His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

"Yes," he says, breaking into a cold sweat. "But look—it's awfully important that I don't die for a few minutes at least. Someone told me that horse couldn't lose, and I needed the money. I took my chances, I know. But will you let me off for just ten minutes while I wind up my work?"

"Ten minutes," I brood. "Okay, doc. But no funny business. And you don't step out of this lab."

"Thank you, Mr. Reilly," he gasps, wiping his brow. "You can trust me."

So then he goes puttering around his machinery, taping wires together, plugging light-cords in, tinkering up coils and connecting radio tubes and things. And I kept my eye on him and the clock. After a while I remind him, "Four minutes to go, doc. How about it?"

"I'll be ready," he answers, not looking up, even. "I'll be ready. Just this one interphasometer reading—will you look at this, please—my eyes—

it's a very small dial—"

"Waddya want? Be specific," I says.

He freezes up as he sees my gun again. "Just tell me what number this needle is resting on, please. That's all I have to know."

"Okay. This dial?" He nods, so I casually put my gun in his side and bend over to look. It was a seven. "Lucky seven, doc," I says. "And I think your time's up. Turn around, please."

"Seven," he broods, seeming to forget all about me. "So it checks. The number proves it." Then, quick like a fox, he spins around and throws himself at a switch. Startled, I blazes away with the roscoe and some glass breaks.

"Look out!" yells Doc Ellenbogan. "You'll be caught—" And then I sees that there's something awful solid and black turning and growing in the middle of a piece of machinery. "Gas!" I thinks, whipping out a handkerchief and clamping it over my nose. I aimed straight at the doc this time, before running. But then the black thing explodes in one big rush and I'm flat on my back.

"I'm sorry I had to get you involved," says Ellenbogan. "How do you feel?" Then I see that I'm lying down inhaling smelling-salts that the doc is holding. Like a flash I reaches for my heater. But it's gone, of course.

Then I guess I says some nasty things to the doc, on account of even the Frank V. Coviccio West Side Social and Athletic Club don't use gas. And you know what louses they are.

"Don't misunderstand, please," says the doc with remarkable self-control, considering the names I applied to him. "Don't misunderstand.

I have your gun, and I'll give it back to you as soon as you understand clearly what has happened. Where, for instance, do you think you are?"

And there's something in his voice that makes me sit up and take notice. So help me, we ain't in his lab or anywhere near Columbia University that I can see. So I ask him what's cooking.

"The fourth dimension," he says, cold and quiet. So I look again. And this time I believe him. Because the sky, what there was of it, is the blackest black you could ever hope to see, and not a star in sight. The ground is kind of soft, and there's no grass to speak of, except a kind of hairy stuff in tufts. And I still don't know how we can see each other, the doc and me, because there isn't any light at all. He glows and so do I, I guess—anyway, that's what it looks like. "Okay, doc," I says. "I'll take your word for it."

So what does he do? He hands me back my gun! I check the roscoe for condition and aim it. "Mr. Reilly!" he says sharply. "What are you intending to do now?"

"Plug you like I was supposed to do," I reply. And instead of looking worried he only smiles at me as if I'm a worm or something. "Surely," he says, gentle and sweet, "there wouldn't be any point to that, would there?"

"I dunno about that, doc. But Lucco would damage me real bad if I didn't do the job I'm supposed to. So that's the way it is, I guess. You ready?"

"Look, Mr. Reilly," he snaps. "I don't take you for an especially bright person, but surely you must realize that this is neither the time nor the place for carrying out your plans. I don't want to lose my temper, but if you ever want to get back to your own world you'd better not kill me just yet. While I appreciate your professional attitude, I assure you that it would be the height of folly to do anything except take my orders. I have no weapons, Mr. Reilly, but I have a skull full of highly speciallized information and techniques which will be more valuable to you personally than my cadaver. Let's reach an understanding now, shall we?"

So I thinks it over. And Ellenbogan's right, of course. "Okay, doc," says little Matt. "I'm on your staff. Now tell me when do we eat—and what?"

"Try some of that grass," he says. "It looks nutritious." I picks a bunch of the grass and drop it in a hurry. The crazy stuff twists and screams like it was alive. "That was a bum steer, doc," I says. "Many more of those and we may part company abrupt-like. What about food and water?"

And the minute I think of water I get thirsty. You know how it is.

"There should be people around," he mutters looking over his shoulder.