Dan gaped at the small round 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 newcomer said, bending his knees and back in a quick bow. “Vous été une indigine, n’est ce pas?”
“No compree,” Dan choked out. “Uh . . . juh no parlay Fransay . . .”
“My error. This is the Anglic colonial sector, isn’t it? Stupid of me. Permit me to introduce myself. I’m Dzhackoon, Field Agent of Class Five, Interdimensional Monitor Service.”
“That siren,” Dan said. “Was that you?”
Dzhackoon nodded. “For a moment, it appeared you were disinclined to stop. I’m glad you decided to be reasonable.”
“What outfit did you say you were with?” Dan asked.
“The Inter-dimensional Monitor Service.”
“Inter-what?”
“Dimensional. The word is imprecise, of course, but it’s the best our language coder can do, using the Anglic vocabulary.”
“What do you want with me?”
* * *
Dzhackoon smiled reprovingly. “You know the penalty for operation of an unauthorized reversed-phase vehicle in Interdicted territory. I’m afraid you’ll have to come along with me to Headquarters.”
“Wait a minute! You mean you’re arresting me?”
“That’s a harsh term, but I suppose it amounts to that.”
“Look here, uh—Dzhackoon. I just wandered in off the street. I don’t know anything about Interdicts and reversed-whoozis vehicles. Just let me out of here.”
Dzhackoon shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to tell it to the Inspector.” He smiled amiably, gestured toward the shimmering rectangle through which he had arrived. From the edge, it was completely invisible. It looked, Dan thought, like a hole snipped in reality. He glanced at Dzhackoon. If he stepped in fast and threw a left to the head and followed up with a right to the short ribs—
“I’m armed, of course,” the Agent said apologetically.
“Okay,” Dan sighed. “But I’m going under protest.”
“Don’t be nervous,” Dzhackoon said cheerfully. “Just step through quickly.”
Dan edged up to the glimmering surface. He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and took a step. There was a momentary sensation of searing heat . . .
His eyes flew open. He was in a long, narrow room with walls finished in bright green tile. Hot yellow light flooded down from the high ceiling. Along the wall, a series of cubicles were arranged. Tall, white-uniformed creatures moved briskly about. Nearby stood a group of short, immensely burly individuals in yellow. Lounging against the wall at the far end of the room, Dan glimpsed a round-shouldered figure in red, with great bushes of hair fringing a bright blue face. An arm even longer than Dzhackoon’s wielded a toothpick on a row of great white fangs.
“This way,” Dzhackoon said. Dan followed him to a cubicle, curious eyes following him. A creature indistinguishable from the Field Agent except for a twist of red braid on each wrist looked up from a desk.
“I’ve picked up that reversed-phase violator, Ghunt,” Dzhackoon said. “Anglic Sector, Locus C 922A4.”
Ghunt rose. “Let me see; Anglic Sector . . . Oh, yes.” He extended a hand. Dan took it gingerly; it was a strange hand—hot, dry and coarse-skinned, like a dog’s paw. He pumped it twice and let it go.
“Wonderfully expressive,” Ghunt said. “Empty hand, no weapon. The implied savagery . . .” He eyed Dan curiously.
“Remarkable. I’ve studied your branch, of course, but I’ve never had the pleasure of actually seeing one of you chaps before. That skin; amazing. Ah . . . may I look at your hands?”
Dan extended a hand. The other took it in bony fingers, studied it, turned it over, examined the nails. Stepping closer, he peered at Dan’s eyes and hair.
“Would you mind opening your mouth, please?” Dan complied. Ghunt clucked, eyeing the teeth. He walked around Dan, murmuring his wonderment.
“Uh . . . pardon my asking,” Dan said, “but are you what—uh—people are going to look like in the future?”
“Eh?” the round yellowish eyes blinked; the wide mouth curved in a grin. “I doubt that very much, old chap.” He chuckled. “Can’t undo half a million years of divergent evolution, you know.”
* * *
“You mean you’re from the past?” Dan croaked.
“The past? I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“You don’t mean—we’re all going to die out and monkeys are going to take over?” Dan blurted.
“Monkeys? Let me see. I’ve heard of them. Some sort of small primate, like a miniature Anthropos. You have them at home, do you? Fascinating!” He shook his head regretfully. “I certainly wish regulations allowed me to pay your sector a visit.”
“But you are time travelers,” Dan insisted.
“Time travelers?” Ghunt laughed aloud.
“An exploded theory,” Dzhackoon said. “Superstition.”
“Then how did you get to the park from here?”
“A simple focused portal. Merely a matter of elementary stressed-field mechanics.”
“That doesn’t tell me much,” Dan said. “Where am I? Who are you?”
“Explanations are in order, of course,” Ghunt said. “Have a chair. Now, if I remember correctly, in your locus, there are only a few species of Anthropos extant—”
“Just the one,” Dzhackoon put in. “These fellows look fragile, but oh, brother!”
“Oh yes; I recall. This was the locus where the hairless variant systemically hunted down other varieties.” He clucked at Dan reprovingly. “Don’t you find it lonely?”
“Of course, there are a couple of rather curious retarded forms there,” Dzhackoon said. “Actual living fossils; sub-intellectual Anthropos. There’s one called the gorilla, and the chimpanzee, the orangutan, the gibbon—and, of course, a whole spectrum of the miniature forms.”
“I suppose that when the ferocious mutation established its supremacy, the others retreated to the less competitive ecological niches and expanded at that level,” Ghunt mused. “Pity. I assume the gorilla and the others are degenerate forms?”
“Possibly.”
“Excuse me,” Dan said. “But about that explanation . . .”
“Oh, sorry. Well, to begin with, Dzhackoon and I are—ah—Australopithecines, I believe your term is. We’re one of the many varieties of Anthropos native to normal loci. The workers in yellow, whom you may have noticed, are akin to your extinct Neanderthals. Then there are the Pekin derivatives—the blue-faced chaps—and the Rhodesians—”
“What are these loci you keep talking about? And how can cavemen still be alive?”
Ghunt’s eyes wandered past Dan. He jumped to his feet. “Ah, good day, Inspector!” Dan turned. A grizzled Australopithecine with a tangle of red braid at collar and wrists stared at him glumly.
“Harrumph!” the Inspector said. “Albinism and alopecia. Not catching, I hope?”
“A genetic deficiency, Excellency,” Dzhackoon said. “This is a Homo sapiens, a naturally bald form from a rather curious locus.”
“Sapiens? Sapiens? Now, that seems to ring a bell.” The oldster blinked at Dan. “You’re not—” He waggled fingers in instinctive digital-mnemonic stimulus. Abruptly he stiffened. “Why, this is one of those fratricidal deviants!” He backed off. “He should be under restraint, Ghunt! Constable! Get a strong-arm squad in here! This creature is dangerous!”
* * *
“Inspector. I’m sure—” Ghunt started.
“That’s an order!” the Inspector barked. He switched to an incomprehensible language, bellowed more commands. Several of the thick-set Neanderthal types appeared, moving in to seize Dan’s arms. He looked around at chinless, wide-mouthed brown faces with incongruous blue eyes and lank blond hair.
“What’s this all about?” he demanded. “I want a lawyer!”
“Never mind that!” the Inspector shouted. “I know how to deal with miscreants of your stripe!” He stared distastefully at Dan. “Hairless! Putty-colored! Revolting! Planning more mayhem, are you? Preparing to branch out into the civilized loci to wipe out all competitive life, is that it?”
“I brought him here, Inspector,” Dzhackoon put in. “It was a routine traffic violation.”
“I’ll decide what’s routine here! Now, Sapiens! What fiendish scheme have you up your sleeve, eh?”
“Daniel Slane, civilian, Social Security number 456-7329-988,” Dan said.
“Eh?”
“Name, rank, and serial number,” Dan explained. “I’m not answering any other questions.”
“This means penal relocation, Sapiens! Unlawful departure from native locus, willful obstruction of justice—”
“You forgot being born without permission, and unauthorized breathing.”
“Insolence!” the Inspector snarled. “I’m warning you, Sapiens, it’s in my power to make things miserable for you. Now, how did you induce Agent Dzhackoon to bring you here?”
“Well, a good fairy came and gave me three wishes—”
“Take him away,” the Inspector screeched. “Sector 97; an unoccupied locus.”
“Unoccupied? That seems pretty extreme, doesn’t it?” one of the guards commented, wrinkling his heavily ridged brow.
“Unoccupied! If it bothers you, perhaps I can arrange for you to join him there!”
The Neanderthaloid guard yawned widely, showing white teeth. He nodded to Dan, motioned him ahead. “Don’t mind Spoghodo,” he said loudly. “He’s getting old.”
“Sorry about all this,” a voice hissed near Dan’s ear. Dzhackoon—Ghunt, he couldn’t say which—leaned near. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go along to the penal area, but I’ll try to straighten things out later.”