William Tenn - Lisbon Cubed

The telephone rang. Alfred Smith, who had been hauling clothes out of his valise and stuffing them into a 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 nobodythis for a certaintyknew 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 about dont use the lamp on the end table: it tends to short-circuit.

The telephone rang again. He dropped the valise and walked around 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?

I beg your pardon?

Well, then, well come up. Five-oh-four, isnt it?

Yes, but wait a minute! Who did you say? He realized they had hung up.

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

Mr. Jones? Cohen? Kelly? And for suffering Petes 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.

Yes, Desk? a smooth voice said after a while.

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. Thats not what Im asking. Was there or wasnt 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? Whats 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. Thats 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 began.

Hello, Gar-Pitha one of the men said. Im Jones. This is Cohen, this is Kelly. And, of course, Jane Doe.

Theres been a mistake, Alfred told him.

And how theres 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! Thats unpardonable stupidity.

Jane Doe nodded. Open or 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. I did practically the same thing. Youre right. In America. Or rather, to put it more exactly and less suspiciously, in New York City.

Mr. Kelly had been walking around him, staring at Alfred. Youre perfect, he said at last. Better than any of us. That disguise took a lot of hard, patient work. Dont tell me, I know. Youre perfect, Smith, perfect.

What in the world were they, Alfred wondered franticallylunatics? 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 werent spiesmaybe they were detectives on the trail of spies. He was in New York, after all. New York wasnt Grocery Corners, 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 little hayseed.

If it were

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, after all. But give the rig a few minutes: itll build up.

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

Youre not supposed to, Jane Doe reminded him. The uniform is to be worn at all times when were on duty.

I know, I know, but Sten-Durokoops, I mean Cohen, locked the door. Nobody comes in through windows in this particular place, and we dont 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 didnt even have a mustache.

Disguise, huh?

I say let him, Alfred suggested with an anticipatory chuckle. Were all alonehe might as well be comfortable. Go ahead, Jones, take off your disguise.

Thanks, Jones said with feeling. Im suffocating in this outfit.

Alfred chuckled again. Hed 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 mans fist, its legs about the size and length of pipe stems. It crouched on Joness 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 couldnt 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, frantically, he stared at the others in the room, at Cohen, at Kelly, at Jane Doe.

They couldnt have looked less interested.

The hum from the briefcase on Kellys knees abruptly resolved itself into words. Alfreds visitors stopped looking bored and leaned forward attentively.

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 told it.

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!

Its hot, chief. And were all alone in here, sitting behind what they call a locked door. Remember, theyve got a superstition on Earth about locked doors? We dont have anything to worry about.

Ill tell you what to worry about. You get into that uniform, Jones! Or maybe youre tired of being a Special Emissary? Maybe youd like to go back 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.

Thats better, said the voice from the briefcase on Kellys knee. Dont ever do that again while youre on duty.

Okay, chief, okay. But couldnt we cool down this planet? You know, bring on winter, start a new ice age? It would make it a lot easier to work.