Since the quaint Mr. Skarn remained outside, and since the servants were busily engaged in supplying the refreshment tables—without, however, neglecting to keep the upstairs door locked—the guests pried into all of the strange, empty closets, marveled at the thick doors, and congregated in large numbers around the center door that looked exactly like the others but refused to open.
Upstairs in the laboratory, Dork disgustedly watched their antics in a viewer and kept a sharp eye on his humming instruments; and at the end of the day he announced to Skarn that they had collected sufficient data.
The last of the guests had departed, the servants had restored a semblance of order and wearily headed homeward, and Skarn and Dork relaxed on hassocks in the laboratory and studied the information that drifted slowly across a wall screen.
“These creatures are little more than animals,” Dork declared. “But then, that was precisely what I expected. Consider their hideous patches of hair, and their odors, and the fact that they occasionally kill one another, individually or collectively. They hate, they are dominated by greed and jealousy, and I’d say that they’re totally lacking in wisdom. Most of all, they lust. They sicken me—every one of them. I didn’t find a single worthy creature in the entire pack.”
Skarn was attempting to smoke a cigar. His natural bluish tint had deepened to a violent purple, and he felt ill. He coughed out a cloud of smoke and regarded the cigar warily.
“Then our task should be a simple one,” he remarked.
“You,” Dork exclaimed, “are fully as disgusting as these natives! Must you do that?”
“It is important that we understand the ways of these creatures,” Skarn said complacently.
“Surely we can understand them without degrading ourselves!”
Skarn deposited the cigar butt in an ashtray. A touch of a button and it disappeared. The apparent ingenuity of the device, and its basic crudeness, delighted him.
“Whatever else these creatures may be,” he said, “they are not simple.” He reached for another cigar.
“I tested the Door this morning with the servants,” Dork said.
Skarn whirled about incredulously, dropping his cigar. “Without consulting me?”
“It rejected them. I’ve noticed how they try to open it, now and then, perhaps thinking we may have left it unlocked. So, while they were arranging the food, I activated the Door. Both of them tried it”
“Of course!” Skarn said scornfully. “Why do you think I had this house built? These creatures are intelligent. That means they are curious. There isn’t one of them, young or old, who wouldn’t attempt to open my mysterious Door if he had a chance. But I want this understood—I am in charge of this assignment. The Door is not to be activated except by my orders.”
Dork’s eyes gleamed hatred, but he gestured indifferently. “How many glims do we sit around waiting for you to make up your mind?”
“We must proceed cautiously. If the Door had accepted one servant with the other present—”
“What does it matter? We can make our own departure as soon as we’ve found a specimen. We’ll leave nothing that would reveal our origin.”
“No,” Skarn said. “We must not attract suspicion to ourselves. There must be no witnesses when the Door accepts a specimen. And after that we must wait a suitable period of time so that our departure will not be connected with the disappearance. These creatures may some day learn to transmit themselves. We must not leave an impression that they have enemies on other worlds. Those are stern orders from His Imperial Highness himself.”
“So what do you propose to do?”
Skarn unlocked his desk and removed an enormous stack of papers. He plunked it onto the floor, restacked it when it toppled over, and sat back regarding it wearily.
“I located a peculiarly functioning organization called a detective agency. It is furnishing me with detailed reports on these creatures. We need only to study each report and ask ourselves, is this subject humble? Is he wise? Is he the head of a family? And so on. We shall select the few who seem best-qualified and invite them, one at a time, to be our guests. Their curiosity will impel them to try the Door. It will certainly accept one of them. After a suitable waiting period to divert suspicion from ourselves, we can dispose of this dwelling and leave.”
“It is well arranged,” Dork conceded enviously. “But what a frightful bother just to capture a specimen for old Kegor!”
The Door’s instruments—those Skarn and Dork were familiar with—reacted normally to the open house guests. Those with which they were not familiar reacted, but normally or not they could not say. They tested the transmitter relay, sending through a stray dog, a cat, and an assortment of live creatures that Skarn obtained from a neighboring farmer.
The Director of the Royal Museum responded promptly. All specimens received in excellent condition and already on display. His Imperial Majesty highly pleased. Now—where was the specimen of the intelligent creature?
Skarn advised the Director to expect it momentarily. He closed the Door and attached a small metal plate that advised, “Push.” He activated it and stood nearby, listening to the barely perceptible purring of the instruments. He cautiously tested it on himself and found that it would not open. Everything was ready.
With Dork, he spent hours sifting through the stack of reports. Three-fourths of the citizens were eliminated immediately, a figure that Skarn thought spoke well for these natives. The remaining fourth they studied, compared and debated. They reduced their list to a hundred names, to fifty, and finally to ten. Each of the ten they compared conscientiously with the maxims of the Great Kom. In the end they had four names.
“I don’t think this was necessary,” Dork said. “But perhaps you are right. This may be the more efficient approach. Certainly the Door will accept any of these.”
Skarn nodded and shuffled the reports. He was learning to smoke a pipe, and already the effort had cost him five teeth. New teeth had not yet grown in, and his gums pained him as he grimly mouthed the pipestem.
Whenever he used his hand to support the pipe’s bowl, he burned himself. He bit down hard on the stem, winced painfully, removed it. His attempted smoke ring poured forth in a turbulent cloud.
He read the four reports again. The Honorable Ernest Schwartz, Mayor of Centertown. Married. He and his wife hated each other devoutly. He had no children, no family dependent upon him. There were multitudinous rumors about him, to be gleaned everywhere in Centertown and environs. He was a liar. He was also a thief. He had betrayed the trust of his office repeatedly to enrich himself. He had betrayed his friends. He was greedy and evil and held affection for no one. He had carried on what the natives boorishly called love affairs with the wives of his friends, and pushed his own wife into an affair for his political advantage. He seemed to bewitch the voters at election time.
Skarn frowned. Election time? He would have to investigate that. Whatever it meant bewitching the voters seemed an immoral thing to do.
He turned to the next report. Sam White, Centertown Chief of Police. A bachelor with no known relatives. He kept his job, it was said, by cooperating with the mayor’s crooked schemes. Some of his police officers called him a petty tyrant. He was adept at obtaining confessions. He had several times been accused of brutality toward prisoners.
Jim Adams, the Centertown drunk. He never worked, lived off his wife’s meager earnings, and beat his wife and family mercilessly, drunk or sober. Technically he was the head of a family; in actuality his family would be far better off without him.