The Mammoth Book of 20th Century SF II (100 page)

“We’re in good time,” said Alan Robertson. He reflected a moment. “No doubt we’d be quite welcome; still, it’s probably best to remain inconspicuous.
We’ll just stroll unobtrusively down the beach, in the shadow of the trees. Be careful not to stumble or fall, and no matter what you see or hear, do nothing! Discretion is essential; we want
no awkward confrontations.”

Keeping to the shade of the foliage, the two approached the merry group. Fifty yards distant, Alan Robertson held up his hand to signal a halt. “This is as close as we need approach; most
of the people you know, or more accurately, their cognates. For instance, there is Royal Hart, and there is James Parham and Elizabeth’s aunt, Emma Bathurst, and her uncle Peter and Maude
Granger and no end of other folk.”

“They all seem very gay.”

“Yes, this is an important occasion for them. You and I are surly outsiders who can’t understand the fun.”

“Is this all they do, eat and drink and talk?”

“I think not,” said Alan Robertson. “Notice yonder. Bob seems to be preparing a projection screen. Too bad that we can’t move just a bit closer.” Alan Robertson
peered through the shadows. “But we’d better take no chances; if we were discovered, everyone would be embarrassed.”

They watched in silence. Presently Bob Robertson went to the projection equipment and touched a button. The screen became alive with vibrating rings of red and blue. Conversations halted; the
group turned toward the screen. Bob Robertson spoke, but his words were inaudible to the two who watched from the darkness. Bob Robertson gestured to the screen, where now appeared the view of a
small country town, as if seen from an airplane. Surrounding was flat farm country, a land of wide horizons; Duray assumed the location to be somewhere in the Middle West. The picture changed to
show the local high school, with students sitting on the steps. The scene shifted to the football field, on the day of a game – a very important game, to judge from the conduct of the
spectators. The local team was introduced; one by one the boys ran out on the field to stand blinking into the autumn sunlight; then they ran off to the pregame huddle.

The game began; Bob Robertson stood by the screen in the capacity of an expert commentator, pointing to one or another of the players, analyzing the play. The game proceeded, to the manifest
pleasure of the Rumfuddlers. At half time the bands marched and countermarched, then play resumed. Duray became bored and made fretful comments to Alan Robertson, who only said: “Yes, yes;
probably so” and “My word, the agility of that halfback!” and “Have you noticed the precision of the line-play? Very good indeed!” At last the final quarter ended; the
victorious team stood under a sign reading:

The players came forward to accept trophies; there was a last picture of the team as a whole, standing proud and victorious; then the screen burst out into a red and gold starburst and went
blank. The Rumfuddlers rose to their feet and congratulated Bob Robertson, who laughed modestly and went to the table for a goblet of punch.

Duray said disgustedly, “Is this one of Bob’s famous parties? Why does he make such a tremendous occasion of the affair? I expected some sort of debauch.”

Alan Robertson said, “Yes, from our standpoint at least, the proceedings seem somewhat uninteresting. Well, if your curiosity is satisfied, shall we return?”

“Whenever you like.”

Once again in the lounge under the Mad Dog Mountains, Alan Robertson said:

“So now and at last we’ve seen one of Bob’s famous Rumfuddles. Are you still determined not to attend the occasion of tomorrow night?”

Duray scowled. “If I have to go to reclaim my family, I’ll do so. But I just might lose my temper before the evening is over.”

“Bob has gone too far,” Alan Robertson declared. “I agree with you there. As for what we saw tonight, I admit to a degree of puzzlement.”

“Only a degree? Do you understand it at all?”

Alan Robertson shook his head with a somewhat cryptic smile. “Speculation is pointless. I suppose you’ll spend the night with me at the lodge?”

“I might as well,” grumbled Duray. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Alan Robertson clapped him on the back. “Good lad. We’ll put some steaks on the fire and turn our problems loose for the night.”

From
Memoirs and Reflections:

When I first put the Mark I machine into operation, I suffered great fears. What did I know of the forces that I might release? . . . With all adjustments at dead neutral, I
punched a passway into a cognate Earth. This was simple enough – in fact, almost anticlimactic . . . Little by little I learned to control my wonderful toy; our own world and all its past
phases became familiar to me. What of other worlds? I am sure that in due course we will move instantaneously from world to world, from galaxy to galaxy using a special space-traveling hub on
Utilis. At the moment I am candidly afraid to punch through passways at blind random. What if I opened into the interior of a sun? Or into the center of a black hole? Or into an antimatter
universe? I would certainly destroy myself and the machine and conceivably Earth itself
.

Still, the potentialities are too entrancing to be ignored. With painstaking precautions and a dozen protective devices, I will attempt to find my way to new worlds, and for the first time
interstellar travel will be a reality
.

Alan Robertson and Duray sat in the bright morning sunlight beside the flinty-blue lake. They had brought their breakfast out to the table and now sat drinking coffee. Alan
Robertson made cheerful conversation for the two of them. “These last few years have been easier on me; I’ve relegated a great deal of responsibility. Ernest and Henry know my policies
as well as I do, if not better; and they’re never frivolous or inconsistent.” Alan Robertson chuckled. “I’ve worked two miracles: first, my machine, and second, keeping the
business as simple as it is. I refuse to keep regular hours; I won’t make appointments; I don’t keep records; I pay no taxes; I exert great political and social influence, but only
informally; I simply refuse to be bothered with administrative detail, and consequently I find myself able to enjoy life.”

“It’s a wonder some religious fanatic hasn’t assassinated you,” said Duray sourly.

“No mystery there! I’ve given them all their private worlds, with my best regards, and they have no energy left for violence! And as you know, I walk with a very low silhouette. My
friends hardly recognize me on the street.” Alan Robertson waved his hand. “No doubt you’re more concerned with your immediate quandary. Have you come to a decision regarding the
Rumfuddle?”

“I don’t have any choice,” Duray muttered. “I’d prefer to wring Bob’s neck. If I could account for Elizabeth’s conduct, I’d feel more comfortable.
She’s not even remotely interested in black magic. Why did Bob bring her books on satanism?”

“Well – the subject is inherently fascinating,” Alan Robertson suggested, without conviction. “The name Satan derives from the Hebrew word for ‘adversary’; it
never applied to a real individual. ‘Zeus,’ of course, was an Aryan chieftain of about 3500
B.C.
, while ‘Woden’ lived somewhat later. He was actually
‘Othinn,’ a shaman of enormous personal force who did things with his mind that I can’t do with the machine . . . But again I’m rambling.”

Duray gave a silent shrug.

“Well, then, you’ll be going to the Rumfuddle,” said Alan Robertson, “by and large the best course, whatever the consequences.

“I believe that you know more than you’re telling me.”

Alan Robertson smiled and shook his head. “I’ve lived with too much uncertainty among my cognate and near-cognate worlds. Nothing is sure; surprises are everywhere. I think the best
plan is to fulfill Bob’s requirements. Then if Elizabeth is indeed on hand, you can discuss the event with her.”

“What of you? Will you be coming?”

“I am of two minds. Would you prefer that I came?”

“Yes,” said Duray. “You have more control over Bob than I do.”

“Don’t exaggerate my influence! He is a strong man, for all his idleness. Confidentially, I’m delighted that he occupies himself with games rather than . . .” Alan
Robertson hesitated.

“Rather than what?”

“Than that his imagination should prompt him to less innocent games. Perhaps I have been overingenuous in this connection. We can only wait and see.”

From
Memoirs and Reflections:

If the past is a house of many chambers, then the present is the most recent coat of paint
.

At four o’clock Duray and Alan Robertson left the lodge and passed through Utilis to the San Francisco depot. Duray had changed into a somber dark suit; Alan Robertson
wore a more informal costume: blue jacket and pale-gray trousers. They went to Bob Robertson’s locker, to find a panel with the sign “
NOT HOME! FOR THE RUMFUDDLE GO TO
ROGER WAILLE’S LOCKER RC
3-96
, AND PASS THROUGH TO EKSHAYAN
!”

The two went on to Locker
RC
3-96, where a sign read: “
RUMFUDDLERS: PASS
!
ALL OTHERS: AWAY
!”

Duray shrugged contemptuously, and parting the curtain, looked through the passway into a rustic lobby of natural wood, painted in black, red, yellow, blue, and white floral designs. An open
door revealed an expanse of open land and water glistening in the afternoon sunlight. Duray and Alan Robertson passed through, crossed the foyer, and looked out upon a vast, slow river flowing from
north to south. A rolling plain spread eastward away and over the horizon. The western bank of the river was indistinct in the afternoon glitter. A path led north to a tall house of eccentric
architecture. A dozen domes and cupolas stood against the sky; gables and ridges created a hundred unexpected angles. The walls showed a fish-scale texture of hand-hewn shingles; spiral columns
supported the second- and third-story entablatures, where wolves and bears, carved in vigorous curves and masses, snarled, fought, howled, and danced. On the side overlooking the river a pergola
clothed with vines cast a dappled shade; here sat the Rumfuddlers.

Alan Robertson looked at the house, up and down the river, across the plain. “From the architecture, the vegetation, the height of the sun, the characteristic haze, I assume the river to
be either the Don or the Volga, and yonder the steppes. From the absence of habitation, boats, and artifacts, I would guess the time to be early historic – perhaps 2,000 or 3,000
B.C.
, a colorful era. The inhabitants of the steppes are nomads; Scyths to the east, Celts to the west, and to the north the homeland of the Germanic and Scandinavian tribes; and yonder
the mansion of Roger Waille, and very interesting, too, after the extravagant fashion of the Russian baroque. And, my word! I believe I see an ox on the spit! We may even enjoy our little
visit!”

“You do as you like,” muttered Duray. “I’d just as soon eat at home.”

Alan Robertson pursed his lips. “I understand your point of view, of course, but perhaps we should relax a bit. The scene is majestic; the house is delightfully picturesque, the roast beef
is undoubtedly delicious; perhaps we should meet the situation on its own terms.”

Duray could find no adequate reply and kept his opinions to himself.

“Well, then,” said Alan Robertson, “equability is the word. So now let’s see what Bob and Roger have up their sleeves.” He set off along the path to the house, with
Duray sauntering morosely a step or two behind.

Under the pergola a man jumped to his feet and flourished his hand; Duray recognized the tall, spare form of Bob Robertson. “Just in time,” Bob called jocosely. “Not to early,
not too late. We’re glad you could make it.”

“Yes, we found we could accept your invitation after all,” said Alan Robertson. “Let me see, do I know anyone here? Roger, hello! . . . And William . . . Ah! the lovely Dora
Gorski! . . . Cypriano . . .” He looked around the circle of faces, waving to his acquaintances.

Bob clapped Duray on the shoulder. “Really pleased you could come! What’ll you drink? The locals distill a liquor out of fermented mare’s milk, but I don’t recommend
it.”

“I’m not here to drink,” said Duray. “Where’s Elizabeth?”

The corners of Bob’s wide mouth twitched. “Come now, old man: let’s not be grim. This is the Rumfuddle! A time for joy and self-renewal! Go dance about a bit! Cavort! Pour a
bottle of champagne over your head! Sport with the girls!”

Duray looked into the blue eyes for a long second. He strained to keep his voice even. “Where is Elizabeth?”

“Somewhere about the place. A charming girl, your Elizabeth! We’re delighted to have you both!”

Duray swung away. He walked to the dark and handsome Roger Waille. “Would you be good enough to take me to my wife?”

Waille raised his eyebrows as if puzzled by Duray’s tone of voice. “She is primping and gossiping. If necessary I suppose I could pull her away for a moment or two.”

Duray began to feel ridiculous, as if he had been locked away from his world, subjected to harrassments and doubts, and made the butt of some obscure joke. “It’s necessary,” he
said. “We’re leaving.”

“But you’ve just arrived!”

“I know.”

Waille gave a shrug of amused perplexity and turned away toward the house. Duray followed. They went through a tall, narrow doorway into an entry-hall paneled with a beautiful brown-gold wood
that Duray automatically identified as chestnut. Four high panes of tawny glass turned to the west filled the room with a smoky half-melancholy light. Oak settees, upholstered in leather, faced
each other across a black, brown, and gray rug. Taborets stood at each side of the settees, and each supported an ornate golden candelabra in the form of conventionalized stag’s heads. Waille
indicated these last. “Striking, aren’t they? The Scythians made them for me. I paid them in iron knives. They think I’m a great magician; and for a fact, I am.” He reached
into the air and plucked forth an orange, which he tossed upon a settee. “Here’s Elizabeth now, and the other maenads as well.”