Ross found that his magazine was called By Jones; it seemed to be a periodical devoted to entertaining news and gossip of sports, fashion, and culture. He stared at an article headed “Be Glad the People’s Police Are Watching YOU!”, but the words made little sense. He tried to think; but somehow he couldn’t find a point at which to grasp the flickering mass of impressions that were circling through his brain. Nothing seemed to make a great deal of sense any more; and Ross suddenly realized that he was very, very tired.
His mind an utter blank, he sat and waited.
It was twenty minutes and a bit more. Then the door flew open and half a dozen Joneses burst hi. Even at first sight, Ross could tell that three of them were newcomers. For one thing, two were women; and the third, though red-haired, tall and gangling, had a nose a full centimeter shorter than any of the others, and his hair was crisply curled.
“All right, you Peepeece!” snarled the first Jones. “You found what you were looking for—now try to get out!”
Helena did the talking. It wasn’t Ross’s idea, but ‘when her heel crunched down on his instep he was too startled to object, and from then on he didn’t get a chance to get a word in edgewise.
He had to admit that her act was getting across with the audience. Long before she had finished reporting their meeting, their flight to Azor, the escape from “Minerva,” and the flight here, most of the Joneses had put their guns away, and all were showing signs of stupefaction. “——And then,” she finished, “we saw this truck, and that very good-looking man picked us up. And so we’re here on Earth; and, honest to goodness, that’s the exact truth.”
There was silence while the Joneses looked at each other. Then the plastic-surgeon-type Jones, Sam with the white shirt front, stepped forward. “Hold still, my dear,” he ordered. Helena bravely stood rigid while the surgeon raked searchingly through the roots of her hair, peered into her eyes, expertly traced the configuration of her ribs.
He stepped back, shaken. “One thing is for sure,” he told the others, “they’re not Peepeece. Not with those bones. They’d never get in.”
Ben Jones beat his forehead and moaned. “How do I get into these things?” he demanded.
One of the female Joneses said shrilly, “We didn’t expect anything like this. “We’re honest Jones-fearing Joneses and——”
“Shut up!” Ben Jones roared. “What about the other two, Sam? They all right too?”
“Oh, for Jones’s sake, Ben,” Sam said disgustedly, “just look at them, will you? Do you think the police would take in a five-inch height deviation like that one-——” he pointed
to Bernie——— “or a half-bald scarecrow like that?” Ross, stung, opened his mouth to object; but swiftly closed it again. Nobody was paying much attention to him, anyhow, except as Exhibit A.
“So what do we do?” Ben demanded.
Sam shrugged. “The first thing we do,” he said wearily, “is to take care of our, uh, clients here. We get them out of the way, and then we decide what to do next.” He looked around at the other Joneses. “If you three will come this way,” he said, “we’ll finish up your job and get you back home. I needn’t remind you, of course, that if you should happen to mention anything you’ve seen here tonight to the Peepeece it would——” His voice was cut off by the closing door before Ross could catch the nature of the threat.
Ben Jones stayed behind, scowling to himself. “You people got any Joneses?” he demanded abruptly.
“You mean money? Not any at all,” Helena said honestly. Ross could have kicked her.
Ben Jones growled deep in his throat. “Always it happens to me!” he complained. “I suppose we’re going to have to feed you, too.”
“Well,” Helena said diffidently, “we haven’t eaten in a long time——”
Ben Jones swore to his god, whose name was Jones, but he stepped to the door and ordered food. When it came it was surprisingly good; each of the three, with their diverse backgrounds, found it delicious. While they were eating, Ben Jones sat watching them, refreshing himself from time to time with a greenish bubbling liquid out of a jug. He offered some to Ross; who clutched his throat as though he’d swallowed molten steel.