1
Rollin Hobart looked up from his flow charts through the haze of smoke and said: “Come in.” When the door opened, he added: “Hello, George.” Pause. “Didn’t you say something about bringing a friend?”
George Prince answered the hello. He was a young man of no great importance either in the world wherein he lived or in this story, so there is no point in describing him. He added: “He’ll be along. My gosh, Rolly, don’t you ever do anything in the evenings but work?”
“Sometimes. Who’s this friend?”
“His name’s Hoimon.”
“Hermann?”
“No, Hoimon. H-O-I-M-O-N.”
“Hoimon what? Or what Hoimon?”
“Nothing; just Hoimon. H-O-”
Hobart gestured impatiently. “Heard you the first time. What is he?”
“He calls himself an ascetic.”
Rollin Hobart frowned, or rather the already permanent crease between his eyebrows deepened. He was a rangy, large-boned man, young but not very, with slick blond hair, a narrow straight nose, and narrow straight lips. “Listen, George, I’m sorry but I haven’t time to admire your eccentric friends. I’ve got to figure how to save these guys three-quarters of a cent per ton.”
Prince answered: “This one’s different. You’ll see. Oh, by the way, have you changed your mind about the party tomorrow night yet?”
“Nope. I told you, work.”
“Oh my gosh. You don’t go anywhere anymore.” Prince shrugged hopelessly. “I suppose that now the strike-breaking business isn’t so hot—”
Hobart straightened angrily. “Higgins and Hobart are not strike-breakers. I thought I explained—”
“How about that—”
“It isn’t our fault if our investigator exceeded his instructions. It was his idea to hire those—”
“Yeah,” interrupted Prince, “but you and Higgins knew Karsen was a hard egg when you took him on. So you’re partly responsible for that riot—”
“Not at all. You know the judge decided, when Karsen sued us because the strikers had knocked out all his teeth, that he hadn’t been acting as our agent at the time.”
Prince laughed. “That was the funniest darn thing—”
Hobart grinned wryly. “To you, maybe, but not to those on the inside. The company lost business, the strikers lost their pay, we lost our fee and the legal expenses, and Karsen lost his teeth. My point just was we were legally cleared, so we’re not strikebreakers. Q.E.D. We’re consulting engineers, and it’s only natural that our clients should consult us about their labor-relations problems.”
Prince replied: “The trouble with you, Rolly, is that you’re a black-and-white thinker; everything either is so or it isn’t. That’s Aristotelian logic, which has been long since exploded. You’d make a good Communist if you hadn’t got started in life as a shellback conservative—”
Hobart gave up all effort to concentrate on his engineering figures and pitched into his friend: “You’re the black-and-white thinker, my lad. Because I accidentally get associated with a strike-breaker, I hate the poor toiling masses; and from the fact that I think that permanently unbalanced budgets mean trouble either for individuals or government, you infer I’m a hidebound reactionary! The trouble with you guys who dabble in social theories is that you invent a lot of pretty laws and expect the world to conform to them—”
“I only said—” interrupted Prince. But Hobart, once started, was not so easily stopped.
“And you’re wrong about Aristotelian logic’s being exploded,” he continued in an authoritative rasp. “All that’s happened is that it’s been recognized as a special case of the more general forms of logic, just as plane trigonometry is a special case of spherical. That doesn’t mean it’s useless; it’s just more limited in its application than was once thought. We could hardly conceive a world where Aristotelian two-value logic did apply generally; for instance everything would have to be red or not red, so nothing would be pink or vermillion . . .”
“Speaking of which, my friend—”
“I’m not through, George. Matter of fact, Plato did have some glimmering of the concepts of continuity and multiple causation, which Aristotle missed. If Plato hadn’t been so full of foggy idealistic mysticism—what’s that about your friend?”
George Prince, caught off-balance, took a few seconds to get back in his groove. He finally said: “Well—uh—it’s kind of hard to explain. I don’t know him very well, and I don’t really believe in him yet. But if you see him, too, he must be real.”
Hobart frowned, “I should think so. But what’s the matter—seeing things? Too many hot rums?”
“Yes and no. I see him, but the question is am I seeing something that’s really there?”
“That ought to be easy,” said Hobart with an impatient gesture. “Either he’s there or he isn’t—”
“There you go!” cried Prince triumphantly. “Either—or! I knew—uh—come in!”
They stared at the door, which opened to reveal a gaunt old man with unkempt white whiskers. This individual wore an overcoat that Hobart recognized as belonging to his friend Prince. As far as one could tell, that was all the oldster had on; below its hem extended a pair of hairy shanks ending in large calloused bare feet. He carried a rectangular wooden object with hinges and snaps, about the size of a suitcase.
Hobart asked Prince: “Is—this—your—Mr. Hoi-mon?”
The apparition himself answered in bell-like tones: “It is true, O man, that my temporal name is Hoimon. But kindly do not use the term ‘mister.’ I am informed that it is derived from ‘master.’ Such an epithet is most repugnant to my humility; I do not wish to have superiority over any living thing ascribed to me.”
“Well,” said Rollin Hobart, flustered for the first time in a couple of years. “George, what’s—”
“Hoimon will explain, Rolly,” answered Prince.
Hoimon smiled a sweet, patient smile. “May I,” he tolled, “recline?”
“Uh—oh, sure!”
The old man unsnapped the clasps of his wooden contraption and unfolded it, whereat it was seen to be a collapsible bed of nails or spikes. Hoimon set the thing down with a solid wooden sound, shucked off the overcoat (under which he wore a towel-like piece of textile around his middle) and settled himself at length on the spikes with a luxurious sigh.
For some seconds he sprawled silently. His eyes swept Hobart’s room, taking in the shelves of textbooks, the adding machine, the large iron dumbbells, and the photograph of Frederick Winslow Taylor on the wall.
When he spoke, it was to Prince: “O George,” he said, “is this man indeed possessed of a keen and logical mind?”
“Keenest and logicalest I know,” replied Prince. “One of M.I.T.’s best. Least, when it’s something he’s interested in. Outside his special fields you’ll find him a bit narrow-minded. F’rinstance, he thinks Thomas Dewey’s a wild radical.”
Hoimon waved aside the question of Mr. Dewey’s radicalism. He asked: “Is he intact physically?”
“If you mean is he healthy, yes. I think he’s had his appendix yanked—”
“Look here,” snapped the subject of the discourse, “what the hell’s the idea—”
Hoimon ignored him, and spoke again to Prince: “And his departure would not wreak grievous harm or sorrow on those near him?”
“Guess not. Some of his friends would say they wished old Rolly was around to lend his crushing ironies to the conversation, but they wouldn’t go into a decline on account of him being gone. He’s a good, steady sort of guy, but not exactly gemuetlich.”
Hobart cleared his throat, and interjected: “What my misguided young friend means, Mr. Hoimon, is that I value my independence.”
Hoimon gave him merely a brief glance, and inquired of Prince: “He has, then, no wives or offspring?”
“My gosh no! You ought to hear him on the subject—”
Rollin Hobart, who had been polishing his glasses in a marked manner, now interrupted: “George, I admit you pique my curiosity with this ingenious nonsense. But I’ve got work to do; this defense boom isn’t going to last forever, and Higgins and I have got to make hay. When I want a character analysis I’ll go to a psychia—”
“He is also, I see,” boomed Hoimon, “a person of strong and determined character. He will do, I think. But one more thing: Is he adept at the solution of paradoxes?”
Prince looked blank; Hobart frowned, then grinned a little. The engineer remarked: “Now how did you know I was a puzzler? Hobby of mine, as a matter of fact.” He picked a small white magazine entitled The Enigma out of a pile and handed it to Hoimon. “I was president of the National Puzzler’s League last year. Haven’t time for that sort of stuff now, though. What is it I’ll ‘do’ for? Solving a paradox?”
“Precisely,” responded Hoimon. “It is without doubt by the providence of Nois that I was led to the one man in the three-answer world who can best assist us. Arise, O Rollin, and come with me to Logaia. There is not a minute of your finite time to be lost!”
“What the hell?” scowled Hobart. “What sort of gag—”
“I have no intention of gagging you,” said Hoimon, folding his bed of spikes. He turned piercing blue eyes on Hobart. “Do not haver and quibble, O Rollin. The life of the fairest, wisest, and best depends on you. Already the androsphinx draws nigh unto the Stump of Sacrifice.”
“But!” cried Hobart. “What’s Logaia, who’s this fairest etcetera, what’s—”
“All will become clear,” said Hoimon calmly. Though he was standing a good ten feet away, his free arm shot across the room like a chameleon’s tongue and grabbed Hobart by the coat collar of the latter’s conservative brown business suit. The indignant Rollin was hoisted out of his chair and across his desk. He swung a pair of knobby fists, but Hoimon held him dangling just out of reach.
“George!” yelled Hobart. “Stop him! Get a cop! He’s a nut!”
Prince registered indecision. He said: “Hey, Hoimon, if he doesn’t want to go, you got no right—”
“That will do, O George,” rumbled Hoimon. “It is not for you to judge. It is but natural that one of his character should resist. Waste not your breath in shouting, as this room is now part of Logaia. By my spiritual perfection I have caused it to be so, temporarily.”
Prince stepped across to the window and looked out. He turned a blankly dismayed face. “Hey, there isn’t anything outside!”
“Of course not,” said the ascetic, dodging an extra-long punch that Hobart threw at him. “Will you open the door, O George, as my hands are occupied?”
“Well—I—”
“Open it!” roared Hoimon.
Prince obeyed, asking hesitantly: “Hey, Hoimon, how can a skinny old guy like you do it?”
Hoimon replied: “My strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure. Farewell, O George. Danger awaits your friend, but also opportunity. We go!”
“Help!” screamed Hobart. “My glasses!”
“You have them on, O Rollin.” And the ascetic, with the folding bed of nails dangling from his left hand and a struggling Rollin Hobart at arm’s length from his right, marched out the door.
###
As the darkness closed around him, Rollin Hobart tried to slip out of his coat. But Hoimon had gathered a considerable fold of shirt and vest into his iron grip. Hobart felt for the ascetic’s fingers and tried to wrench them apart, but he might as well have tried to twist the tail of one of the New York Public Library’s lions.
The environment through which he was being hauled was not the hallway outside his spic three-roomer, but a dark tunnel. The light from the door of his living room picked out sides and roof of rock. Then his feeble illumination went out sharply, as though George had closed the door. Hobart thought of the folly of keeping up with lightweight friends whose sole virtue was that they were fun to argue with.
Hobart continued his struggles long after it was obvious that they were getting him nowhere. When he finally stopped kicking and clawing it was from exhaustion. His relaxation allowed his mind to take in the implication of the tunnel.
He gasped: “What the hell—is—this, the fourth dimension?”
Hoimon spoke softly behind him: “Talk not, O Rollin, lest you draw the cavefolk nigh.”
“Oh, is that so? Well, you answer my questions or I’ll raise a hell of a holler!” Hobart filled his lungs to shout.
Hoimon conceded: “In that case I must speak, lest you ignorantly bring disaster upon yourself. Not that the cavefolk would harm me, but you—”
“All right, get to the point! What’s the idea of this kidnapping?”
Hoimon sighed. “I fear you resent the high-handed tactics I was forced to use—”
“You’re damn tootin’ I resent ’em! The F.B.I.’s going to hear about this! Now what—”
“I had to use force, and therefore, unless you abandon your hostility, I shall be forced to punish myself, oh, most grievously, for having laid constraint upon a living creature. I should not have considered a course so out of keeping with my humility, had it not been necessary in order to avert a greater evil. Know, O Rollin, that by the ancient curse laid on the Kings of Logaia—hark!”
Hoimon broke off, and Hobart kept his silence for the nonce. Through the darkness came a shrill sound, like the highest note of a violin; a spine-tickling cry.
“The cavefolk!” breathed Hoimon. “Now we must hasten. If I put you down, will you accompany me in orderly fashion? You cannot return to you own world in any case.”
“I’ll walk,” grumbled Hobart. “What d’you do, unscramble the dimensions?”
“As I am no scholar, I cannot fathom your talk of dimensions. All I know is that by purity of heart I have acquired powers, said to have been possessed by certain philosophers of yore, of visiting strange universes like yours, where the laws of reason hold not and nought is what it seems.”
“What d’you mean, the laws of reason don’t hold?”
“In your world the earth appears to stand still while the sun goes around it, but I was assured on good authority that the reverse is the case. In Logaia, when the sun seems to go around the earth, it really does so. Let there be more progress and less talk.”
The shrill wail came again, lending more speed to Hobart’s legs than exhortations from his abductor would have done. A spot of daylight appeared ahead. Soon they arrived at the exit, and stood on the crest of the fan of detritus that spread out from the mouth of the tunnel. Hobart swiveled his head, blinking. The sun was high in the brilliantly blue heavens. All about were mountains, steep and conical, and somehow not quite right. After a few seconds Hobart saw what was wrong with them; they were too regular and too much alike. They reminded him of a lot of ice cream cones—that is, the cone part without the ice cream—placed upside down in regular rows on a flat table.
“Come,” said Hoimon. The ascetic bounded down a steep trail, swinging his folded bed of nails, his long white hair flapping behind him. Now that Hobart got a look at his kidnapper in daylight, he saw that the saintly slave-raider was not at all a clean person. But for a man of his apparent years he was uncommonly agile. Probably, thought Hobart, the result of some screwy diet of nuts and lettuce. The engineer followed, fascinated by the way the towel about Hoimon’s equator stayed in place by the most precarious of frictional holds.
They reached the bottom of the steep slope. The mountains were a phony-looking golden yellow; so was the scanty grass. An occasional shrub had leaves of a bright blue. Yes, blue, thought Hobart after a pause to peer. Well, if they were blue they were blue. He contemptuously dismissed the idea that he might be dreaming; fear of being insane never entered his mind. If he saw blue foliage with his own eyes, blue foliage there was, period.
There was a little flat space between the bottom of one cone and the next. Hoimon marched briskly along this, skirting mountain after mountain. Hobart, following, got his breath back after that run down the trail. He used it to demand to know, in slightly petulant tones, what was meant by all this nonsense about androsphinxes, Stumps of Sacrifice, and the rest.
Hoimon the ascetic dropped his folding bed beside a gnarly little tree with an unrealistic geometrical appearance; it reminded Hobart of somebody’s attempt to build an imitation tree out of lengths of pipe. They would call it a functionalistic or surrealistic tree, he thought, but nobody had ever persuaded him that a thing that neither looked, felt, nor acted like a tree could be made a tree by calling it such.
Hoimon took a grip on the pseudo-tree and broke it off close to the ground. Then he snapped the trunk across his knee to make a massive four-foot walking stick. He spoke: “We must hasten, O Rollin, leaving the full account for a more propitious time. Briefly, know that King Gordius of Logaia is bound by the curse to offer his first daughter to the androsphinx upon her coming of age. As His Altitude has been kind to us ascetics, I undertook to find a champion who would rescue the maiden. You, O Rollin, are he.” He set off briskly again, twirling his stick.
“Interesting if true,” groused Hobart. “But listen, mister, I never rescued a maiden from anything, unless you count the time my secretary got her head stuck in the waste basket.”
“So think you,” replied Hoimon serenely. “My search carried me through several universes, and nowhere . . .” His voice died and ceased sharply in Hobart’s ears as the engineer flattened himself against the side of one of the cones. Hoimon, continuing around the curve, was immediately out of sight. Hobart listened, then began to tiptoe off in the opposite direction.
“Ho!” came the ascetic’s deep voice around the curve. Rollin Hobart began to run. A muscular hand from nowhere came down on his back with staggering force, and gripped coat, vest, shirt, and a considerable fold of skin. Hobart yelped as he was jerked off his feet and whisked around the bend by an arm that had stretched out to a length of at least thirty feet to grab him.
The arm contracted to its normal length, and Hobart found himself looking into the ascetic’s melancholy eyes. Said Hoimon: “Little know you of Logaia, O Rollin, or you would not try to escape. If you remained in the mountains after sunset, the cavefolk—lest you try such a stupid trick again, you shall precede me. March!”
Hobart walked slowly, scowling. He protested: “Maybe you think this is fun, but I’ve got a job to get back to!” Hoimon gave him a push that almost sent him headlong.
“Hasten,” said the old man. “Now must I punish myself for using force on you.”
Hobart continued: “You’re impeding the defense program! My firm has some important contracts—”
Another push. “The loss of the State of Unity is the gain—Ah!” The last exclamation announced their exit from the mountains—just like that. There were no foothills. The two men emerged from the last pair of conical peaks, and then the country was as flat in front of them as a skating rink, except for a cluster of hemispherical domes of black rock off to the left.
The black domes rose from a vast expanse of flat pebbly ground, like an indefinite enlarged gravel driveway except that the gravel was a startling red.
Hobart supposed that from this tract’s lack of vegetation it should be called a desert, even though it did not look like any desert he had seen. It extended to a sharp, straight horizon, unbroken in front and to the left by any feature except the black hemispheres.
But to the right the landscape was something else. Thirty feet away began a fantastic jungle. Along a line as sharp as if it had been surveyed the red gravel gave way to blue moss, and from the moss rose tall, regularly spaced trees, everyone with an implausible even-tapering cylindrical trunk, apparently covered by black patent leather. The leaves were blue; some were circular, some elliptical, some other shapes, but all geometrically precise as though they had been cut out of blue paper to go into a store window display.
In fact, reflected Hobart, this whole garish landscape looked as if it had been laid out with drawing instruments either by a gifted child or by a draftsman who had gone insane on the subject of functional design.
He had hardly begun to absorb his surroundings when his attention was attracted by something else, which riveted his eyesight precisely because it was not built from a blueprint. “It” was a girl tied to a section of glossy black tree-trunk, sawn off at the top and planted in the gravel of the desert a few paces from the edge of the forest. As Hobart crunched unbidden over the pebbles toward the girl, he realized that she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“That,” came Hoimon’s voice behind him, “is the Princess Argimanda.”