'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
'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
'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.'
Back in the concourse, Dan's guard escorted him past cubicles where busy IDMS agents reported to harassed seniors, through an archway into a room lined with narrow gray panels. It looked like a gym locker room.
'Ninety-seven,' the guard said. He went to a wall chart, studied the fine print with the aid of a blunt, hairy finger, then set a dial on the wall. 'Here we go,' he said. He pushed a button beside one of the lockers. Its surface clouded and became iridescent.
'Just step through fast. Happy landings.'
'Thanks.' Dan ducked his head and pushed through the opening in a puff of frost.
3
He was standing on a steep hillside, looking down across a sweep of meadows to a plain far below. There were clumps of trees, and a river. In the distance a herd of animals grazed among low shrubbery. No road wound along the valley floor; no boats dotted the river; no village nestled at its bend. The far hills were innocent of trails, fences, houses, the rectangles of plowed acres. There were no contrails in the wide blue sky. No vagrant aroma of exhaust fumes, no mutter of internal combustion, no tin cans, no pop bottles In short, no people.
Dan turned. The portal still shimmered faintly in the bright air. He thrust his head through, found himself staring into the locker room. The yellow-clad Neanderthaloid glanced at him.
'Say,' Dan said, ignoring the sensation of a hot wire around his neck, 'can't we talk this thing over?'
'Better get your head out of there before it shuts down,' the guard said cheerfully. 'Otherwise-ssskkkttt!'
'What about some reading matter? And look, I get these head colds. Does the temperature drop here at night? Any dangerous animals? What do I eat?'
'Here.' The guard reached into a hopper, took out a handful of pamphlets. 'These are supposed to be for guys that are relocated without prejudice. You know, poor slobs that just happened to see too much, but I'll let you have one. Let's see… Anglic, Anglic…' He selected one, handed it to Dan.
'Thanks.'
'Better get clear.'
Dan withdrew his head. He sat down on the grass and looked over the booklet. It was handsomely printed in bright colors. WELCOME TO RELOCATION CENTER NO. 23 said the cover. Below the heading was a photo of a group of sullen-looking creatures of varying heights and degrees of hairiness wearing paper hats. The caption read:
Dan opened the book. A photo showed a scene identical to the one before him, except that in place of the meadow, there was a parklike expanse of lawn, dotted with rambling buildings with long porches lined with rockers. There were picnic tables under spreading trees, and beyond, on the river, a yacht basin crowded with canoes and rowboats.
'Life in a Community Center is Grand Fun!' Dan read. 'Activities! Brownies, Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Sea Scouts, Tree Scouts, Cave Scouts, PTA, Shriners, Bear Cult, Rotary, Daughters of the Eastern Star, Mothers of the Big Banana, Dianetics-you name it! A Group for Everyone, and Everyone in a Group!
'Classes in conversational Urdu, Sprotch, Yiddish, Gaelic, Fundu, etc; knot-tying, rug-hooking, leatherwork, Greek Dancing, finger-painting and many, many others!
Little Theatre!
Indian Dance Pageants!
Round Table Discussions!
Town Meetings!
Dan thumbed on through the pages of emphatic print, stopped at a double-page spread labeled
All of us want to make a GO of relocation. So-let's remember the Uranium Rule: Don't Do It! The Other Guy May Be Bigger!
Remember the other fellow's taboos!
What to you might be merely a wholesome picnic or mating bee may offend others. What some are used to doing in groups, others consider a solitary activity. Most
