The three horses were stared at enviously, even in their lathered, exhausted condition. They represented food to the hungry, the fastest transportation possible to the fearful. Jerry found the saber very useful. And the pistol was even better—it had only to be exhibited. Few of these people had ever seen a pistol in action: they had a mighty, superstitious fear of firearms. . . .

  With this fact discovered, Jerry kept the pistol out nakedly in his right hand when he walked into the United States Naval Depot on the beach at Asbury Park. Sam Rutherford was at his side; Sarah Calvin walked sobbing behind.

  He announced their family backgrounds to Admiral Milton Chester. The son of the Undersecretary of State. The daughter of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. The oldest son of the Senator from Idaho. “And now. Do you recognize the authority of this document?”

  Admiral Cluster read the wrinkled commission slowly, spelling out the harder words to himself. He twisted his head respectfully when ho had finished, looking first at the seal of the United States on the paper before him, and then at the glittering pistol in Jerry’s hand.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “I recognize its authority. Is that a real pistol?”

  Jerry nodded. “A Crazy Horse forty-five. The latest. How do you recognize its authority?”

  The admiral spread his hands. “Everything is confused out here. The latest word I’ve received is that there are Ojibwa warriors in Manhattan—that there is no longer any United States Government. And yet tliis—” he bent over the document once more—“this is a commission by the President himself, appointing you full plenipotentiary. To the Seminole, of course. But full plenipotentiary. The last official appointment, to the best of my knowledge, of the President of the United States of America.”

  He reached forward and touched the pistol in Jerry Franklin’s hand curiously and inquiringly. He nodded to himself, as if he’d come to a decision. He stood up, and saluted with a flourish.

  “I hereby recognize you as the last legal authority of the United States Government. And I place my fleet at your disposal.”

  “Good.” Jerry stuck the pistol in his belt. He pointed with the saber. “Do you have enough food and water for a long voyage?”

  “No, sir,” Admiral Chester said. “But that can be arranged in a few hours at most. May I escort you aboard, sir?”

  He gestured proudly down the beach and past the surf to where the three, forty-five foot, gaff-rigged schooners rode at anchor. “The United States Tenth Fleet, sir. Awaiting your orders.”

  Hours later when the three vessels were standing out to sea, the admiral came to the cramped main cabin where Jerry Franklin was resting. Sam Rutherford and Sarah Calvin were asleep in the bunks above.

  “And the orders, sir . . .?”

  Jerry Franklin walked out on the narrow deck, looked up at the taut, patched sails. “Sail east.”

  “East, sir? Due east?”

  “Due east all the way. To the fabled lands of Europe. To a place where a white man can stand at last on his own two legs. Where he need not fear persecution. Where he need not fear slavery. Sail east, Admiral, until we discover a new and hopeful world,—a world of freedom!”

  Lisbon Cubed

  Be warned by Alfred’s chilling experience—don’t check into a hotel under the name of Smith—especially if that’s your name!

  THE telephone rang. Alfred Smith, who had been hauling clothes out of his valise and stuffing them into the typical hotel room bureau, looked up, startled.

  “Now who—” he began, and shook his head.

  Obviously it must be a wrong number. Nobody knew he was in New York, and nobody—this for a certainty—knew he had checked into this particular hotel. Or, come to think of it, somebody did.

  The room clerk at the desk where he had just registered.

  Must be some hotel business. Something like don’t use the lamp on the end table—it tends to short-circuit.

  The telephone rang again. He dropped the valise and circled the bed. He picked up the phone.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Mr. Smith?” came a thick voice from the other end.

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Mr. Jones. Mr. Cohen and Mr. Kelly are with me in the lobby. So is Jane Doe. Do you want us to come up or shall we wait for you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, then, we’ll come up. Room 504, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but wait a minute! Who did you say?” He realized the man had hung up.

  ALFRED Smith put down the telephone and ran his fingers through his crew-cut. He was a moderately tall, moderately athletic, moderately handsome young man with only the faintest hint at jowl and belly of recent prosperity.

  “Mr. Jones? Cohen? Kelly? And, for suffering sake, Jane Doe?” It must be a joke. Any Smith was used to jokes on his name. What was your name before it was Smith? Alfred Smith? Whatever happened to good old Johnnie?

  Then he remembered that his caller had just asked for Mr. Smith. Smith was a common name, like it or not.

  He picked up the phone again. “Desk,” he told the operator. “Desk,” a smooth voice said. “This is Mr. Smith in Room 504. Was there another Smith registered here before me?”

  A long pause. “Are you having any trouble, sir?”

  Alfred Smith grimaced. “That’s not what I’m asking. Was there or wasn’t there?”

  “Well, sir, if you could tell me if it is causing you inconvenience in any way . . .”

  He got exasperated. “I asked you a simple question. Was there a Smith in this room before me? What’s the matter, did he kill himself?”

  “We have no right to believe he committed suicide, sir!” the desk clerk said emphatically. “There are many, many circumstances under which a guest might disappear after registering for a room!”

  There was a peremptory knock on the door. Alfred Smith grunted, “Okay, that’s all I wanted to know,” and hung up.

  He opened the door, and before he could say anything, four people came in. Three were men, the last was a mildly attractive woman.

  “Now look—” he started to protest.

  “Hello, Gar-Pitha,” one of the men said. “I’m Jones. This is Cohen and this is Kelly. And, of course, this is Jane Doe.”

  “There’s been a mistake,” Alfred told him.

  “And how there’s been a mistake!” said Cohen, locking the door behind him carefully. “Jones, you called Smith by his right name—when the corridor door was open! That’s unpardonable stupidity.”

  Jane Doe nodded. “Door open or door closed, we must remember that we are on Earth. We will use only Earth names. Operating Procedure Regulations XIV-XXII.”

  Alfred took a long, slow look at her. “On Earth?”

  She smiled shamefacedly. “There I go myself, doing practically the same thing. You’re right. In America. Or rather, to put it more exactly and less suspiciously, in New York City.”

  Mr. Kelly had been walking around Alfred, staring at him. “You’re perfect,” he said at last. “Better than any of us. That disguise took a lot of hard, patient work. Don’t tell me, I know. You’re perfect, Smith, perfect.”

  WHAT in the world were they, Alfred wondered frantically—lunatics? No, spies! Should he say something, should he give the mistake away, or should he start yelling his head off for help? But maybe they weren’t spies—maybe they were detectives on the trail of spies. He was in New York, after all. New York wasn’t the hinterlands of Illinois.

  And that suggested another possibility. New York, the home of the sharpie, the smart aleck. It could be a simple practical joke being played by some city slickers on a new hayseed.

  If it was . . .

  His visitors had found seats for themselves. Mr. Kelly opened the briefcase he was carrying and grubbed around in it with his fingers. A low hum filled the room.

  “Not enough power,” Mr. Kelly apologized. “This is a small sun, you know. But give the rig a few minutes; it’ll build up.”

  Mr. Jones leaned forward. “Listen, do you folks mind if I slip out of my disguise? I’m hot.”

  “You’re not supposed to,” Jane Doe reminded him. “The uniform is to be worn at all times when we’re on duty.”

  “I know, I know, but Sten-Durok—oops, I mean Cohen—locked the door. Nobody comes in through windows in this particular place, and we don’t have to worry about materialization. So how about I relax for a second or two?” Alfred had perched on the edge of the dresser. He looked Mr. Jones over with great amusement. The pudgy little man was wearing a cheap gray sharkskin suit. He was bald, he wore no eyeglasses, he had no beard. He didn’t even have a mustache.

  Disguise, eh?

  “I say let him,” Alfred suggested with an anticipatory chuckle. “We’re all alone—he might as well be comfortable. Go ahead, Jones, take off your disguise.”

  “Thanks,” Jones said with feeling. “I’m suffocating in this outfit.” Alfred chuckled again. He’d show these New Yorkers.

  “Take it off. Be comfortable. Make yourself at home.”

  Jones nodded and unbuttoned the jacket of his gray sharkskin suit. Then he unbuttoned the white shirt under it. Then he put his two forefingers into his chest, all the way in, and pulled his chest apart. He kept pulling until there was a great dark hole about ten inches wide.

  A BLACK spider squirmed out of the opening. Its round little body was about the size of a man’s fist, its legs about the size and length of pipe stems. It crouched on Jones’ chest, while the body from which it had emerged maintained its position in a kind of paralysis, the fingers still holding the chest apart, the back and legs still resting comfortably in the chair.

  “Whew!” said the spider. “That feels good.”

  Alfred found he couldn’t stop chuckling. He finally managed to halt the noise from his mouth, but it kept on going in his head. He stared at the spider, at the stiff body from which it had come. Then, near panic, he stared at the others in the room, at Cohen, at Kelly, at Jane Doe.

  They couldn’t have looked less interested.

  The hum from the briefcase on Kelly’s knees abruptly resolved itself into words. Alfred’s visitors stopped acting bored and leaned forward attentively, looking at the small lens that rose on a slender periscopic rod and revolved slowly, pausing briefly at each person.

  “Greetings, Special Emissaries,” said the voice. “This is Command Central speaking. Robinson, to you. Are there any reports of significance?”

  “None from me,” Jane Doe said.

  “Nor me,” from Kelly.

  “Nothing new yet,” said Cohen.

  The spider stretched itself luxuriously. “Same here. Nothing to report.”

  “Jones!” ordered the voice from the briefcase. “Get back into your uniform!”

  “It’s hot, Chief. And we’re all alone in here, sitting behind what they call a locked door. We don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “I’ll tell you what and what not to worry about You get into that uniform, Jones! Or maybe you’re tired of being a Special Emissary? Maybe you’d like to be demoted to General Emissary status?”

  The spider stretched its legs and performed what could only be described as a shrug. Then it backed carefully into the hole in the chest. The hole closed behind it The body of Jones came to life and buttoned his shirt and jacket.

  “That’s better,” said the voice from the briefcase on Kelly’s knee. “Don’t ever do that again while you’re on duty.”

  “Okay, Chief, okay. But couldn’t we cool down this planet? You know, start a new ice age? It would make it a lot easier to work.”

  “And a lot easier to be detected, stupid. You worry about the big things like conventions and beauty contests. We’ll worry about the little things here, in Command Central, like arbitrarily starting new ice ages. All right, Smith, how about you? What’s your report?”

  STARTLED, Alfred Smith shook the thick gathered wool out of his head, slid off the dresser and onto his feet. He looked around wildly.

  “Re-report?” A breath. “Why, nothing—nothing to report.”

  “Took you a long time to make up your mind about it. You’re not holding anything back, are you? Remember, it’s our job to evaluate information, not yours.”

  Alfred wet his lips. “N-no. I’m not holding anything back.”

  “You’d better not. One beauty contest you forget to tell us about and you’re through, Smith. We still haven’t forgotten that boner you pulled in Zagreb.”

  “Now, Chief,” Jane Doe intervened, “that was only a local stunt to discover who was the tallest card-carrying Communist in Croatia. You can’t blame Smith for missing that.”

  “We certainly can blame Smith for that. It was a beauty contest, within the definition of the term you were given. If Cohen hadn’t stumbled across a mention of it in the Kiev Pravda, all hell could have broken loose. Remember that, Smith. And stop calling me Chief, all of you. The name is Robinson. Remember that, too.”

  They all nodded, Alfred with them. He shot a mixed look of uncertainty and gratitude at Jane Doe.

  “All right,” the voice went on, somewhat mollified. “And to show you that I can hand out the boosts as well as the knocks, I want to commend Smith on his disguise. It’s a little off-beat, but it rings true—and that’s the main thing. If the rest of you only spent as much time and care on your uniforms, we’d be in the home stretch—” the voice paused and took on an oily, heavily whimsical quality—“before you could say ‘Jack Robinson.’ ”

  They all laughed dutifully at that one, even Alfred.

  “You think Smith did a good job on his disguise, don’t you, Chief—I mean, Mr. Robinson?” Jane Doe asked eagerly, as if she wanted to underline the fact for everyone.

  “I certainly do. Look at that suit. It’s not just any old suit, but a tweed jacket and flannel pants. Now that’s what I call using your imagination. His chin isn’t just a chin, it’s a cleft chin. Very good. The color of his hair—first-rate. The only thing I might possibly object to is the bow tie. I’d say a good solid rep tie, regular length, would be a little less chancy, a little less likely to attract attention. But it feels right, and that’s the main thing—the feel of the disguise. In this business, you either have an instinct for merging with the population of the planet, or you don’t. I think Smith has it. Good work, Smith.”

  “Thank you,” Alfred mumbled. “All right, Ch—er—Robinson,” Mr. Jones said impatiently. “It’s a good uniform-disguise. But it’s not that important. Our work is more important than how we look.”

  “Your work is how you look. If you look right, you work right. Take yourself, for example, Jones. A more nondescript, carelessly assembled human being, I don’t think I’ve ever come across before. What are you suppposed to be—Mr. American-Man-in-the-Street?”

  MR. Jones looked deeply hurt. “I’m supposed to be a Brooklyn druggist. And believe me, the uniform is plenty good enough. I know. You should see some of these druggists.”

  “Some, Jones, but not most. And that’s my point.”

  There was a throat-clearing sound from Mr. Cohen. “Don’t want to interrupt you, Robinson, but this isn’t supposed to be a long visit we’re having with Smith. We just dropped up, kind of.”

  “Right, Cohen, right on the old button. Everybody ready for instructions?”

  “Ready,” they all chorused, Alfred coming in raggedly on the last syllable.

  “Here we go then. Cohen, you’re back on your old assignment, keeping careful check on any new beauty contests scheduled anywhere in the country, with special attention to be paid to New York, of course. Kelly, you’re to do the same with conventions. Jane Doe and John Smith will continue to look into anything that might be a camouflaged attempt.”

  “Anything particular in mind?” Jane Doe asked.

  “Not for you at the moment You just keep making the rounds of beauty parlors and see if you stumble across something. Smith, we have a special item we’d like you to look into. There’s a fancy dress ball of the plumbers of the New York City area. Drop down there and see what you can see. And let us know if you hit it Fast.”

  Alfred kept his voice determinedly casual. “What do you want me to look out for?”

  “Well, if you don’t know by this time—” The voice from the briefcase rose impatiently. “Door prizes, an award for the best costume, even a contest for Miss Pipe Wrench of 1921 or whatever year Earth is in right now. I don’t think we have to worry about that last, though. It would be too damn obvious, and we haven’t hit anything obvious yet.”

  “How about me?” Jones wanted to know.

  “We’ll have special instructions for you pretty soon. There may be a new angle.”

  They all looked interested at that, but the voice from the briefcase did not seem disposed to elucidate further.

  “That will be all,” it said unequivocally. “You can start leaving now.”

  Mr. Kelly zipped the briefcase shut, nodded at everyone, and left.

  A few moments later, Mr. Cohen followed him. Then Jones yawned and said, “Well, good-by now.” He closed the door behind him.

  JANE Doe rose, but she didn’t go toward the door. She came over to where Alfred Smith was standing with a punched expression in his eyes.

  “Well, John?” she said softly. Alfred Smith couldn’t think of anything to say to that except, “Well, Jane?”

  “We’re together again. Working on an assignment again, together. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  He nodded slowly, carefully. “Yes. Wonderful.”

  “And if we can only close it up this time, finish the whole nasty business once and for all, we’ll be going back together.”

  “And then?”

  Her eyes glistened. “You know, darling. A quiet little web somewhere, just for two. You and I alone. And piles and piles of eggs.” Alfred gulped, and, in spite of himself, turned away.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, darling,” she cried, taking his hand. “I’ve upset you. I was talking out of uniform. Well, then, put it this way. A cottage small by a waterfall. And baby makes three. You and I, down the golden years together. When your hair has turned to silver. There! Is that better?”