His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

So I look again. Just a bunch of huts, of course. They're neat and clean, some of them bigger than you'd expect, but huts just the same. "Don't you believe in steel-frame construction?" I ask, and Sir Peter looks at me with downright horror. "Excuse me!" he nearly shouts and runs away from us—I said runs—and begins to talk with some of the others.

"I'm afraid," says the doc, "that you did it again, Matt."

"Gripes almighty—how do I know what'll offend them and what won't?

Am I a magician?" I complain.

"I guess you aren't," he says snappily. "Otherwise you'd watch your tongue. Now here comes Sir Peter again. You'd better not say anything at all this time."

The gent approaches, keeping a nervous eye on me, and says in one burst, "Please follow me to see the Old Man. And I hope you'll excuse him any errors he may make—he has a rather foul tongue. Senile, you know—older than the hills." So we follow him heel and toe to one of the largest of the cottages. Respectfully Sir Peter tapped on the door.

"Come in, ye bleedin' sturgeon!" thunders a voice.

"Tut!" says Sir Peter. "He's cursing again. You'd better go in alone—

good luck!" And in sheer blue terror he walks off, looking greatly relieved.

"Come in and be blowed, ye fish-faced octogenarian pack of truffle-snouted shovel-headed beagle-mice!" roars the voice.

Says the doc, "That means us." So he pushes open the door and walks in.

An old man with savage white whiskers stares us in the face. "Who the devil are you?" he bellows. "And where are my nitwit offspring gone?"

Without hedging the doc introduces himself: "I am Doctor Ellenbogan and this is Mr. Reilly. We have come from Earth, year 1941. You must be Lord Peter DeManning?"

The old man stares at him, breathing heavily. "I am," he says at last.

"And what the devil may you be doing in my world?"

"Fleeing from an assassin," says the doc. "And this is the assassin. We are here by accident, but I had expected a greater degree of courtesy than you seem to see fit to bestow on us. Will you explain, please?"

"And that goes double for me," I snap, feeling plenty tough.

"Pah!" grunts the old man. "Muscling in, that's what you're doing! Who invited you? This is my experiment and I'm not going to see it ruined by any blundering outsider. You a physicist?"

"Specializing in electronics," says the doc coldly.

"Thought so! Poppycock! I used a physicist to get me here—used him, mark you—for my own purposes. I'm a scientist myself. The only real scientist—the only real science there is!"

"And what might that be?" I ask.

"Humanity, you—assassin. The science of human relationships.

Conditioned reflexes from head to toe. Give me the child and I'll give you the man! I proved it—proved it here with my own brains and hands.

Make what you like of that. I won't tell you another word. Scientist—

physicist—pah!"

"He's nuts!" I whisper to the doc.

"Possibly. Possibly," he whispers back. "But I doubt it. And there are too many mysteries here." So he turns to the old man again. "Lord DeManning," he says smoothly, "there are things I want to find out."

"Well," snarls the old thing, "you won't from me. Now get out!" And he raises his hand—and in that hand is a huge Colt .45 automatic—the meanest hand weapon this side of perdition. I dive for the roscoe, but the doc turns on me quickly. "Cut it out, Matt," he hisses. "None of that.

Let's go outside and look around."

Once we are outside I complain, "Why didn't you let me plug him? He can't be that fast on the trigger. You practically need a crowbar to fire one of those things he had."

"Not that cunning old monster," broods the doc. "Not him. He knows a lot—probably has a hair-trigger on the gun. He's that kind of mind—I know the type. Academic run wild. Let's split up here and scout around." So he wanders off vaguely, polishing his glasses.

A passing figure attracts my eye. "Lady Cynthia!" I yell.

The incredibly beautiful blonde turns and looks at me coldly. "Mr.

Reilly," she says, "you were informed of my sentiments towards you. I hope you make no further attempts at—"

"Hold it!" I says. "Stop right then and there. What I want to know is what did I do that I shouldn't have done? Lady Cynthia, I—I like you an awful lot, and I don't think we should—" I'm studying her eyes like an eagle. The second I see them soften I know that I'm in.

"Mr. Reilly," she says with great agitation, "follow me. They'd kill me if they found out, but—" She walks off slowly, and I follow her into a hut.

"Now," she says, facing me fair and square, "I don't know why I should foul my mouth with things that I would rather die than utter, but there's something about you—" She brings herself to rights with a determined toss of her head. "What do you want to know?"

"First," I says, "tell me where you were coming back from this afternoon, or whatever it was."