A Harvest of Hoodwinks, page 1
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A Harvest of Hoodwinks by Robert Lory
FOREWORD
Call it huckstering, conning, flimflamming, hanky-pankying or whatever, hoodwinkery is a story theme popular to a wide variety of intellectual levels and cultures extending from the present to as far back as human history is recorded. The Harvard prof in his study chuckles softly at Brer Rabbit's tar baby just as, in the remote past, the African hunter at his campfire split his sides roaring over the same tale told of Ananda the spider.
Not all tales of hoodwinkery are funny, of course. The reader or listener smiles or scowls in relation to the trickster's intent, his victim's innocence, the seriousness of the trick and the final result. Reaction also depends to a high degree on the makeup of the listener, it being true that humor as well as evil often lies with the beholder—or belistener. A toddling child whose grandmother titters over the Big Bad Wolf's response to Red Riding Hood's query about teeth might well think the old girl has gone dotty. But that, after all, is the occupational hazard of the story teller.
One word of caution: The fact that several of the characters you are about to meet revolve around the world of advertising and public relations stems only from the prior fact that for some time so did I. Therefore the characters result simply from my writing about the kinds of people and settings familiar to me and should not—repeat not—lead to the reader's thinking these sorts are more prone to deceit than members of any other profession.
Of course, the sly reader might ask whether or not that same prior fact of the writer's having worked in these particular fields contributed, perhaps even subconsciously, to his rather consistent use of the hood-winkery theme in fiction. He might well ask that.
Tripoli, Libya
Let's say I've never seen a pistol, that a firearm of any kind is totally outside of my experience. You come along and place a small Colt revolver in my hand and instruct me in how it's used. You might easily convince me that the device is fired properly by my grasping the barrel and, making certain that the hole is kept snug against my chest, pushing the trigger forward. You might easily do so—if you had a motive for such trickery.
The plot has been repeated over and again in remote areas of our world when the white trader-comes calling. But things have a way of evening out. One day that white trader or one of his kind may find himself under an unfamiliar sky. It may even be orange.
ARCHIMEDES' LEVER
Archie Pholper was reflecting on the sad lot of thirty-five-year-old advertising account executives when the sensation in his inner ear began.
Exactly one-sixteenth of a second later the tingle had increased in volume and pitch to a point where Archie became aware of it. When an eighth of a second had passed, Archie began to frown over his afternoon coffee. After another eighth of a second Archie screamed.
At the scream's beginning Archie Pholper had been sitting on a hard chair in the coffee room in the ground floor of the Madison Avenue building where he worked. When the scream ended—abruptly—he was still sitting on the same hard chair, but the sound of the scream and the sound in his ear which had caused the scream had been replaced by the pounding of surf.
Archie and the chair were on a white, sandy beach. Odd, Archie thought. Not so much the beach, nor the sharp up-jutting rocks upon which the foamy water crashed about a hundred yards away… What was odd was the sky. It was bright orange.
"Excellent! You managed to bring the chair with you."
The chair tipped quietly over in the sand as Archie jumped at the raspy voice. The man who had been standing behind him replaced the chair upright and looked evenly at Archie. "You must have been concentrating on the chair," he said, his voice sounding as if he were just recovering from a severe bout with laryngitis.
"No, I wasn't concentrating on—" Archie stopped, his thoughts suddenly focusing on his immediate surroundings and the strange man before him. Taller than Archie by two hands, he wore a white togalike robe, in contrast to which his skin looked dark red, almost purple. He was old, too, in a well-preserved, antique sort of way. At least eighty, Archie judged.
"Almost three hundred of your years," the old man supplied. "I am Turnal, Courteous of Ghoor." He smiled, not unpleasantly, as he answered Archie's unvoiced question.
"Yes," he went on, "I have the ability to read what you call your thoughts. And although you hear the sound of my voice, my meaning is being translated for you telepathically. As for the thought now beginning to take shape within you, let me assure you that you are not dead but very much alive."
Archie said uncertainly, "My idea of Hell would be something like this. Alone on a desolate beach, with nothing to break the continuing boredom. With maybe just a chair…"
"This is not the Hell of your mythology, Mr. Pholper, though your idea of its content I find most interesting. This is in fact the sphere and domain of Ghoor, upon which I hold the office of Courteous."
"Another planet? I'm not on Earth?" Archie asked, disbelieving. Yet the orange sky made it hard to disbelieve.
"On Ghoor, Earth is not very well known. Its -very existence is known to few within the entire Wahr Federation. You are the first Earthman—indeed the first Outsider—to penetrate the Impervious Veil for more than five hundred of your years. And on your first try you brought a chair with you!" Turnal seemed pleased at that.
Archie looked at the chair and then at the orange sky. "But how? I mean, how did I bring the chair—and .me—to here?"
"Long ago in your civilization a man with your name said that if he had the place to stand he could move your entire planet with a lever. This is the principle you used—with my help. The lever in this instance is not what you might conceptualize as physical, although the psychic and the physical are not as mutually exclusive as you suppose. Actually, it's a simple matter of coordinating—"
Turnal's raspy voice halted. He was looking skyward, listening intently. Above the sea's horizon Archie saw a flash, a silvery reflection. Turnal saw it, too. "You must go back now, quickly! Sit in the chair and concentrate!"
Archie sat unsurely. "Concentrate… on what?"
"Where you were, on Earth! Quickly—I'll help."
Archie did as directed. Into his mind came the coffee room, his table, the copy of the Wall Street Journal he'd glanced through when he'd first sat down, the cup of hot, welcome coffee after an early afternoon's heated discussion with a displeased client, the sugar he'd taken —two spoonsful, even though he knew he should be counting calories and shouldn't have—
And then the spoon and the sugar took on unnatural lines… or natural, perhaps. The white sugar was coming apart, breaking into blues and reds and yellows which in turn were separating into, greens and oranges and purples, all in forms of grains or spots or lines. Lines. That's what they were, really, the sugar was really nothing more than… and all were converging and—
There was a sound, a tingle in Archie's inner ear. It was getting higher and higher and louder and—a scream formed in Archie's mouth. It came out as he crashed onto the tile floor of the coffee room.
"Sir, is something wrong?"
Archie's eyes opened and peered into the anxious face of the waitress standing by the side of his table.
He looked down as his hands felt the area 01 the floor around his aching buttocks.
"I forgot," he said simply. "I forgot to bring the blasted chair back with me."
"You've done very well, Archimedes," Turnal said with admiration. "I didn't think your first solo flight would come off half so well."
Archie kicked a pile of white sand into the air. "I did it, sure. But I don't understand it. I don't even know for sure what a coordinate is. And I don't much care for the Archimedes name, even though I was born with it."
"Very well, Archie," Turnal rasped. "As for knowing what coordinates are in essence, it's not really necessary that you do understand it all. The important thing is that you can see them, concentrate upon them and utilize them to move things. After all, you don't have to know the electronics of your Earth television in order to switch on a receiver."
True, Archie reflected. And it was also true that he could see and use the multicolored shapes that Turnal called coordinates. He'd proved that during the past four days, during which Turnal had assisted him in moving to and from the sandy beach on Ghoor one desk from his apartment, a Pontiac from a used car lot, the arch at Washington Square, and even a group of humans: a psychedelic seminar of Villagers who upon return reported the wildest acid trip ever taken.
He'd been uneasy about soloing, but things had gone well. He could now control the tingling sensation in his ears, so the pain element of "shifting"—Turnal's name for the process—was gone. He'd visualized (or men-talized or whatever) the on-Ghoor coordinates so many times with Turnal's help that they came easy, even when concentrating on the large solo target he'd chosen.
He had supposed that moving the 400,000 square foot New York Public Library, even at night when only the guards were inside, would be difficult. It wasn't, although the shift back had to be made twice. The first time, the northeast corner of the building was misplaced, extending slightly onto Forty-second Street and almost causing an early morning traffic accident. Luckily, the driver and the eleven other people who witnessed the happening were natives of the city. Since the event had nothing to do with them personally they did not attempt to investigate further.
Archie could
"You want to know why," Turnal said matter-of-factly.
Archie nodded. "I suppose that's it. I mean, it's been a lot of fun and all, the most fun I've had in years, but-"
"Developing your skill, Mr. Pholper," Turnal said sternly, "is not a matter of recreation for me, nor for you. The purpose behind your training is deadly serious. You were chosen among all Earthlings to do an all-important job. And now you are ready."
"What… job?" Archie asked warily.
The Courteous of Ghoor spoke less sternly. "You remember how your namesake—the Greek, I believe he was—framed his important concept? He said that if he had the proper leverage he could move your entire planet. That is precisely the job you must do."
"The planet? Earth?" Archie was astounded. "But why? And how? And why me?"
"The how is simple. You can do it, just as you shifted the place of many books. A little more effort, perhaps, may be needed, but you have the tools. As for the why, the reason is to save your planet. It must be moved from your solar system, and soon. Your sun is about to blow. A nova, in your understanding, is what will re-suit. While one star more or less exploding in the universe is an unimportant event in the scheme of things, to you and your fellow Earth people it is of the utmost seriousness."
Archie agreed, his mouth wide open.
"The only solution is to move Earth out of your system. We've chosen coordinates around a sun similafr to yours within the Federated Systems. You'll have to learn the coordinates prior to the shift."
"But…" Archie began, still not fully comprehending. 'To move the whole world. Won't that shake everybody up some?"
"Of course. Psychologically," Turnal said. "But the shake-up won't compare with the one they'll get when your sun explodes. It is, after all, for their own good you're doing this.5*
Archie thought for a moment. "But why me? You or one of your people could do it—or couldn't you?"
"Yes, we—" Turnal's eyes shot skyward. "Quick. To the rocks," he rasped. "Run!"
Following Tumal, who seemed spry for a man his age, Archie had just about reached the up-jutting rocks on the beach when he spotted the reason for their running. A silver-blue glint in the sky flashed high over the calm sea. A space vehicle of some kind, it appeared to be getting larger, therefore nearer.
"Wahr patrol ship," Turnal puffed when they had gained the shadowy concealment of a horizontal rough outcrop of the rock. "They mustn't spot you, or they'll know later that Ghoor helped move you."
"You mean you shouldn't be helping?" Archie asked.
"Absolutely not," Turnal whispered. "You asked if I or my people could move your planet into its new coordinates. Yes, I could, as could many on Ghoor. We could do it in the ability sense, but not in a moral sense.
The Wahr Federation of Spheres would consider such an act by us as illegal."
A humming sound had grown while Turnal had been speaking. Now the old man put one finger to his lips, while pointing upward with his other hand. The patrol ship must be directly over their place of concealment, Archie concluded.
Moments later the humming sound had been reduced to silence. As Turnal led Archie from the rocks he explained, "They've sensed your breaking through the Impervious Veil, put there centuries ago to keep out space explorers from other systems. Luckily, they haven't yet been able to localize you, but we must act swiftly."
Something was still bothering Archie, he didn't know precisely what. "You say that your moving us would be immoral. But surely it can't be immoral for your people to try and save ours."
"Morals and the law and their relationships are involved subjects, their intricacies not always similar among different peoples. What's important is that we cannot move you. Within the Federation, illegalities are punished severely."
"You would be punished?"
"Not just me," Turnal said fatherly. "I am by appointment Courteous of all Ghoor. I act in my dealings with you not as an individual but in my official capacity by direction of our Council. All Ghoor would be punished."
"What about Earth, then?" Archie asked. "Will my people be punished for breaking Federation law? If we enter the Veil—"
Turnal grinned, his teeth sparkling in the sunlight. "Ah, but you are not members of the Federation, and thus not subject to its law. But time moves swiftly. I must give you your new coordinates."
Archie drummed nervous fingers on the top of his desk.
It was mid-morning, a Tuesday, the day and approaching the time Turnal had given him for the shift. There was a problem, however. Archie was getting cold feet.
The whole world.
Plus the atmosphere, of course. If only he could leave the smog behind, he thought, almost jokingly. But it was no time to joke.
The whole world.
Could he do it? Sure, he had the coordinates and the skill. Turnal said he'd been chosen specifically among Earthmen because of his peculiar mix of imagination, stick-to-itiveness and confidence in himself. But…
Earth weighed so much. To lift all that, think of it! But he couldn't have lifted the New York-Public Library either. That had gone smoothly enough. And Turnal was so confident. But suppose something went wrong. Sure, he had the coordinates, but…
Suppose one of those was just a little off?
Archie stopped drumming. Just a little off, he thought, like when he returned the library the first time. Coordinates were just colors to him, but colors have shades. A slight error in visualization—if that, again, was the right word—and… the whole world.
No, he couldn't do it. Not without making sure first.
But how to do that? He couldn't go himself in advance and check up on it. If there was just space out there he'd have no place to stand while checking. He couldn't even breathe. And he certainly couldn't get a space capsule for the purpose. They don't give those things to advertising people who might like a morning jaunt in space.
No, couldn't go, not physically. But mentally?
If.
He'd moved a building. He had not had to move the entire foundation and landscape with it. He'd moved a desk and a chair. It hadn't mattered that they were in buildings at the time. His mind—or his viewer-something, the thing that was part of his mind that framed the coordinates—if he could concentrate on shifting just that and not the rest of him…
The whole world!
He folded his hands in his lap and inhaled slowly. His pulse pounded in his head, refusing to be quieted. Colors blended, changed, elongated, separated and crystallized until—
They were right. Now—
No, too much. Not all this, but—
That?
No. No! There, right there—
THAT!
Archie saw. Not with eyes, but with… he didn't know what. His eyes never could have pierced the distances from the landing coordinates that his "sight" took him. But he saw nonetheless, and seeing, switched back to the coordinates of his office. He felt, rather than saw, his hands trembling when he opened his eyes.
The ships! God, there must have been a thousand dark red space ships surrounding the coordinates where Earth was due to be shifted.
The Federation had found out. Archie had to reach Turnal.
They were waiting for him on the beach under the orange sky. Twenty to thirty men of clear green skin dressed in brilliant blue uniforms. They were human types, physically strong, Archie concluded from the grips of the two who held him.
"Stay, Outsider!" an authoritative voice commanded. "Do not shift back. You will not be harmed."
The two men holding Archie immediately released him, and he turned to face a young man whose uniform style separated him above the others. "You are to be congratulated on your mastery of movement," the leader said. "I am Sparik, Commander Fourth Class in the Wahr Federation Arm of Enforcement. There are things I must know from you."
Archie's face reddened. "Here's your first bit of knowledge. Your ships will have a long wait. I'm wise to your stake-out. I'm not about to bring my planet inside your precious Veil so you can burn it to a crisp with your weapons. Well take our chances with our sun!"
The muscles of Sparik's face tightened. "You were going to bring your planet inside Federation territory? At the suggestion of the Courteous of Ghoor, I suppose."
