Of course, that question was not seriously asked in the first place. They didn’t really need much proof that they weren’t on Earth, because the proof was right before their eyes. Nothing on Earth was like their cell, and nothing on Earth looked like the creatures who had disrobed them here.
There was argument about that, too: What were the creatures? Were they really the Seven Ugly Dwarfs from the space message? Rosaleen polled the group. Jimmy Lin had no opinion on that, partly because he was distancing himself from the others with his embarrassment and his sore head, and mostly because, he said, he had spent much of his recent time in a place where they did not pay a great deal of attention to such cartoons, namely at the Jiuquan space center in the People’s Republic of China. Martin Delasquez didn’t think their captors really resembled the figures from space, either, but there was no doubt in Pat’s mind at all. It was simply statistically unlikely, she was sure, that two unrelated sets of such bizarre creatures could turn up at once.
She noticed that Dannerman took little part in the discussion. He was restlessly checking the cell out, not saying much, until abruptly he announced: “I’m hungry.”
So, Pat realized once he mentioned it, was she. And wanting other creature comforts, too. “And I wish I had something to drink,” she said wistfully, thinking of the silver decanter of ice-water always on her desk.
Rosaleen said, “I’m sure we all feel the same way, but the less fluid you take in the less you will have to discharge. Which we all must do.” She looked around at the others, almost smiling. “We do not have a choice, you know. Shall I be the first?”
She paused for a moment, but no one answered; no one had a useful answer to give. “Very well,” she said, and walked purposefully over to one wall, where she squatted down without further remark.
“Oh, hell,” Pat said unhappily. “Hey, guys. At least you could all turn your backs.” Jimmy Lin raised his head long enough to laugh sourly, glancing at the mirrored walls. Dannerman paid no attention-very conspicuously and politely paid no attention. He redoubled his study of the mirror wall, but by the sense of touch only, his eyes half closed against any impolite reflection. Martin stood by him, watching.
“There’s nothing to see in the wall,” the general pointed out.
“Nothing I can find so far, anyway,” Dannerman said obstinately. “But those goddam bug-eyed monsters walked right through it, so there has to be something.”
Rosaleen finished her task matter-of-factly and stood up. “That wasn’t the wall where they came in, anyway. They came through the one next to it, where Pat’s standing.”
Which started another argument, even more pointless. Which wall? How could you possibly tell which wall, anyway, when they all were identical? There was no mark of any kind on any of them, not even a seam where two panels joined. Pat ran her fingers wonderingly over the smooth, warm surface herself. It looked as though it should be glass-hard. It wasn’t. As she pressed her fingers against it the tips actually entered the wall, faintly dimpling it as they might a surface of modeling clay, but they penetrated no more than, perhaps, a millimeter or so. She tried harder, finally pressing with all her weight. No good. She could get fingernail-deep into the surface and no farther. And she could find no sign at all that it had ever opened up to let the extraterrestrials through. If she hadn’t seen the creatures walk right through it she would not have believed it possible.
Jimmy looked up unhappily. “Tell me something. Suppose you did find a way to get through that thing, even got all the way out of here?” he said. “I don’t think you ever will, but what if you did? What would you do then?”
“Then,” Dannerman said, “I’d figure out what to do next, but we’d be that much ahead. As long as we’re stuck in here we can’t do anything at all.”
Jimmy shrugged, but said nothing. Neither did anyone else; some truths were too obvious to be argued.
Then, “But this is interesting,” Rosaleen called from her place at a far wall, gazing at the floor.
“What is?”
Rosaleen gestured to where she had relieved herself. “The urine is disappearing. Look, there is only a trace now, and it is getting less.”
Even Jimmy Lin got up to see that. It was true. The tiny pool of pale liquid was dwindling, and a moment later it was gone. Martin Delasquez hesitated, then stopped to touch the floor where it had been. “Dry,” he reported. He didn’t need to. They could all see for themselves that there was no trace of urine, not even a faint stain on the milky-white, slightly resilient flooring.
“Well,” Rosaleen said encouragingly. “At least we seem to have a sewage system.”
Martin scowled at her. “But still no food and nothing to drink.”
She shrugged. “And nothing we can do about it, either, is there? Meanwhile I am quite tired. I think I will try to sleep.”
Pat watched, incredulous and almost admiring, as the old woman lay down on her side, curled in the fetal position, folded her hands under her cheek and closed her eyes. “You know,” Pat said, “I could use some sleep myself.”
“We all could,” Dannerman said. “But one of us ought to stay awake.”
Jimmy giggled. “Are you talking about setting sentries? To guard against what?”
“Against I don’t know what,” Dannerman said, “but that’s the exact reason why I think one of us should stay up. I’ll take the first turn, if you like.”
Martin Delasquez said heavily, “Yes, I agree we should set a guard and, yes, we might as well sleep, since we have nothing better to do. Perhaps we will think more clearly when we are refreshed, so, very well, let us- Wait! What is that?”
He didn’t have to ask; they all saw what was happening at the same time. A patch of one wall clouded momentarily, then bulged into a pair of figures as the Dopey and a Doc came through. The Doc was carrying small parcels in several of its arms; the Dopey gestured, and the Doc began setting the parcels on the floor as the wall closed seamlessly behind them.
Dannerman wrinkled up his nose. “That’s what I was smelling on Starlab!” he said, staring at the Doc. “It was that thing!”
All the captives were standing in a defensive clump now, even Rosaleen, watching warily. Pat Ad-cock sniffed. Yes, there was a queer odor, not entirely unpleasant-part of it like something from a spice rack, part something sour and distasteful. There was no doubt that it came from the extraterrestrials. She stared at them, realizing for the first time just how unhuman they were. The Dopey was not at all human in form-torso like a Thanksgiving turkey’s, but a big one; its prissy little feline face at the level of Pat’s chest. It wore clothing-a sort of pastel-mauve muumuu-and it carried a kind of muff made of coppery metal mesh. After it had signed an order to the Doc it put its hands back in the muff before Pat could get a good look at its fingers. There was something odd about them, but she wasn’t sure what. Then, as it turned slightly, she saw that the muumuu had an opening in the back from which protruded a scaly, iridescent, spreading tail as colorful as a peacock’s.
Pat felt at least a hint of reassurance from the fact that the Dopey was wearing a garment. Clothing implied civilization; civilization implied some possible, however remote, hope that there could be some sort of meeting of the minds between them. The one they called the “Doc,” on the other hand, was almost naked except for a sort of cache-sexe over where she supposed it kept its genitals. It was also very big. More than two meters tall, Pat guessed, at least twice as tall as the Dopey-of course, the snapshots in the message from space had given no indication of scale. And it was not in the least human. The word that crossed Pat’s mind was “golem.” The thing stood on short, bent legs, like the Greek version of a satyr, but no satyr had ever had six arms, two huge, thick ones at the top, four lesser ones spaced along its torso, and all tipped with sharptaloned paws. Now that she had a better look at the creature she saw that the white beard was not a real beard: the strands feathered out, more like fern fronds than any kind of animal hair. A cluster of the same sort of growth peeped out from the jockstrap garment.
The Dopey worked its slack little mouth for a moment and spoke. “You stated that you required food. These are food, I think.”