Part 1

Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

The Gun Runners

BY RALPH WILLIAMS

_George Dolan had four immediate problems: the time-translator, a beautiful, out-of-this-world girl named Moirta, the gun runners and his life. A situation in which he finally triumphed.... But what can you do with a victory that lies at the other end of a bridge 10,000 years long?_

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, December 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

The gun runners were professionals, and except for one minor detail the operation had been very well planned.

The middle twentieth century was chosen as a source of supply after a careful survey of all factors pro and con. The gun runners did not want the mass weapons of their own day, they wanted selective weapons which could be used for private murder. In the mid-twentieth century, the level of technology was such that well-made and reliable weapons were available; and at the same time, social control was still sketchy enough to permit quiet procurement of such merchandise, if one knew how to go about it and was suitably financed.

The gun runners, two men and a woman, knew how to go about it, and they were suitably financed. The profits in their business were commensurate with the risks--which were not small.

In their world unauthorized time travel was highly illegal, because of certain possible undesirable effects on the total space-time continuum, and was severely punished. Moreover, it was personally uncomfortable and dangerous.

They came from an old ingrowing world which had never reached the stars, where there were only men and their works, no blade of grass or micro-organism or sparrow which did not directly serve men. In their time, hereditary traits which had meant untimely and certain death in earlier times had persisted and multiplied. Immunities and instincts which had fitted men to live with tigers and streptococci, and seek their food in the wilderness, had atrophied.

The twentieth century was a dangerous environment for these people, more so perhaps than the Eocene would have been for _homo sapiens_. In preparation for their venture, it had been necessary for them to undergo a drastic and painful series of tests, inoculations, conditionings and plastic surgery.

Unfortunately, it had not occurred to them that their time machine might need similar protection. The equipment was basically electronic, and the power leads were encased in a new insulation, a synthetic protein which in very thin films afforded a near perfect dielectric. It was also, as it happened, an almost perfect culture medium for certain bacilli, non-existent in the sterile future, but healthy and thriving and full of appetite in the twentieth century.

When the gun runners prepared to return to their own time with their cargo of contraband there were small flashes of fire, and smoke curled briefly from various parts of the equipment. Their temporal environment remained unchanged.

The gun runners were not technicians, they were specialists in other fields. They pulled and prodded uncertainly here and there, pushed the buttons again.

Nothing happened.

The senior gun runner, a man who wore in this century the appearance of a quiet, gray-haired professional man, and who wore in any century the habit of command, came to a decision. He spoke in their own language, a language time had pruned to telegraphic brevity:

"If tamper, make worse. Electronics technicians this era. Use."

The second man raised an eyebrow. "Knowledge adequate? Time travel not simple."

The older man shrugged. "Theory not simple, machine simple. Savages clever fingers. Adequate stimulus, can solve."

"And after? Disposition?"

"Displacement effect. Or--" the senior gun runner sketched a quick gesture of pulling a trigger.

The younger man nodded slowly, still dubious--which was proper, it was his function to be suspicious and questioning, as it was the other's to command. "Stimulus?"

"Profit. Curiosity. And ... Moirta."

Both men turned and looked appraisingly at the woman, who had not yet entered the discussion. She was a very narrow specialist, within the wider specialty of gun running and murder. Now she moved her shoulders uneasily. "Displacement effect," she suggested, "near limit. If caught--" she made an unpleasantly suggestive spastic gesture.

The chief gun runner shrugged again. "If caught," he repeated the gesture she had made, "in any case. No choice. Find technician now."

* * * * *

George Dolan studied his visitors thoughtfully.

"Well, actually," he said, "our work is design, not repair. I suppose I could send a man out to look over your job and recommend a firm to handle it. Is that what you want?"

"Mr. Dolan," the gray-haired man said earnestly, "I am afraid you still misunderstand me. The work we wish done is small in scale, but very intricate and delicate, and highly confidential. We have investigated your qualifications, and you are the man we want to handle it, you personally. We do not want you to mention this work to any other person--not even your wife."

"I don't have a wife," Dolan said. "That's no problem." He hesitated. "Do I need security clearance? That'll take time."

"No security clearance. This is private work."

Dolan frowned. Private work, money no object, very secret--there were implications to this offer which he did not like.

On the other hand--

His eye strayed to the young woman who sat quietly beside the man, silently exercising her specialty. The plastic surgeons of her era had done a beautiful and nearly perfect job on her body; but bone-deep, in ways an observant man could sense, she was still not a twentieth century woman. In a city full of women who made a profession of being young and handsome, she too was young and handsome, but different.

Dolan was an observant man, and a curious one.

He looked back at Brown. "If you could just give me some idea--" he said tentatively.

"The equipment, as I have said, is very intricate, and we are not technicians. We prefer that you make your own diagnosis."

Dolan pursed his lips uncertainly. He glanced again at the girl.

"OK," he said at last, "I'll look at it. I can't promise anything."

He punched a button on the desk intercom. "Betty, I'm going out to look at a job with Mr. Brown and Miss--uh--" he glanced at the girl.

"Jones," the gray-haired man said. "Miss Jones."

"Oh, yes, excuse me." Dolan smiled at the girl and drew a brief quirk of the lips in response. "--with Mr. Brown and Miss Jones," he continued. "Be back some time this afternoon."

"OK," he said to his clients. "Let's go see this intricate and delicate problem."

* * * * *

For reasons compatible with the profession of gun running and the nature of time travel, the time translator had been located outside of urban limits--the city was to be rather systematically bombed in the near future--on a secluded and stable granite dike, within the shell of a frame cottage. Dolan observed all this without comment.

They were met outside the cottage by a man about Dolan's age.

"This is my colleague, Mr. Smith," Brown introduced him.

Mr. Smith offered his hand. As he turned to lead them inside, Dolan noticed that the light summer jacket Smith wore did not drape well over the right hip pocket. He filed this fact also for future reference.

"And here," Brown said, "is the machine we wish repaired."

In the center of the room was an orderly jumble of shiny black geometric solids, laced together with wires and bars of silver, the whole mounted on a polished ebony platform. It was handsome, in a bizarre sort of way; but certainly it did not look like any electronic gear Dolan had ever seen, and he had seen almost all there was, at one time or another.

He studied it carefully, turning it this way and that in his mind, trying to find some familiar feature to grasp it by. There was none.

"Well," he asked skeptically, "what is it? What does it do?"

Brown shook his head. "The purpose of the machine must remain secret," he said firmly. "We think the trouble may be superficial, some minor thing an expert could quickly repair; and we wish you to work on it from that viewpoint, without inquiring into its purpose."

"I see," Dolan said noncommittally. The whole business was screwy. For two cents, he thought--

He glanced at the girl. She sat quietly on a chair, hands folded demurely in her lap, watching him, practising her specialty. Well, maybe, he thought, it wouldn't hurt to look, as long as he was here anyway.

He walked over to the equipment and bent to examine it. The silver conductors seemed to be uninsulated, although in places they were closely paired. He frowned and scratched tentatively at one with his fingernail. The metal showed bright. There was a slight tarnish, that was all, no insulation.

He noticed something else. Back of the equipment, at an angle unnoticeable from the side he had first approached, were several cut and dangling wires, some of which had been partially replaced by quite ordinary high tension cable. Spread about on the floor were lengths and coils of wire.

"You've been working on it yourselves?" he asked Brown.

"No, no. As I told you, we are not technicians. Before we contacted you, we had already tried another man. He proved unsatisfactory. We, uh, paid him off and sought a better qualified person."

"Unsatisfactory, eh? Umm, I see." Dolan's eyes moved thoughtfully to Smith, who lounged carelessly just inside the door. The coat now hung smoothly, it was only when Smith moved that the hint of a bulge showed.

Dolan was a curious man, but also a prudent and thoughtful one. He decided he did not want this job, it was time to get out. "I'll have to go back for some equipment," he said casually. "Can you drive me in?"

He knew immediately that it was not going over. Brown frowned and sucked thoughtfully at his lower lip.

"If you could make a list," Brown offered, "I could get it for you. You could then be making a preliminary survey while I am gone. There is a question of time involved, we wish these repairs made as quickly as possible."

"Well ... I'm not sure ..."

"Miss Jones," Brown said persuasively, "is as well-versed as any of us in the operation of the equipment. She could answer any questions you might have."

The girl smiled and nodded. Smith, lounging by the door, casually moved his hand to his belt, sweeping back his unbuttoned jacket slightly. Brown stood waiting.

Dolan studied them silently for a moment. They couldn't force him to take the job, he could simply turn them down and walk out. Or could he? For some reason he did not quite understand, he was just a little reluctant to test the idea.

"OK," he said shortly. He took his notebook and began to scribble a list of equipment on a blank page. A message, he wondered, like they do it in the movies? A request, maybe, for some outrageous piece of equipment that would tip off the boys in the shop? No good, they weren't that smart, and for that matter neither was he. Besides, what did he really know? Nothing, except that he just didn't want this job very much.

He tore the page out of the notebook and handed it to Brown. Brown slipped it in his pocket and went out.

Dolan turned to the girl. "OK, Miss Jones," he said. "Now let's see what we can figure out about this gear." He strolled completely around it, eyeing it from all sides.

"Well ..." he said dubiously. "First, I guess, control. How do you start it up, make it go?"

"We push these buttons, in this sequence," the girl told him. She moved her fingers lightly over a series of studs set in a small cube.

"OK, push 'em. Let's see what happens."

"Nothing happens," the girl said. "The machine just doesn't work."

"Well, then, what's supposed to happen?"

The girl looked unhappy. "I'm sorry," she said finally, "didn't Mr. Brown say you weren't to ask such questions?"

"OK," Dolan said resignedly, "we'll let that go then. How about this: What indications do you have when it _is_ operating normally? Anything light up, move, buzz, hum, spin around?"

The girl frowned thoughtfully and shook her head. "Nothing lights up, moves, buzzes, hums, spins around. When the machine works, it ... well, it just works, and that's all." She studied him with troubled eyes. "You are an expert, it seems to me an expert should be able to look at a machine and see what parts are faulty, isn't that true? Why must you know what the machine does?"

Dolan leaned back against the machine and lit a cigarette. He squinted thoughtfully at her through the smoke. Well, what the hell, with looks like that, why should she need brains?

"Miss Jones," he said patiently, "I gather that you aren't a technical person?"

"Not with machines, no."

It was an odd sort of answer. Did it imply that she had a technical knowledge of something other than machines? Dolan considered it briefly and decided to pass it up for now.

"I _am_ a technically trained person," he said, "an expert as you say; and I can tell you this: machinery, electronic gear, anything like that, is built to do a specific job. Before you can design, build, or repair such equipment, the very first thing you have to know is: what do you want it to do? For all I know, this machine here may just be an overgrown coffee percolator. Now, suppose I go ahead and fix it with that in mind, and when I get done it makes beautiful coffee, but it turn out you wanted all along for it to get television programs, you're going to be terribly disappointed. You see now why I have to know what it does?"

The girl nodded seriously. "Yes," she admitted, "I can see that; but I'm sorry, I still cannot tell you the purpose of the machine." She glanced uncertainly at Smith. He shook his head minutely. "Perhaps," she said, "when Mr. Brown returns--"

* * * * *

Brown, however, did not convince easy.

Dolan puffed angrily at a cigarette, while Brown and the girl watched him impassively.

"Damn it," he said, "it just won't work like this, that's all there is to it." He kicked savagely at the base of the machine. "All I'm doing is chasing my tail in circles. I know what part of the trouble is now, somehow you've lost the insulation on your conductors--burned up, evaporated, blew away, God knows what. Anyway, it's gone. But I can't just spray some gunk back on and have it work like new, we just haven't got that kind of insulation. Where'd you get that stuff, anyway. Can't you get some more?"

"It was specially made for us," Brown told him. "We cannot get more at ... present."

"I see." There had been a very slight accent on the "present". Did it mean anything? And if so, what? "Well, I can rewire it for you, use standard stuff, it won't look pretty but it might work, only what should I use? I don't know what it needs--high voltage cable, or bell wire; shielded or open. I've got to know what you've got in these black boxes here--" he pounded gently on one, "before I know what to feed them."

He snapped his cigarette into a corner, gloomily watched the smoke curl up from it for a moment, then walked over and stepped heavily on it. "So that's it," he said definitely. "I've been fooling with this thing all day, and that's just exactly as far as I can go. It's up to you people, you can give me the dope, I can't promise anything even then, except just to try; or you might as well pay me off. I can hang around here and put in more time, but you won't be getting anything out of it."

Brown studied his fingernails absently. "Perhaps you are right," he said slowly. "However, I cannot act without consulting with Mr. Smith, and he has gone into town to get some food for you, I am sure you must be hungry. When he returns, I will let you know our decision."

"OK." Dolan mopped at his face with his handkerchief. "God, it's hot as an oven in this shack," he said. Miss Jones smiled in sympathy, though she looked cool enough.

"Come on, Miss Jones, let's get outside and cool off a bit."

"I think that would be nice," she agreed.

It was just turning dusk outside, and there was an agreeable breeze coming up the valley. They walked over and sat down on a rocky ledge.

"Tell me, Miss Jones," he said suddenly, "do you like it here?"

"It's very pretty," she said. She looked out toward the ridge with the sunset colors fading behind it. "Much nicer than the city."

"No, no," he said brusquely, "that's not what I mean. I mean, do you like it _here_, in our world?"

"I don't think I understand you."

"I mean here, now, on this planet, in this time. Do you like it as well as your own ... place?"

She stared up at him with wide puzzled eyes. "My own place? What other planet or time do you think I might know?"

"I don't know, Miss Jones, I just...." He was not quite sure exactly what he had been driving at, himself. "Forget it. Just a stupid idea." He leaned back and let his eye follow the shadows up the valley. A faint whiff of perfume reached him.

"Miss Jones," he said. "That's rather an awkward thing to call you. Do you have a first name?"

"Jane Jones, naturally," she said, and smiled. "What else?"

"No good," he said firmly. "I might call you Mary, that's a nice anonymous tag, and sounds better too ... or you could tell me your real name, just the first name, that wouldn't give much away."

She considered silently. "Moirta," she said finally. "My name is Moirta." She accented the syllables evenly.

"Moirta," he repeated. "Moirta." He rolled the "r" slightly, as she had done. "That's much better, it fits you now, Moirta, and it fits the cool shades of evenin'."

He looked down at her.

"Moirta," he said soberly. "It's a lovely name, truly."

He leaned forward and kissed her. Her lips met his, not coldly, and not demandingly or fiercely, but gently and firmly, in the exact measure he desired. He put his arms about her, and she came into them, supple but not limp, as a beautifully trained dancer follows a lead. For a very long moment they remained thus, lip to lip and breast to breast, the yearning and response in each rising in swift even balance.

And then Brown opened the door, casting a shaft of light past them in the dusk.

"Oh, Moirta," he called. "Are you there? Could you come here a moment, please--"

* * * * *

The two male gun runners had stepped outside the cottage while Moirta served Dolan his dinner. They found the smells and sounds of summer night, the darkness itself--in their world there was no darkness except in closed rooms--disturbing, but preferable to watching and hearing Dolan eat.

"For primitive, natural," the senior gun runner said, "but--" he winced, "_teeth!_"

"_Gnawing!_" the other agreed. He clicked his own non-functional dentures experimentally, examined his fingers with fascinated revulsion. Tender flesh, white teeth--ugh!

"Moirta," he said thoughtfully, "seems not to mind."

The senior gun runner cringed as a bat fluttered by. "Her specialty," he said absently, "not to mind." He strained his eyes to see into the darkness. Was that a mouse rustling in the grass? Or worse yet, a _snake_?

"Progress?" the younger man asked.

"Motivation set. Next, focus on problem. Pressure." It was _something_, something small and alive, coming toward him. "Move nearer door," he said abruptly. "Light."

* * * * *

"Mr. Smith and I have discussed the matter," Brown said, "and we have decided to be completely frank with you." He paused, watching Dolan. "The machine is a time translator," he said.

Dolan looked back at him, poker-faced. "So?"

Brown frowned slightly. Perhaps he had expected more of a reaction. "We are from a time very far in your future," he continued. "The machine has the apparent effect of transferring our physical bodies to this age. I say 'apparent' effect, because the mechanism of this time translation is not fully understood. There are certain anomalies, the displacement effect for example--but that is immaterial, for all practical purposes we can move at will to and from any time in our past, though not into our future--when the machine is working.

"Naturally, such time travel must be kept secret, if it were not, several undesirable consequences might arise. It is very closely regulated, and may be used only for bona fide historical research by responsible persons."

He looked inquiringly at Dolan. "I am not really sure I can tell you much more about the machine, I am not a technician, as you know. Does what I have told you help any?"

"I don't know," Dolan said. "Let me think about it a minute." He was not really much surprised at the disclosure. In terms of the technology he knew, the machine was almost completely meaningless. From the beginning, there had only been two possibilities--either it was the product of an alien culture, or it was an elaborate hoax. He had already decided it was not a hoax. He had not, he realized, allowed himself to explore fully the implications of the other possibility. He did so now, and some of the implications were--intriguing.

Historical research, eh? Well, maybe. He would reserve judgment on that.

But a time machine? There was no such thing. And yet, if there were--

He looked at the jumble of equipment speculatively.

"I still don't know how a time machine might work," he said finally. "Do you have any sort of handbook, operating manual, anything like that? Or do they have such things in your time?"

"Operating manual? I don't think so. There are some pictures--" Brown stepped over to the machine and touched a large flattened sphere which grew out of the base. "This is the power unit. If you press these studs, various pictures--'schematics', I believe you would call them--are projected on the surface. Is that what you want?"

"That sounds like it," Dolan said. "But I did press those studs. Nothing happened."

"That is because the power unit is not operating. It does not come on, as it should, when we press this button." He indicated a stud on the cubicle control unit. "That, I suppose, is one of the major things wrong with the machine."

"Ummm, yeah, I see," Dolan said. He squatted and examined the power unit more closely. "One of these pairs now--" he traced them with his finger up to the control unit, "must be the control pair." He took a piece of chalk and began numbering the terminals rapidly.

"Now," he said, "if the control pair is shorted, the power should be on, but there must be overload protection of some kind, that's probably kicked out, so let's just cut all this junk loose and then short the possible control pairs one at a time, see what happens then."

He reached for a pair of side-cutters. The three gun runners looked at each other. Brown nodded slightly. They moved quickly back out of Dolan's way.

* * * * *

"OK," Dolan said half an hour later. "We've got the power unit perking, and we've got the pictures. Now what do they mean? This block interwiring diagram now, it seems to be what I'm looking for, but I can't read the tags they've got on it. You know which block in the diagram corresponds to which piece of equipment?"

Brown studied the luminous white lines against the black polished background. He put a well-manicured finger on one square. "According to the lettering," he said, "this is the control unity, the small cube at the top with the buttons. This other, I do not know, it says: 'temporal re-integrator.' I do not know what that might be."