Chester went back to the kitchen, where the water bags lay like a clutch of limp dinosaur eggs, selected one, and placed it in the upper end of the higher trough. It slid gently down the long chute and dropped into the wastebasket, easing down to rest against the obstructing string. Then he loaded the magazine trough above with the other bags. The forty-one rounds just filled the available space, lying bulging, end to end.
Chester crossed the room and looked out. The police below were striding about with tape measures, standing with folded arms, posing for photographers, and waving back the crowd that seemed about to engulf the tiny arena of official activity. Cautiously, Chester raised the window twelve inches. Oil dribbled from the end of the trough into the window sill. He went into the bathroom, ducking under the chute, washed up, smoothed his hair, straightened his shirt, donned his jacket, then removed his heavy silver ring and placed it on the medicine-cabinet shelf beside the shaving cream.
He opened the hall door and looked out. All quiet. The box of matches lay on a table by the door. He lighted one, touched it to the match securing the string which blocked the wastebasket, then sprinted for the stairs, leaped down them five at a time, rounded the landing, took the second flight, pounded down to ground level.
Breathing hard, he paused to glance out the street door. The fringes of the crowd were strung out near the corner. He stepped out, strode along quickly, pushed through the spectators to a position from which the third-story windows were visible. The one directly above the center of activity was open. The curtain billowed slightly; the end of the trough was clearly visible.
Nothing happened.
Chester swallowed. It hadn’t taken him more than thirty seconds to make the three flights down to the street. Had the match gone out?
Something flashed in the window, glinted in an arc out over the street, dropped. A strangled yell sounded. The crowd simultaneously surged forward and recoiled, as curiosity struggled with discretion. Chester pushed his way through the press as a second almost invisible missile leaped from the window. “It’s radioactive!” someone yelled. The mob churned. A woman screamed. Cops appeared, beating a strategic withdrawal from the field of fire. A third bomb flew from the window, splattered against a tall policeman who yelled and sprang for cover. A fourth bag of water soared out, down and exploded.
“A little under a second apart,” Chester muttered, weaving between fleeing citizens. “A little too much oil in the wastebasket.”
Four cops remained in the rapidly expanding clearing centered on the rug. One drew his pistol and fired into the air. The other three, eyes on the growing blots on the rug, dropped flat. Chester reached open ground, skirted the first rank of squad cars, seeing the flash of another round, then another. The next fell short, splashed off a police car, sent spray high in the air. Two fat women darted from forward positions, screeching and slapping at water droplets. Chester ducked aside, took an elbow in the ribs, stumbled out into the clear.
“Hey!” a shrill voice sounded behind him. “Ain’t you the guy . . . ”
Chester threw his leg over the sawhorse.
“That’s far enough, Buster,” the cop bawled. He took a step forward, bringing the gun around as a bag of water took him in the face. He went down backward. Chester scrambled over, took two steps to the rug.
An immense padded mallet slammed against his head. The world rose up and hit him in the face.
Curious, Chester thought dreamily. I always pictured H-bombs as being noisy.
Someone was hauling at his arm.
“This is the bastid, I seen him,” someone was screeching. Chester shook his head, pulled free from the grip and struggled to his feet. A hatless cop wavered on all fours between Chester and the rug. The fat woman raised a rolled umbrella. “I’m claimin’ the reward,” she shrieked. A bomb splattered. The cop focused his eyes on Chester and lunged. Chester ducked away, managing a return jab at the fat woman as he bowled her aside, and sprang for the rug. He skidded to a halt midway between the two brocaded chairs, ducked a bag of water and yelled, “Computer, get me out of here—fast!”
5
The tall buildings, the street, the cops, faded, winked out of existence. The sounds died, cut off abruptly. Chester stood in the center of a wide square paved with varicolored cobblestones and lined with small shops and merchants’ stalls. Beyond, a green slope dotted with dazzling white villas swept up to a wooded skyline. People in bright colors moved about, examining tradesmen’s wares, stopping in groups to talk, or strolling at ease. Above a silversmith’s shop, white curtains fluttered at open windows. The aroma of crisping bacon drifted across the square. In the distance a flute played a lazy melody.
Chester groaned. “Ye gods, where’ve you brought me this time, Computer?”
“Your instructions were,” the computer’s voice spoke from mid-air, “simply to—”
“I know. I always seem to phrase things badly. Every time I make a move, I’m worse off than I was. Now I’ve lost Case, and Genie, too. Where am I this time?”
“According to my instruments, this should be the Chester residence.”
“You’d better have your wiring checked.”
A brass plate set in the paving underfoot, half concealed by the edge of the rug, caught Chester’s eye.
The inscription read: “IT WAS ON THIS SPOT THAT THE LEGENDARY KEZ-FATHER, HERO AND TEACHER, TOOK HIS LEAVE OF THE PEOPLE AFTER BRINGING THEM THE GIFT OF WISDOM. THIS MYTH, WHICH DATES BACK TO THE CULTURE . . . ”
“Ye gods,” Chester muttered. “I’ve already violated the local shrine.” He moved quickly clear of the spot.
Two men in loose togas, one old, one young, stood nearby, looking earnestly past Chester. He cleared his throat and stepped forward. Nothing to do now but brazen it out.
“I white god,” he said. “I come, bring magic stick, go bang, all fall down!”
The two men ignored him. “Remarkable!” the older exclaimed, turning to the younger man, in green. “Did you observe this phenomenon, Devant?”
The other, a well-muscled man with clear blue eyes and flashing white teeth, nodded. “Two curious chairs and a rug. I glanced away for a moment and when I turned back—there they were. I find it difficult to reconcile the manifestation with my world-picture. A very interesting problem.”
“Possibly my senility is getting the better of me.” The old man glanced at Chester. “Young man, did you observe the arrival of this furniture?”
Chester cleared his throat. “Not exactly, sir; I have been participating in an experiment, and I seem to have lost my bearings. Could you tell me—”
“No,” the old man said, shaking his head resignedly. “That would have been too much to hope for. Why are there never any witnesses to these apparently supernatural manifestations?”
“Is it possible,” the man in green cut in, “that this could be the probability crisis that Vasawalie has been predicting?”
“It’s not supernatural,” Chester said. “Merely a misguided piece of mechanical ineptitude. You see, I—”
“Please, young man; no mechanistic platitudes, if you please.”
“You don’t understand. This is my furniture.”
The old man held up a hand. “I fear I must insist on my prior claim. I distinctly observed you to approach from—ah, I’m not sure of the direction, but it was well after I had pointed out the anomaly. In fact, I’m sure you were attracted by my cry of surprise. Correct, Devant?”
“I didn’t notice just when he came up,” Devant said. “But it was at least five or possibly ten minutes after you and I, Norgo.”
“Actually, I was here first,” Norgo said. “You followed by several minutes, Devant.”
“Oh, never mind,” Chester said. “Can you just tell me the name of this town?”
“I’ll get a crew down right away,” said Devant. “I want to examine this in situ. Molecular scan, fabric distortion, chronometric phase-interference, Psi band—everything.” He waved a hand at Chester. “Please step aside; you’re obscuring my view.”
“This will be a serious blow to Randomism,” said Norgo happily.
“What I wanted to ask was,” Chester pressed on, “what year is this? I mean, ah, this isn’t by any chance the future, is it?”
The old gentleman looked at Chester squarely for the first time. “Let us define our terms,” he said, folding his arms. “Now . . . ”
“What I mean is, this scene here—” Chester waved a hand—”is something my computer invented—just as a harmless sort of joke, you understand. The problem is . . . ”
Norgo blinked. “I shall do a paper,” he said, “on pseudorationalization in response to rejection of—”
“You don’t seem to understand,” cut in Chester. “I’m lost and my friends are relying on me.”
“It will be the sensation of the Congress,” Norgo droned on, rubbing his hands together. “Great Source of Facts. What if I should actually derive germane substantive data from this? That will dispose of the Ordainists, once and for all.”