TRANSFER POINT
BY ANTHONY BOUCHER
Illustrated by Paul Piérre
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction November 1950.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It was a nasty plot Vyrko was involved in.
The worst part was that he constructed it
himself—and didn't get the end right!
There were three of them in the retreat, three out of all mankind safefrom the deadly yellow bands.
The great Kirth-Labbery himself had constructed the retreat and itsextraordinary air-conditioning—not because his scientific genius hadforeseen the coming of the poisonous element, agnoton, and the end ofthe human race, but because he itched.
And here Vyrko sat, methodically recording the destruction of mankind,once in a straight factual record, for the instruction of futurereaders ("if any," he added wryly to himself), and again as a cantoin that epic poem of Man which he never expected to complete, but forwhich he lived.
Lavra's long golden hair fell over his shoulders. It was odd that itsscent distracted him when he was at work on the factual record, yetseemed to wing the lines of the epic.
"But why bother?" she asked. Her speech might have been clearer if hertongue had not been more preoccupied with the savor of the apple thanwith the articulation of words. But Vyrko understood readily: theremark was as familiar an opening as P-K4 in chess.
"It's my duty," Vyrko explained patiently. "I haven't your father'sscientific knowledge and perception. Your father's? I haven't theknowledge of his humblest lab assistant. But I can put words togetherso that they make sense and sometimes more than sense, and I have to dothis."
From Lavra's plump red lips an apple pip fell into the works of theelectronic typewriter. Vyrko fished it out automatically; this too waspart of the gambit, with the possible variants of grape seed, orangepeel....
"But why," Lavra demanded petulantly, "won't Father let us leave here?A girl might as well be in a ... a...."
"Convent?" Vyrko suggested. He was a good amateur paleolinguist."There is an analogy—even despite my presence. Convents weresupposed to shelter girls from the Perils of The World. Now the wholeworld is one great Peril ... outside of this retreat."
"Go on," Lavra urged. She had long ago learned, Vyrko suspected, thathe was a faintly over-serious young man with no small talk, and thatshe could enjoy his full attention only by asking to have somethingexplained, even if for the nth time.
He smiled and thought of the girls he used to talk with, not at,and of how little breath they had for talking now in the world where noone drew an unobstructed breath.
It had begun with the accidental discovery in a routine laboratoryanalysis of a new element in the air, an inert gas which the greatpaleolinguist Larkish had named agnoton, the Unknown Thing, afterthe pattern of the similar nicknames given to others: neon, the NewThing; xenon, the Strange Thing.
It had continued (the explanation ran off so automatically thathis mind was free to range from the next line of the epic to theinteresting question of whether the presence of ear lobes would damagethe symmetry of Lavra's perfect face) it had continued with the itchingand sneezing, the coughing and wheezing, with the increase of thepercentage of agnoton in the atmosphere, promptly passing