Dusty Zebra

There was the thing that might have been a clock of some sort, although it might just as easily have been something else.

If it was a clock, the Trader had a time system that would drive you nuts, for it would measure the minutes or hours or whatever they were like lightning for a while, then barely move for an entire day.

And there was the one you’d point at something and press a certain spot on it—not a button or a knob or anything as crass and mechanical as that, just a certain spot—and there’d be just a big blank spot in the landscape. But when you stopped pressing, the landscape would come back again, unchanged.

We filed it away in the darkest corner of the laboratory safe, with a big red tag on it marked: Dangerous! Don’t Monkey with This!

But most of the items we just drew blanks on. And it kept coming all the time. I piled the garage full of it and started dumping it in the basement. Some of it I was scared of and hauled out to the dump.

In the meantime, Lewis was having trouble with the emotion gauge. “It works,” he said. “The psychiatrist I gave it to to try out is enthusiastic about it. But it seems almost impossible to get it on the market.”

“ff it works,” I objected, handing him a can of beer, “it ought to sell.”

“In any other field, it might, but you don’t handle merchandise that way in the medical field. Before you can put something on the market, you have to have it nailed down with blueprints and theory and field tests and such. And we can’t.

We don’t know how it works. We don’t know why it works.

Until we do, no reputable medical supply house will take it on, no approved medical journal will advertise it, no practitioner will use it.”

“Then I guess it’s out.” I felt fairly blue about it, because it was the only thing we had that we knew how to use.

Lewis nodded and drank his beer and was glummer than ever.

Looking back on it, it’s fu

Helen is a good housewife. She’s always going after things with the vacuum and the dustcloth and she washes the woodwork so often and so furiously that we have to paint it every year.

One night, we were sitting in the living-room, watching television.

“Joe,” she asked me, “did you dust the den?”

“Dust the den? What would I want to do that for?”

“Well, someone did. Maybe it was Bill.”

“Bill wouldn’t be caught dead with a dustdoth in his mitt.”

“I can’t understand it, Joe,” she said. “I went in there to dust it and it was absolutely dean. Everything just shone.”

Sgt. Friday was trying to get the facts out of someone and his sidekick was complaining about some relatives that had come to visit and I didn’t pay much attention at the time.

But the next day, I got to thinking about it and I couldn’t get it off my mind. I certainly hadn’t dusted the den and it was a cinch Bill hadn’t, yet someone had if Helen was ready to admit it was clean.

So, that evening, I went out into the street with a pail and shovelled up a pailful of dirt and brought it in the house.

Helen caught me as I was coming in the door. “What do you think you’re doing with that?”

“Experimenting,” I told her.

“Do it in the garage.”

“It isn’t possible,” I argued. “I have to find out who’s been dusting the den.”

I knew that, if my hunch failed, I’d have a lot to answer for when she followed me and stood in the doorway, ready to pounce.

There was a bunch of junk from the Trader standing on the desk and a lot more of it in one corner. I cleared off the desk and that was when Bill came in.

“What you doing, Dad?” he asked.

“Your father’s gone insane,” Helen explained quietly.

They stood there, watching me, while I took a handful of dirt and sprinkled it on the desk top.

It stayed there for just an instant—and then it was gone. The top of the desk was spotless.

“Bill,” I said, “take one of those gadgets out to the garage.”

“Which one?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

So he took one and I spread another handful of dirt and, in a second, it was gone.

Bill was back by that time and I sent him out with another gadget.

We kept on like that for quite a while and Bill was begi

“Bill,” I said, “you remember the last thing you took out?”

“Sure.”

“Well, go out and bring it back again.”

He got it and, as soon as he reached the door of the den, the dirt disappeared.

“Well, that’s it,” I said.

“That’s what?” asked Helen.

I pointed to the contraption Bill had in his hand. “That.

Throw away your vacuum cleaner. Burn up the dustcloth.

Heave out the mop. Just have one of those in the house and…”

She threw herself into my arms.

“Oh, Joe!”

We danced a jig, the two of us.

Then I sat around for a while, kicking myself for tying up with Lewis, wondering if maybe there wasn’t some way I could break the contract now that I had found something without any help from him. But I remembered all those clauses we had written in. It wouldn’t have been any use, anyhow, for Helen was already across the street, telling Marge about it.

So I phoned Lewis at the lab and he came tearing over.

We ran field tests.

The living-room was spotless from Bill just having walked through it, carrying the gadget, and the garage, where he had taken it momentarily, was spick-and-span. While we didn’t check it, I imagine that an area paralleling the path he had taken from the front door to the garage was the only place outdoors that didn’t have a speck of dust upon it.

We took the gadget down in the basement and cleaned that up. We sneaked over to a neighbour’s back yard, where we knew there was a lot of cement dust, held the gadget over it and in an instant there wasn’t any cement dust. There were just a few pebbles left and the pebbles, I suppose, you couldn’t rightly classify as dust.

We didn’t need to know any more.

Back at the house, I broke open a bottle of Scotch I’d been saving, while Lewis sat down at the kitchen table and drew a sketch of the gadget.

We had a drink, then went into the den and put the drawing on the desk. The drawing disappeared and we waited. In a few minutes, another one of the gadgets appeared. We waited for a while and nothing happened.

“We’ve got to let him know we want a lot of them,” I said.

“There’s no way we can,” said Lewis. “We don’t know his mathematical symbols, he doesn’t know ours, and there’s no sure-fire way to teach him. He doesn’t know a single word of our language and we don’t know a word of his.”

We went back to the kitchen and had another drink.

Lewis sat down and drew a row the gadgets across a sheet of paper, then sketched in representations of others behind them so that, when you looked at it, you could see that there were hundreds of them.

We sent that through.

Fourteen gadgets came back—the exact number Lewis had sketched in the first row.

Apparently the Trader had no idea of perspective. The lines that Lewis had drawn to represent the other gadgets behind the first row didn’t mean a thing to him.

We went back to the kitchen and had a few more drinks.

“We’ll need thousands of the things,” said Lewis, holding his head in his hands. “I can’t sit here day and night, drawing them.”

“You may have to do that,” I said, enjoying myself.

“There must be another way.”

“Why not draw a bunch of them, then mimeograph the drawing?” I suggested. “We could send the mimeographer sheets through to him in bundles.”

I hated to say it, because I was still enamoured of the idea o: sticking Lewis somewhere off in a corner, sentenced to a lifetime of drawing the same thing over and over.