"That," I says, "is fair enough—hey, doc! What're them babies doing?" I am referring to certain ungainly things like centipedes, but very much bigger, which are mounted by several people each. They loom up on the horizon like bats out of hell, not exactly luminous but—well, I see them and there isn't any light from anywhere to see them by. They must be luminous, I think.
"Protoplasm," he says, turning white as a sheet. "But whether friendly or enemy protoplasm I don't know. Better get out your gun. But don't fire until you're positive—utterly, utterly positive—that they mean us harm. Not if I can help it do we make needless enemies."
Up scuttles one of the four centipedes. The driver of the awful brute looks down. He is dressed in a kind of buckskin shirt, and he wears a big brown beard. "Hello," he says, friendly-like. "Where did you chaps drop from?"
Doc Ellenbogan rallies quick. He says, "We just got here. My name's Ellenbogan and this is Mr. Reilly."
"Hmm—Irish," says the gent in the buckskins. I notice that he has an English accent. "Wanta make sumpn of it?" I ask, patting the roscoe.
"No—sorry," he says with a bright smile. "Let me introduce myself. I'm Peter DeManning, hereditary Knight of the Cross of Britain and possibly a Viscount. Our heraldry and honors got very confused about the fourth generation. We're descended from Lord DeManning, who came over way back in 1938."
"But this is only 1941!" protests the doc. Then he hauls himself up short.
"Foolish of me—time runs slower here, of course. Was it accidental—
coming over?"
"Not at all," answers the gent. "Old Lord Peter always hated the world—
thoroughly a misanthrope. So finally he gathered together his five favorite mistresses and a technical library and crossed the line into this plane. He's still alive, by the by. The climate of this place must be awfully salubrious. Something in the metabolism favors it."
"How many of youse guys are there?" I ask, so as not to seem dumb.
He looks at me coldly. "About three hundred," he says. "A few more due shortly. Would you two care to join us? We're back from a kind of raid—
tell you all about it if you're interested."
"Of course," says the doc. And without hesitation he climbs up the side of that scaly, leggy horror and perches next to the guy. Sir Peter looks down at me and says, "I think, Mr. Reilly, that you'd better ride on the other bug. This one's heavily burdened already. Do you mind?"
"Not at all," I says viciously. And so I went back to the next thing, which looked at me, curling its awful head around, as I passed.
"Right here, Mr. Reilly," someone calls down.
"Thanks, lady," I says, accepting the helping hand reached down.
Settled on the back of the centipede, I shivered at the clammy feeling.
"Feels strange?" asks someone. I turned around to see who was the person who would call riding a hundred-foot bug strange and let it go at that. I stayed turned around, just staring. "Is something wrong, Mr.
Reilly?" she asks anxiously. "I hope you're not ill."
"No," I gulps at last. "Not at all. Only we just haven't got anything back home that stacks up to you. What do they call you?"
She turns a sweet, blushing pink and looks down. "Lady Cynthia Ashton," she says. "Only of course the title is by courtesy. My ancestress Miss Ashton and Lord DeManning weren't married. None of his consorts were married to him. Do you approve of polygamy?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Lady Cynthia," I assure her. "I never got farther than elementary algebra." At which she looks at me queerly while I study her. She's wearing the kind of clothes you sometimes dream about on the woman you love—a barbaric kind of outfit of soft doeskin, fitted to her waist and falling to her knees, where there was an inch of fringe. Red and blue squares and circles were painted here and there on the outfit, and she wore a necklace of something's teeth—just what, I don't like to think.
And her blonde hair fell to her shoulders, loosely waved. No makeup, of course—except for the patches of bright blue on her cheeks and forehead. "What's that for?" I asks her, pointing.
She shrugs prettily. "I don't know. The Old Man—that's Sir Peter—
insists on it. Something about woad, he says."
I gets a sudden fright. "You wouldn't be married, would you?" I ask, breaking into a cold sweat.
"Why, no, not yet," she answers. "I've been proposed to by most of the eligible men and I don't know which to accept. Tell me, Mr. Reilly—do you think a man with more than four wives is a better risk than a man with less? That's about the midpoint—four, I mean."
She sees the look in my eyes and gets alarmed. "You must be ill," she says. "It's the way this horrid bug is moving. Alfred!" she calls to the driver. "Slow down—Mr. Reilly doesn't feel well."
"Certainly, Cynthia," says Alfred.
"He's a dear boy," she confides. "But he married too young—my three-quarter sister, Harriet, and my aunt Beverly. You were saying, Mr.
Reilly?"
"I wasn't saying, but I will. To be on the up an' up, Lady Cynthia, I'm shocked. I don't like the idea of every guy keepin' a harem." And little Matt says to himself that while he likes the idea in the abstract, he doesn't like to think of Lady Cynthia as just another wife. And then I get another shock. "Raill-ly!" says Lady Cynthia, freezing cold as an icicle.
Alfred, the driver, looks back. "What did the beast say, darling?" he asks nastily. She shudders. "I'm sorry, Alfred. I—I couldn't repeat it. It was obscene!"
"Indeed?" asks Alfred. He looks at me coldly. "I think," he says, "that you'd better not talk with Lady Cynthia any more. Mr. Reilly, I fear you are no gentleman." And right then and there little Matt would have slugged him if he didn't send the bug on the double-quick so all I could do is hang on and swear.
Things grew brighter ahead. There seems to actually be real light of some kind. And then a sun heaves over the horizon. Not a real sun; that would be asking for too much, but a pretty good sun, though tarnished and black in spots.
There is a little kind of house with stables big enough for whales in sight, so the bugs stop and everybody gets down. I hunt out Doc Ellenbogan right away. "Doc," I complains, "what's the matter with me?
Am I poison? I was chatting away with Lady Cynthia and I happens to say that I believe in the family as a permanent institution. And after that she won't speak to me!"
He gets thoughtful. "I must remember that, Matt," he says. "Such an introverted community would have many tabus. But they are a fascinating people. Did they tell you the purpose of their raid—from where they were returning?"
"Nope. She didn't mention it."
"All I got was a vague kind of hint. They have an enemy, it seems."
"Probably some bird who believes in the sanctity of the home," I suggests nastily. "Or a tribe of ministers."
"Nothing so mild, I fear," says the doc shaking his head. "In the most roundabout way Sir Peter told me that they have lost five men. And five men, to a community of three hundred, is a terrible loss indeed."
"That's fine, " I says. "The sooner they're wiped out, the better I will like it. And while they go under, will you please get to work so I can get back into a decent world?"
"I'll do my best, Matt. Come on—they're leaving." The bugs get bedded down at the stables, it seems, and they go the rest of the way on foot. Sir Peter joins us, giving me the double-o.
"I expect you'll want to meet the Old Man," he says. "And I'm sure he'll want to meet you. Interesting coot, rather. Do you mind?"