The forest opened into a clearing and he saw the loom of a house in the deepening dusk. The light came from several windows in one end of the building, and he saw that from a massive chimney came a thin trickle of smoke.
In the darkness he ran into a picket fence, having missed the path in his eagerness to reach the house, and cautiously felt his way along it until he came to a gate. The gate was hinged on a heavy gatepost that was taller than it needed to be. Looking up, he saw the reason for its height. A crossbeam was attached to it, and from the beam a sign hung from two lengths of chain.
Squinting at it, Lansing made out that it was an inn sign, but the night had deepened so that he could not discern the name.
6
Five people, four men and a woman, were sitting at a heavy oak table in front of a blazing fireplace. When Lansing came through the door and closed it behind him, all of them turned their heads to look at him. One of them, a grossly fat man, levered himself from his chair and waddled across the room to greet him.
“Professor Lansing, we are so glad that you have arrived,” he said. “We have been worrying about you. There is still one other. We hope nothing has befallen her.”
“One other? You knew that I was coming?”
“Oh, yes, some hours ago. I knew when you started out.”
“I fail to understand,” said Lansing. “No one could have known.”
“I am your host,” said the fat man. “I operate this dingy inn as best I can for the comfort and convenience of those who travel in these parts. Please, sir, come over to the fire and warm yourself. The Brigadier, I am sure, will give you his chair next to the hearth stone.”
“Most happily,” said the Brigadier. “I am slightly singed from sitting here so snug against the blaze.”
He rose, a portly man of commanding figure. As he moved, the firelight glinted off the medals pinned upon his tunic.
Lansing murmured, “I thank you, sir.”
But before he could move to take the chair, the door opened and a woman stepped into the room.
Mine Host waddled forward a step or two to greet her.
“Mary Owen,” he said. “You are Mary Owen? We are so glad you’re here.”
“Yes, I am Mary Owen,” said the woman. “And I am more glad to be here than you are to have me. But can you tell me where I am?”
“Most assuredly,” said Mine Host. “You are at the Cockadoodle Inn.”
“What a strange name for an inn,” said Mary Owen.
“As for that I cannot say,” said Mine Host. “I had no hand in naming it. It was already named when I came here. As you may note, it is an ancient place. It has sheltered, in its time, many noble folk.”
“What place is this?” asked Mary Owen. “I mean the country. What is this place — what nation, what province, what country?”
“Of that I can tell you nothing,” said Mine Host. “I have never heard a name.” “And I have never heard of such a thing,” said Mary. “A man who knows not where he lives.”
“Madam,” said the man dressed all in black who stood next to the Brigadier, “it is passing strange indeed. He is not making sport of you. He told the same to us.”
“Come in, come in,” urged Mine Host. “Move closer to the fire. The gentlemen who have been here for some time, soaking up the heat, will make way for you and Professor Lansing. And now that we all are here, I shall go into the kitchen and see how supper’s doing.”
He waddled off in hurried fashion and Mary Owen came over to stand beside Lansing.
“Did I hear him call you professor?” she asked.
“Yes, I think he did. I wish he hadn’t. I’m seldom called professor. Even my students—”
“But you are one, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am. I teach at Langmore College.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a small school in New England.”
The Brigadier spoke to the two of them. “Here are two chairs next to the fire. The Parson and I have held them overlong.”
“Thank you, General,” said Mary.
The man who had been sitting quietly opposite the Brigadier and the Parson rose and touched Lansing gently on the arm.
“As you can see,” he said, “I am not a human. Would you take it unkindly if I welcomed you to our little circle?”
“Why, no—” said Lansing, then stopped to stare at the welcomer. “You are…”
“I am a robot, Mr. Lansing. You’ve not seen one before?”
“No, I never have.”
“Oh, well, there are not many of us,” the robot said, “and we’re not on all the worlds. My name is Jurgens.”
“I’m sorry I had not noticed you before,” said Lansing. “Despite the fire, the room is rather dun and there was a good deal going on.”
“Would you, Mr. Lansing, be, by any chance, a crackpot?”
“I don’t think so, Jurgens. I have never thought about it. Why do you ask?”
“I have a hobby,” said the robot, “of collecting crackpots. I have one who thinks he’s God whenever he gets drunk.”
“That lets me out,” said Lansing. “Drunk or sober, I never think I’m God.”
“Ah,” said Jurgens, “that’s but one road crackpottery can take. There are many others.”
“I have no doubt there are,” said Lansing.
The Brigadier took it upon himself to introduce all the people at the table. “I am Everett Darnley,” he said. “Brigadier for Section Seventeen. The man standing next to me is Parson Ezra Hatfield, and the lady at the table is Poetess Sandra Carver. The one standing next to Mr. Lansing is the robot Jurgens. And now that we all know one another, let us take our seats and imbibe some of the pleasing liquor that has been set out for us. The three humans of us have been sampling it and it is passing good.”
Lansing came around the table and sat in a chair next to Mary Owen. The table, he saw, was of solid oak and yeoman carpentry. Three flaring candles had been placed upon it, and on it as well were three bottles and a tray of mugs. Now for the first time he saw the others in the room. At a table in a far corner sat four men intent on a game of cards.
The Brigadier pulled two mugs in front of him and poured from one of the bottles. He passed one of the mugs to Mary and slid the other across the table to Lansing.
“I hope the supper now in preparation,” he said, “shall prove as tasty as these potables.”
Lansing tasted. The liquor went down smoothly with a comforting warmth. He settled more solidly in the chair and took a long pull at the mug.
“We had been sitting here before you came,” the Brigadier said to Mary and Lansing, “wondering if, when the other two arrived — which are the two of you — they might have some idea of what is going on. It’s apparent from what you said, Miss Owen, that you don’t. How about you, Lansing?”
“Not an inkling,” said Lansing.
“Our host claims that he knows nothing,” said the Parson, speaking sourly. “He says he only operates the inn and that he asks no questions. Principally, I gather, because there is no one to ask questions of. I think the man is lying.”
“You judge him too quickly and too harshly,” said the poetess, Sandra Carver. “He has an honest and an open face.”
“He looks like a pig,” the Parson said. “And he allows abominations to take place beneath his roof. Those men playing cards—”
“You’ve been slopping up the booze,” said the Brigadier, “mug for mug with me.”
“Drinking is no sin,” the Parson said. “The Bible says a little wine for the stomach’s sake…”
“Pal,” said the Brigadier. “This stuff isn’t wine.”
“Perhaps if we calmed down a bit and compared what we know of the situation,” said Mary, “we might arrive at some understanding. Who exactly are we and how we got here and any thoughts we may have upon the matter.”