His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

"The preselector indicated protoplasm highly organized." I take him by the arm. "Look, doc," I says, "suppose you begin at the beginning and tell me just where we are and how we get back home and why you brought us here. And anything else that comes into your head. Now talk!"

"Of course," he says, mild and a little hurt. "I just thought you wouldn't be interested in the details. Well, I said this is the fourth dimension.

That is only approximately true. It is a cognate plane of some kind—

only one of the very many which exist side-by-side with our own. And of course I didn't mean to take you here with me; that was an accident. I called to you to get out of the way while you could, but the pressure belt caught you while you were busily carrying out your orders, which were to shoot me dead.

"And incidentally, it would have been better for you if you had escaped the belt, for I would have stayed in this plane as long as possible, and would have been as good as dead to you and your Mr. Lucco."

"It ain't that," I interjects. "It's mostly the reputation we got to maintain.

What if wise-guys like you—meaning no offense, doc—came in on us every day with heavy sugar to bet, and then welched? The business wouldn't be worth the upkeep in lead. Get me?"

"I—ah—think so," he says. "At any rate, the last-minute alterations I was making when you called on me were intended to take me into a selected plane which would support life. It happens that the coefficient of environment which this calls for is either three, four or seven. I was performing the final test with your kind assistance only a few minutes ago, if you remember. When you read 'seven' from the dial I realized that according to my calculations I would land in a plane already inhabited by protoplasmal forms. So, Mr. Reilly, here we are, and we'll have to make the best of it until I find equipment somehow or other to send you back into your world."

"That," I says, "is fair enough—hey, doc! What're them babies doing?" I am referring to certain ungainly things like centipedes, but very much bigger, which are mounted by several people each. They loom up on the horizon like bats out of hell, not exactly luminous but—well, I see them and there isn't any light from anywhere to see them by. They must be luminous, I think.

"Protoplasm," he says, turning white as a sheet. "But whether friendly or enemy protoplasm I don't know. Better get out your gun. But don't fire until you're positive—utterly, utterly positive—that they mean us harm. Not if I can help it do we make needless enemies."

Up scuttles one of the four centipedes. The driver of the awful brute looks down. He is dressed in a kind of buckskin shirt, and he wears a big brown beard. "Hello," he says, friendly-like. "Where did you chaps drop from?"

Doc Ellenbogan rallies quick. He says, "We just got here. My name's Ellenbogan and this is Mr. Reilly."

"Hmm—Irish," says the gent in the buckskins. I notice that he has an English accent. "Wanta make sumpn of it?" I ask, patting the roscoe.

"No—sorry," he says with a bright smile. "Let me introduce myself. I'm Peter DeManning, hereditary Knight of the Cross of Britain and possibly a Viscount. Our heraldry and honors got very confused about the fourth generation. We're descended from Lord DeManning, who came over way back in 1938."

"But this is only 1941!" protests the doc. Then he hauls himself up short.

"Foolish of me—time runs slower here, of course. Was it accidental—

coming over?"

"Not at all," answers the gent. "Old Lord Peter always hated the world—

thoroughly a misanthrope. So finally he gathered together his five favorite mistresses and a technical library and crossed the line into this plane. He's still alive, by the by. The climate of this place must be awfully salubrious. Something in the metabolism favors it."

"How many of youse guys are there?" I ask, so as not to seem dumb.

He looks at me coldly. "About three hundred," he says. "A few more due shortly. Would you two care to join us? We're back from a kind of raid—

tell you all about it if you're interested."

"Of course," says the doc. And without hesitation he climbs up the side of that scaly, leggy horror and perches next to the guy. Sir Peter looks down at me and says, "I think, Mr. Reilly, that you'd better ride on the other bug. This one's heavily burdened already. Do you mind?"

"Not at all," I says viciously. And so I went back to the next thing, which looked at me, curling its awful head around, as I passed.

"Right here, Mr. Reilly," someone calls down.

"Thanks, lady," I says, accepting the helping hand reached down.

Settled on the back of the centipede, I shivered at the clammy feeling.

"Feels strange?" asks someone. I turned around to see who was the person who would call riding a hundred-foot bug strange and let it go at that. I stayed turned around, just staring. "Is something wrong, Mr.

Reilly?" she asks anxiously. "I hope you're not ill."