, I'd best
introduce myself and explain my mission here. I'm Blote, Trader
Fourth Class, in the employ of the Vegan Confederation. My job is to
develop new sources of novelty items for the impulse-emporiums of
the entire Secondary Quadrant."
"But the way Manny and Fiorello came sailing in through the wall!
That has to be a time machine they were riding in. Nothing else
could just materialize out of thin air like that."
"You seem to have a time-machine fixation, Dan," Blote said. "You
shouldn't assume, just because you people have developed time
travel, that everyone has. Now—" Blote's voice sank to a bass
whisper—"I'll make a deal with you, Dan. You'll secure a small time
machine in good condition for me. And in return—"
"I'm supposed to supply you with a time machine?"
Blote waggled a stubby forefinger at Dan. "I dislike pointing it out,
Dan, but you are in a rather awkward position at the moment. Illegal
entry, illegal possession of property, trespass—then doubtless some
embarrassment exists back at the Snithian residence. I daresay Mr.
Kelly would have a warm welcome for you. And, of course, I myself
would deal rather harshly with any attempt on your part to take a
powder." The Vegan flexed all eighteen fingers, drummed his
tentacles under the desk, and rolled one eye, bugging the other at
Dan.
"Whereas, on the other hand," Blote's bass voice went on, "you and
me got the basis of a sweet deal. You supply the machine, and I fix
you up with an abundance of the local medium of exchange.
Equitable enough, I should say. What about it, Dan?"
"Ah, let me see," Dan temporized. "Time machine. Time machine—"
"Don't attempt to weasel on me, Dan," Blote rumbled ominously.
"I'd better look in the phone book," Dan suggested.
Silently, Blote produced a dog-eared directory. Dan opened it.
"Time, time. Let's see...." He brightened. "Time, Incorporated; local
branch office. Two twenty-one Maple Street."
"A sales center?" Blote inquired. "Or a manufacturing complex?"
"Both," Dan said. "I'll just nip over and—"
"That won't be necessary, Dan," Blote said. "I'll accompany you." He
took the directory, studied it.
"Remarkable! A common commodity, openly on sale, and I failed to
notice it. Still, a ripe nut can fall from a small tree as well as from a
large." He went to his desk, rummaged, came up with a handful of
fuel cells. "Now, off to gather in the time machine." He took his
place in the carrier, patted the seat beside him with a wide hand.
"Come, Dan. Get a wiggle on."

Hesitantly, Dan moved to the carrier. The bluff was all right up to a
point—but the point had just about been reached. He took his seat.
Blote moved a lever. The familiar blue glow sprang up. "Kindly direct
me, Dan," Blote demanded. "Two twenty-one Maple Street, I believe
you said."
"I don't know the town very well," Dan said, "but Maple's over that
way."
Blote worked levers. The carrier shot out into a ghostly afternoon
sky. Faint outlines of buildings, like faded negatives, spread below.
Dan looked around, spotted lettering on a square five-story
structure.
"Over there," he said. Blote directed the machine as it swooped
smoothly toward the flat roof Dan indicated.
"Better let me take over now," Dan suggested. "I want to be sure to
get us to the right place."
"Very well, Dan."
Dan dropped the carrier through the roof, passed down through a
dimly seen office. Blote twiddled a small knob. The scene around the
cage grew even fainter. "Best we remain unnoticed," he explained.
The cage descended steadily. Dan peered out, searching for
identifying landmarks. He leveled off at the second floor, cruised
along a barely visible corridor. Blote's eyes rolled, studying the small
chambers along both sides of the passage at once.
"Ah, this must be the assembly area," he exclaimed. "I see the
machines employ a bar-type construction, not unlike our carriers."
"That's right," Dan said, staring through the haziness. "This is where
they do time...." He tugged at a lever suddenly; the machine veered
left, flickered through a barred door, came to a halt. Two nebulous
figures loomed beside the cage. Dan cut the switch. If he'd guessed
wrong—
The scene fluoresced, sparks crackling, then popped into sharp
focus. Blote scrambled out, brown eyes swivelling to take in the
concrete walls, the barred door and—
"You!" a hoarse voice bellowed.
"Grab him!" someone yelled.
Blote recoiled, threshing his ambulatory members in a fruitless
attempt to regain the carrier as Manny and Fiorello closed in. Dan
hauled at a lever. He caught a last glimpse of three struggling, blue-
lit figures as the carrier shot away through the cell wall.

III
Dan slumped back against the seat with a sigh. Now that he was in
the clear, he would have to decide on his next move—fast. There
was no telling what other resources Blote might have. He would
have to hide the carrier, then—
A low growling was coming from somewhere, rising in pitch and
volume. Dan sat up, alarmed. This was no time for a malfunction.
The sound rose higher, into a penetrating wail. There was no sign of
mechanical trouble. The carrier glided on, swooping now over a
nebulous landscape of trees and houses. Dan covered his ears
against the deafening shriek, like all the police sirens in town blaring
at once. If the carrier stopped it would be a long fall from here. Dan
worked the controls, dropping toward the distant earth.
The noise seemed to lessen, descending the scale. Dan slowed,
brought the carrier in to the corner of a wide park. He dropped the
last few inches and cut the switch.
As the glow died, the siren faded into silence.
Dan stepped from the carrier and looked around. Whatever the noise
was, it hadn't attracted any attention from the scattered pedestrians
in the park. Perhaps it was some sort of burglar alarm. But if so, why
hadn't it gone into action earlier? Dan took a deep breath. Sound or
no sound, he would have to get back into the carrier and transfer it
to a secluded spot where he could study it at leisure. He stepped
back in, reached for the controls—
There was a sudden chill in the air. The bright surface of the dials
before him frosted over. There was a loud pop! like a flashbulb
exploding. Dan stared from the seat at an iridescent rectangle which
hung suspended near the carrier. Its surface rippled, faded to
blankness. In a swirl of frosty air, a tall figure dressed in a tight-
fitting white uniform stepped through.
Dan gaped at the small rounded head, the dark-skinned long-nosed
face, the long, muscular arms, the hands, their backs tufted with
curly red-brown hair, the strange long-heeled feet in soft boots. A
neat pillbox cap with a short visor was strapped low over the deep-
set yellowish eyes, which turned in his direction. The wide mouth
opened in a smile which showed square yellowish teeth.
"Alors, monsieur," the new-comer said, bending his knees and back
in a quick bow. "Vous ete une indigine, n'est ce pas?"
"No compree," Dan choked out "Uh ... juh no parlay Fransay...."