He awoke in near-darkness. A pattern of dim light filtered through coarse matting to show him a low ceiling which merged with a wall of water-worn stone. A wizened, bristly-whiskered face appeared, staring down at him. He sat up, winced at the ache in his head; the face retreated hastily. This specimen didn't appear to be vicious—but where was the scar-faced Gargantua?
"Better lie quiet," the old man said in a cracked, whispery voice. "Ye've had a bad bump."
"You speak English!" Roger blurted.
"Reckon I do," the man nodded. "Bimbo had ye, using ye for a play-purty. Ye was lucky he happened to be in a good mood when he found ye. I drug ye in here when he was through with ye."
"Thanks a lot," Roger said. He was discovering new pains with every move. "How did I get this bruise on my side?"
"That was when Bimbo throwed ye down and jumped on ye."
"What happened to my elbow? Both elbows?"
"Must have been when Bimbo was dragging ye around by the heels."
"I guess I lost the hide on my seat at the same time."
"Nope. That was when I hauled ye in here. Too heavy to lift. But don't fret. Tomorrow ain't too far off."
"Glad to see you're a philosopher." Roger's eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom. The oldster, he saw, was dressed in a dark blue nautical uniform.
"Who are you?" Roger asked. "How did you get here, in the same place with Bimbo?"
"Name's Luke Harwood. Can't rightly say how I got here. Just came ashore to try out my land legs and must of got into some bad rum. Last I remember was heading outside for some fresh air. I woke up here." He sighed. "Guess it's the Lord's punishment for that little business in Macao back in ought nine."
"Would that be . . . nineteen nine?"
"Golly, you don't look that old; but I suppose you were a nipper at the time."
"Well—I sometimes was knowed to take a snort, in good company. But I was never drunk a day in my life. I figger I was hit on the head. Can't rightly say whether I was kilt outright or lingered awhile."
"Where were you when you were, ah, alive?"
"Little place name of Pottsville."
"The same town! But . . . in those days there wasn't any bus station!"
"Don't follow ye there, feller."
"But it was probably the spot where the station was built later! That means the Aperture has been there for years and years! It could be the explanation of some of these mysterious disappearances you hear about, where people step around the corner and are never heard from again."
"I bet they're wondering what become of me," Luke said sadly. "Hardnose Harwood, they used to call me. Set yer watch by me. Never thought I'd end up a ship-jumper."
"Listen, Mr. Harwood, we've got to get out of here."
"Can't do it," Harwood said flatly. "I've tried, lad—many's the time. But there's no way out."
"Certainly there is! The same way you came in! It's down by the river. If you can show me the way to where I met Bimbo . . . "
"You ain't making sense, boy. Once ye're dead and in Purgatory, ye're in for life!"
"I suppose after searching for the exit for sixty years and not finding it, it's hard to believe," Roger conceded, "but—"
"What sixty years?" Harwood frowned.
"The sixty years you've been here, since you arrived as a small boy."
"Ye lost yer rudder, feller? I been here twenty-one days tomorrow!"
"Well—I suppose we can figure that part out later." Roger dismissed the chronology. "But listen—where's Bimbo now?"
"Sleeping off chow in his den down the line, most likely. Bimbo's like the weather: same every day."
"Good; then we'll sneak past him, and—"
"Forget it, feller. Bimbo likes to find things where he left 'em."
"I don't care what he likes! I'm getting out before he kills me. Are you coming, or not?"
"Look here, boy, I taken ye aside to save ye some hard knocks by tipping ye off to the system! If ye know what's good for ye, ye'll—"
"It will be good for me to leave—now," Roger said. "So long, Mr. Harwood. It was nice knowing you."
"Stubborn, ain't ye?" The sailor grunted. "Well, seein's ye're determined, I reckon I'll go along and watch the fun. Now remember—when Bimbo catches ye, don't kick around. That jest riles him."
Stealthily, the two lifted the bamboo mat aside and peered out into the dusty sunshine. The cave, Roger saw, opened onto a rock-strewn ledge above a steep slope shelving down to woodland. It was a long drop; the tops of the great trees barely reached the level of the cave mouth.
Harwood led the way on tiptoe along the ledge. At the entrance to a second, larger cave, he paused, glanced quickly inside.
"Curious," he said. "He ain't here. Wonder where he's at?"
Roger went past him to a sharp angle in the path, edged around it—and was face to face with Bimbo.
"Oh," Harwood said as Roger reappeared around the corner, tucked under the ape-man's shaggy arm. "I see ye found him."
"Don't just stand there!" Roger bleated. "Do something!"
"Thanks for reminding me," Harwood said. He turned and dashed off at top speed. Instantly, Bimbo dropped Roger and lumbered in pursuit. It was a short chase, since the ledge ended after forty feet in a jumble of fallen rock.
"Now, Bimbo"—Harwood scrambled backward, grabbed up a jagged chunk of stone—"ye restrain yerself! Remember last time. That smarted some, didn't it, when I busted ye in the lip?"
Bimbo, unintimidated, closed in, yowled when the thrown missile smacked into his wide face; he grabbed Harwood, and proceeded to flail him against the ground. Roger staggered to his feet, caught up a stout length of oak branch, rushed up behind the ape-man, and brought the club down with all his strength on the bullet head. Bimbo ignored the blow, and the three that followed. The fourth seemed to annoy him. He dropped Harwood and whirled. Roger jumped, found a handhold, scrambled up, looked back to see Bimbo's outstretched hand clutch the rock inches from his heels. He kicked at the raking fingers, then scaled another ten feet of rock, pulled himself up onto flat ground. Already Bimbo's rasping breath and scuffling hands were audible just below. Roger looked around hastily for a missile, saw nothing he could use as a weapon. He turned and ran as the furious troll face rose into view.
For the first two hundred paces, Roger sprinted at his best speed through open woods directly away from the starting point, careless of noise, acutely aware of Bimbo's crashing progress behind him. In the momentary shelter of a shallow depression, he made a right-angle turn, ran on as silently as possible, emerging after a few hundred feet into open ground with a distant view of mountains. For a moment his heart sank—but in the desert, too, the apparent vista had stretched for miles. He hadn't lost yet. He ran on, conscious of the hopelessness of his exposed position if Bimbo should suspect the change of course too soon.
He was close to exhaustion when he counted off the last few yards of what he hoped would prove to be a closed circle. And there ahead was the hollow where he had changed direction. He dropped flat behind a bush to catch his breath, listening to the sounds of breaking brush and the hoarse bellows of the frustrated Bimbo threshing about in the underbrush well off to the right. His wind recovered, Roger retraced his steps to the bluff above the cave. Below, a dozen heavy, shaggy half-men had emerged from concealment. They stood in a ragged circle around Luke Harwood, who was sitting up, holding his side.
Roger swung over the edge, scrambled quickly down to the ledge. At sight of him, the brute-men scattered, disappearing into the innumerable hollows in the rock. With the exception of Bimbo, it appeared, the brutal appearance of the creatures concealed timorous natures. Harwood tottered to his feet, dusty and disheveled, dabbing ineffectually at a bloody nose.
"Ye shouldn't have done it, lad! He hates to have anybody interfere with him when he's having fun!"
"I missed a swell chance to finish him," Roger said between gasps of breath. "I should have climbed up and rolled a rock down on him."
"Ahhh," Harwood demurred. "Killing him really gets his dander up. I killed him three times before I gave it up. If ye'd squashed him I dread to think o' the consequences. Now, give yerself up, man! Wait here and take what comes like a man! It can't last forever—though he's learned to be sly about it, to stretch it out till sundown. But tomorrow will come at last, and unless ye've angered him beyond measure, he'll have forgot by then!"
"Never mind tomorrow. Come on; I've thrown him off the scent for the moment."
A hoarse bellow sounded from the clifftop above.
"He's found yer trail," Harwood hissed. "Ye're in for it—unless . . . " There was speculation in his eyes. "Down by the creek, ye say?"
"Which way down?" Roger snapped.
"Come along," Harwood said. "I guess I owe ye that much."
Five minutes later Roger and Harwood stood beside the small stream which flowed through the wooded ground below the cliff, all that remained of the mighty flow which, ages ago, had carved the gorge.
"There was a nice stand of timber at the spot I'm looking for," Roger said. "A big elm, a yard in diameter, about ten feet from the bank—"
"White pebbles in the bottom?" Harwood cut in.
The sound of Bimbo's crashing approach came clearly to their ears as they hurried along the bank. It was no more than a minute before Roger halted, looking around.
"This is the place," he said. "I was right at the water's edge, with a big pine at my back." He stepped to the tree, pulled aside the low-growing boughs, squinting into the deep shade.
"I don't see nothing," Harwood muttered. "Looky, if we go back now and give ourselves up, maybe it'll take the edge off his temper."
"It's here," Roger said. "It's got to be here!"
"I don't know about that," Harwood said. "But Bimbo's here!"
"Keep him occupied!" Roger urged as the giant burst into view, puffing like a switch engine.
"Sure." Harwood's tone was not without an edge of sarcasm. "I'll trick him into pulling my legs off one at a time; that'll hold his attention fer a minute or two."
Suddenly there was a crackling of twigs and a swishing of leaves to Roger's left. A pair of segmented metallic tubes were groping about as though testing the air. A bulge of dusty red swelled into view, followed by the remainder of the headless body of the monster Roger had last seen in the desert.
"Cornered!" Roger gasped. "And I was so close . . . "
The alien being swiveled its lone eye about, failed to notice Roger lurking in the shadowy greenery. It pushed forward, emerged onto the riverbank a few feet behind Luke Harwood, who was making pushing motions toward the advancing Bimbo. The latter paused, his tiny red eyes flicking from the men to the monster, which stood jouncing on its spidery legs, waving its upper members uncertainly. The motion appeared to annoy Bimbo; he bellowed and charged straight past the astonished Harwood and on into the foliage as the alien bounded aside.
"Luke! This way!" Roger yelled as he lunged for the Aperture. Harwood, imagining the ape-man to be on his heels, sprang for the cover offered. Roger caught his arm, dragged him with him toward the line of light, which widened, flashed around the pair, and vanished as darkness closed in.
"Land sakes!" Luke muttered. "Where in tarnation are we?"
"I don't know—but at least there's no shellfire," Roger said. He felt around him, sniffled, shuffled his feet. He was standing on a hard-surfaced road, under a starry night sky. Wind moved softly in treetops; a cricket shrilled. Far away a train hooted sorrowfully.
"Maybe it's a house," Roger said. "Maybe . . . maybe we're Outside!"
"Yippee," Luke caroled. "Just wait'll the boys back on the poop deck hear about this! Ye reckon they'll believe me?"
"You'd better prepare for a shock," Roger said. "Frankly, there've been a few changes . . . "
"Trouble is, I got no proof," Luke said. "In the last three weeks I had two broken arms, a busted leg, six split lips, goshamighty knows how many busted ribs and bruises, lost six teeth, and been beat to death four times—and not even a blood blister to prove it!"
"You'll have to curb your tendency to exaggerate," Roger said. "We might be able to sell our story to the newspapers for a tidy sum, but not if you carry on like that."
"Funny thing is," Luke said, "there ain't nothing much to it—getting kilt, I mean. Just blap! And then you're waking up and starting all over."
"I suppose Bimbo is enough to unhinge anybody," Roger muttered sympathetically. "But let's not think about that part now, Mr. Harwood. Let's go find a telephone and start shopping around for a publisher."
Five minutes' walk brought them to the source of the gleam. It was a lighted window in a converted farmhouse, standing high and white above a slope of black lawn. The two men followed the flower-bordered drive—two strips of concrete, somewhat cracked but still serviceable—to a set of brick steps leading up onto the wide porch. Roger knocked. There was no response. He knocked again, louder. This time he thought he heard uncertain footsteps.
"Who . . . who's there?" a frightened female voice came from inside.
"My name is Tyson, ma'am," Roger called to the closed door. "I wonder if I might use your phone?"
A bolt clicked; the door opened half an inch. A woman's face appeared—at least one large, dark eye and the tip of her nose. For a moment she stared at him; then the door swung back. The woman—slim, middle-aged, still pretty—swayed as if she were about to fall. Roger stepped quickly forward, caught her elbow.
"Yes—I—I—I—it's just . . . I thought . . . I was the only one left in the world!" She collapsed into his arms, weeping hysterically.
Half an hour later, their hostess restored to calm, they were seated at a table in the kitchen, sipping hot coffee and exchanging reports.
"So—I just settled down and made the best of it," Mrs. Withers said. "I guess it's been the most restful three months of my life."
"How have you managed?" Roger asked. "I mean for food."
Mrs. Withers went to the brown wooden ice-box, opened it.
"Every morning it's full again," she said. "The same things: the three slices of ham, the half-dozen eggs, the bottle of milk, some lettuce, left-overs. And there are the canned goods. I've eaten the same can of creamed corn forty times." A smile twitched at her face. "Luckily, I like creamed corn."
"And the ice?" Roger pointed at the half-melted block in the bottom compartment.
"It melts every day and every morning it's whole again. And the flowers: I cut them every day and bring them in and the next morning they're back outside, growing on the same stems. And once I cut myself on a can. It was a deep cut, but in the morning it was gone, not even a scar. At first, I tore a page off the calendar every day, but it came back. It never changes, you see. Nothing changes. The sky is the same, the same weather, even the same clouds. It's always the same day: August seventeenth, nineteen thirty-one."
"Actually . . . " Roger began.
"Skip it, son," Luke whispered behind his hand. "If she gets any comfort out of thinking it's twenty-two years in the future, let her."
"What would you say if I told you it was nineteen eighty-seven?"
"I'd say your mainstay's parted, son."
"I'd argue with you," Roger said. "Except that I wouldn't want my suspicions along those lines confirmed."
"What's happened, Mr. Tyson? What does it mean?" Mrs. Withers asked.
"We've fallen into a trap of some sort," Roger said. "It may be a natural phenomenon or an artificial one, but it has rules and limitations. We already know a few of them."
"Yes," Mrs. Withers nodded. "You did come here—from somewhere. Can we go back?"
"You wouldn't like it there," Roger said. "But I don't think we'll land in the same place. I haven't so far. There seems to be a series of these cages, all joined at one point—a sort of fourth-dimensional manifold. When we leave here, we'll probably step into another cell. But I'm hoping we'll eventually find ourselves outside."
"Mr. Tyson—may . . . may I go with you?"
"You can come along if you like," Roger agreed.
"I want to," Mrs. Withers. "But you will wait until morning?"
"I'll be glad of a night's sleep," Roger sighed. "I can't remember the last one I had."
Lying in a clean bed in a cozy room half an hour later, Roger looked at his watch. 12:20. There was no reason, of course, to expect that an arbitrarily designated midnight should have any special significance in terms of the physical laws now governing things, but nonetheless . . .
There had been no physical shock, no sound, no change in the light. But something had happened. At 12:21 precisely, Roger noted the time. He looked around the room, in the almost total darkness saw nothing out of the ordinary. He went to the bed where Luke Harwood lay, bent to look at the man's face.
The scratches were gone. Roger touched his own bruised side, winced.
"It's a closed cycle, in time as well as space," he murmured. "Everything reverts to the state it was in twenty-four hours earlier—all but me. I'm different; my bruises collect. That being the case, let's hope tomorrow is an easier day than this one."