Time Travel Omnibus, page 194
The gnarly man shrugged again. “You can believe what you like. My own clan considered me pretty smart, and then you’re bound to learn something in fifty thousand years.”
Dr. Saddler said, “Tell them about your teeth, Clarence.”
The gnarly man grinned. “They’re false, of course. My own lasted a long time, but they still wore out somewhere back in the Paleolithic. I grew a third set, and they wore out too. So I had to invent soup.”
“You what?” It was the usually taciturn Jeffcott.
“I had to invent soup, to keep alive. You know, the bark-dish-and-hot-stones method. My gums got pretty tough after a while, but they still weren’t much good for chewing hard stuff. So after a few thousand years I got pretty sick of soup and mushy foods generally. And when metal came in I began experimenting with false teeth. I finally made some pretty good ones. Amber teeth in copper plates. You might say I invented them too. I tried often to sell them, but they never really caught on until around 1750 A. D. I was living in Paris then, and I built up quite a little business before I moved on.” He pulled the handkerchief out of his breast pocket to wipe his forehead; Blue made a face as the wave of perfume reached him.
“Well, Mr. Cave-man,” snapped Blue sarcastically, “how do you like our ‘machine age’.”
The gnarly man ignored the tone of the question. “It’s not bad. Lots of interesting things happen. The main trouble is the shirts.”
“Shirts?”
“Uh-huh. Just try to buy a shirt with a 20 neck and a 29 sleeve. I have to order ’em special. It’s almost as bad with hats and shoes. I wear an 8-1/2 and a 13 shoe.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get back to Coney to work.”
McGannon jumped up. “Where can I get in touch with you again, Mr. Gaffney? There’s lots of things I’d like to ask you.”
The gnarly man told him. “I’m free mornings. My working hours are two to midnight on week-days, with a couple of hours off for dinner. Union rules, you know.”
“You mean there’s a union for you show people?”
“Sure. Only they call it a guild. They think they’re artists, you know.”
BLUE AND JEFFCOTT watched the gnarly man and the historian walking slowly toward the subway together. Blue said, “Poor old Mac! I always thought he had sense. Looks like he’s swallowed this Gaffney’s ravings hook, line, and sinker.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Jeffcott, frowning. “There’s something funny about the business.”
“What?” barked Blue. “Don’t tell me that you believe this story of being alive fifty thousand years? A cave-man who uses perfume? Good God!”
“N-no,” said Jeffcott. “Not the fifty thousand part. But I don’t think it’s a simple case of paranoia or plain lying cither. And the perfume’s quite logical, if he were telling the truth.”
“Huh?”
“Body-odor. Saddler told us how dogs hate him. He’d have a smell different from ours. We’re so used to ours that we don’t even know we have one, unless somebody goes without a bath for a couple of months. But we might notice his if he didn’t disguise it.”
Blue snorted. “You’ll be believing him yourself in a minute. It’s an obvious glandular case, and he’s made up this story to fit. All that talk about not caring whether we believe him or not is just bluff. Come on, let’s get some lunch. Say, did you see the way Saddler looked at him every time she said ‘Clarence’ ? Wonder what she thinks she’s going to do with him?”
Jeffcott thought. “I can guess. And if he is telling the truth, I think there’s something in Deuteronomy against it.”
THE GREAT surgeon made a point of looking like a great surgeon, to pince-nez and vandyke. He waved the X-ray negatives at the gnarly man, pointing out this and that.
“We’d better take the leg first,” he said. “Suppose we do that next Tuesday. When you’ve recovered from that we can tackle the shoulder.”
The gnarly man agreed, and shuffled out of the little private hospital to where McGannon awaited him in his car. The gnarly man described the tentative schedule of operations, and mentioned that he had made arrangements to quit his job at the last minute. “Those two are the main thing,” he said. “I’d like to try professional wrestling again some day, and I can’t unless I get this shoulder fixed so I can raise my left arm over my head.”
“What happened to it?” asked McGannon.
The gnarly man closed his eyes, thinking. “Let me see. I get things mixed up sometimes. People do when they’re only fifty years old, so you can imagine what it’s like for me.
“In 42 B.C. I was living with the Bituriges in Gaul. You remember that Caesar shut up Werkinghetorich—Vercingetorix to you—in Alesia, and the confederacy raised an army of relief under Caswallon.”
“Caswallon?”
The gnarly man laughed shortly. “I meant Wcrcaswallon. Caswallon was a Briton, wasn’t he? I’m always getting those two mixed up.
“Anyhow, I got drafted. That’s all you can call it; I didn’t want to go. It wasn’t exactly my war. But they wanted me because I could pull twice as heavy a bow as anybody else.
“When the final attack on Caesar’s ring of fortifications came, they sent me forward with some other archers to provide a covering fire for their infantry. At least that was the plan. Actually I never saw such a hopeless muddle in my life. And before I even got within bow-shot, I fell into one of the Romans’ covered pits. I didn’t land on the point of the stake, but I fetched up against the side of it and busted my shoulder. There wasn’t any help, because the Gauls were too busy running away from Caesar’s German cavalry to bother about wounded men.”
THE AUTHOR of “God, Man, and the Universe” gazed after his departing patient. He spoke to his head assistant. “What do you think of him?”
“I think it’s so,” said the assistant. “I looked over those X-rays pretty closely. That skeleton never belonged to a human being.”
“Hmm. Hmm.” said Dunbar. “That’s right, he wouldn’t be human, would he? Hmm. You know, if anything happened to him—”
The assistant grinned understanding. “Of course there’s the S.P.C.A.”
“We needn’t worry about them. Hmm.” He thought, you’ve been slipping: nothing big in the papers for a year. But if you published a complete anatomical description of a Neanderthal man—or if you found out why his medulla functions the way it does—hmm—of course it would have to be managed properly—
“LET’S have lunch at the Natural History Museum,” said McGannon. “Some of the people there ought to know you.”
“Okay,” drawled the gnarly man. “Only I’ve still got to get back to Coney afterward. Tins is my last day. Tomorrow Pappas and I are going up to see our lawyer about ending our contract. It’s a dirty trick on poor old John, but I warned nun at the start that this might happen.”
“I suppose we can come up to interview you while you’re—ah—convalescing? Fine. Have you ever been to the Museum, by the way?”
“Sure,” said the gnarly man. “I get around.”
“What did you—ah—think of their stuff in the Hall of the Age of Man?”
“Pretty good. There’s a little mistake in one of those big wall-paintings. The second horn on the wooly rhinoceros ought to slant forward more. I thought about writing them a letter. But you know how it is. They say ‘Were you there?’ and I say ‘Uh-huh’ and they say ‘Another nut.’ ”
“How about the pictures and busts of Paleolithic men?”
“Pretty good. But they have some funny ideas. They always show us with skins wrapped around our middles. In summer we didn’t wear skins, and in winter we hung them around our shoulders where they’d do some good.
“And then they show those tall ones that you call Cro-Magnon men clean-shaven. As I remember they all had whiskers. What would they shave with?”
“I think,” said McGannon, “that they leave the beards off the busts to—ah—show the shape of the chins. With the beards they’d all look too much alike.”
“Is that the reason? They might say so on the labels.” The gnarly man rubbed his own chin, such as it was. “I wish beards would come back into style. I look much more human with a beard. I got along fine in the Sixteenth Century when everybody had whiskers.
“That’s one of the ways I remember when things happened, by the haircuts and whiskers that people had. I remember when a wagon I was driving in Milan lost a wheel and spilled flour-bags from Hell to breakfast. That must have been in the Sixteenth Century, before I went to Ireland, because I remember that most of the men in the crowd that collected had beards. Now—wait a minute—maybe that was the Fourteenth. There were a lot of beards then too.”
“Why, why didn’t you keep a diary?” asked McGannon with a groan of exasperation.
The gnarly man shrugged characteristically. “And pack around six trunks full of paper every time I moved? No, thanks.”
“I—ah—don’t suppose you could give me the real story of Richard III and the princes in the Tower?”
“Why should I? I was just a poor blacksmith or farmer or something most of the time. I didn’t go around with the big-shots. I gave up all my ideas of ambition a long time before that. I had to, being so different from other people. As far as I can remember, the only real king I ever got a good look at was Charlemagne, when he made a speech in Paris one day. He was just a big tall man with Santa Claus whiskers and a squeaky voice.”
NEXT MORNING McGannon and the gnarly man had a session with Svedberg at the Museum, after which McGannon drove Gaffney around to the lawyer’s office, on the third floor of a seedy old office-building in the West Fifties. James Robinette looked something like a movie-actor and something like a chipmunk. He glanced at his watch and said to McGannon: “This won’t take-long. If you’d like to stick around I’d be glad to have lunch with you.” The fact was that he was feeling just a trifle queasy about being left with this damn queer client, this circus freak or whatever he was, with his barrel body and his funny slow drawl.
When the business had been completed, and the gnarly man had gone off with his manager to wind up his affairs at Coney, Robinette said “Whew! I thought he was a halfwit, from his looks. But there was nothing halfwitted about the way he went over those clauses. You’d have thought the dams contract was for building a subway system. What is he, anyhow?”
McGannon told him what he knew.
The lawyer’s eyebrows went up. “Do you believe his yarn?”
“I do. So does Saddler. So does Svedberg up at the Museum. They’re both topnotchcrs in their respective fields. Saddler and I have interviewed him, and Svedberg’s examined him physically. But it’s just opinion. Fred Blue still swears it’s a hoax or a case of some sort of dementia. Neither of us can prove anything.”
“Why not?”
“Well—ah—how are you going to prove that he was or was not alive a hundred years ago? Take one case: Clarence says he ran a sawmill in Fairbanks, Alaska, in 1906 and ‘07, under the name of Michael Shawn. How are you going to find out whether there was a sawmill operator in Fairbanks at that time? And if you did stumble on a record of a Michael Shawn, how would you know whether he and Clarence were the same? There’s not a chance in a thousand that there’d be a photograph or a detailed description you could check with. And you’d have an awful time trying to find anybody who remembered him at this late date.
“Then, Svedberg poked around Clarence’s face, and said that no human being ever had a pair of zygomatic arches like that. But when I told Blue that, he offered to produce photographs of a human skull that did. I know what’ll happen: Blue will say that the arches are practically the same, and Svedberg will say that they’re obviously different. So there we’ll be.”
Robinette mused, “He does seem damned intelligent for an ape-man.”
“He’s not an ape-man really. The Neanderthal race was a separate branch of the human stock; they were more primitive in some ways and more advanced in others than we are. Clarence may be slow, but he usually grinds out the right answer. I imagine that he was—ah—brilliant, for one of his kind, to begin with. And he’s had the benefit of so much experience. He knows us; he sees through us and our motives.” The little pink man puckered up his forehead. “I do hope nothing happens to him. He’s carrying around a lot of priceless information in that big head of his. Simply priceless. Not much about war and politics; he kept clear of those as a matter of self-preservation. But little things, about how people lived and how they thought thousands of years ago. He gets his periods mixed up sometimes, but he gets them straightened out if you give him time.
“I’ll have to get hold of Pell, the linguist. Clarence knows dozens of ancient languages, such as Gothic and Gaulish. I was able to check him on some of them, like vulgar Latin; that was one of the things that convinced me. And there are archeologists and psychologists . . .
“If only something doesn’t happen to scare him off. We’d never find him. I don’t know. Between a man-crazy female scientist and a publicity-mad surgeon—I wonder how it’ll work out . . .”
THE GNARLY MAN innocently entered the waiting-room of Dunbar’s hospital. He as usual spotted the most comfortable chair, and settled luxuriously into it.
Dunbar stood before him. His keen eyes gleamed with anticipation behind their pince-nez. “There’ll be a wait of about half an hour, Mr. Gaffney,” he said. “We’re all tied up now, you know. I’ll send Mahler in; he’ll see that you have anything you want.” Dunbar’s eyes ran lovingly over the gnarly man’s stumpy frame. What fascinating secrets mightn’t he discover once he got inside it?
Mahler appeared, a healthy-looking youngster. Was there anything Mr. Gaffney would like? The gnarly man paused as usual to let his massive mental machinery grind. A vagrant impulse moved him to ask to see the instruments that were to be used on him.
Mahler had his orders, but this seemed a harmless enough request. He went and returned with a tray full of gleaming steel. “You see,” he said, “these are called scalpels . . .”
Presently the gnarly man asked, “What’s this?” He picked up a peculiar-looking instrument.
“Oh, that’s the boss’s own invention. For getting at the mid-brain.”
“Mid-brain? What’s that doing here?”
“Why, that’s for getting at your—that must be there by mistake—”
Little lines tightened around the queer hazel eyes. “Yeah?” He remembered the look Dunbar had given him, and Dunbar’s general reputation. “Say, could I use your ‘phone a minute?”
“Why—I suppose—what do you want to ‘phone for?”
“I want to call my lawyer. Any objections?”
“No, of course not. But there isn’t any ‘phone here.”
“What do you call that?” The gnarly man rose and walked toward the instrument in plain sight on a table. But Mahler was there before him, standing in front of it.
“This one doesn’t work. It’s being fixed.”
“Can’t I try it?”
“No, not till it’s fixed. It doesn’t work, I tell you.”
The gnarly man studied the young physician for a few seconds. “Okay, then I’ll find one that does.” He started for the door.
“Hey, you can’t go out now!” cried Mahler.
“Can’t I? Just watch me!”
“Hey!” It was a full-throated yell. Like magic more men in white coats appeared. Behind them was the great surgeon. “Be reasonable, Mr. Gaffney,” he said. “There’s no reason why you should go out now, you know. We’ll be ready for you in a little while.”
“Any reason why I shouldn’t?” The gnarly man’s big face swung on his thick neck, and his hazel eyes swiveled. All the exits were blocked. “I’m going.”
“Grab him!” said Dunbar.
The white coats moved. The gnarly man got his hands on the back of a chair. ‘I he chair whirled, and became a dissolving blur as the men closed on him. Pieces of chair flew about the room, to fall with the dry sharp pink of short lengths of wood. When the gnarly man stopped swinging, having only a short piece of the chair-back left in each fist, one assistant was out cold. Another leaned whitely against the wall and nursed a broken arm.
“Go on!” shouted Dunbar when he could make himself heard. The white wave closed over the gnarly man, then broke. The gnarly man was on his feet, and held young Mahler by the ankles. He spread his feet and swung the shrieking Mahler like a club, clearing the way to the door. He turned, whirled Mahler around his head like a hammer-thrower, and let the now mercifully unconscious body fly. His assailants went down in a yammering tangle.
One was still up. Under Dunbar’s urging he sprang after the gnarly man. The latter had gotten his stick out of the umbrella-stand in the vestibule. The knobby upper end went whoowh past the assistant’s nose. The assistant jumped back and fell over one of the casualties. The front door slammed, and there was a deep roar of “Taxi!”
“Come on!” shrieked Dunbar. “Get the ambulance out!”
JAMES ROBINETTE sat in his office on the third floor of a seedy old office-building in the West Fifties, thinking the thoughts that lawyers do in moments of relaxation.
He wondered about that damn queer client, that circus freak or whatever he was, who had been in a couple of days before with his manager. A barrel-bodied man who looked like a halfwit and talked in a funny slow drawl. Though there had been nothing halfwitted about the acute way he had gone over those clauses. You’d think the damn contract had been for building a subway system.
There was a pounding of large feet in the corridor, a startled protest from Miss Spevak in the outer office, and the strange customer was before Robinette’s desk, breathing hard.
“I’m Gaffney,” he growled between gasps. “Remember me? I think they followed me down here. They’ll be up any minute. I want your help.”
“They? Who’s they?” Robinette winced at the impact of that damned perfume.
The gnarly man launched into his misfortunes. He was going well when there were more protests from Miss Spevak, and Dr. Dunbar and four assistants burst into the office.
