Chapter 1: EssChad

"Hey, Riley! Didn'tcha hear the whistle? It's time for chow!"

Pete slithered backward out of the partially dismantled helicopter and glanced warily toward the edge of the swamp, muttering a curse as he bumped his head on a brace. He'd been on EssChad for almost six weeks, but he still wasn't quite used to its lighter gravity. He did seem to be getting more used to the ruddy sunlight and the strange smells, though.

"Charley Burke, you old sonofagun! Long time no see. What are you doing here, and where's Ernie?" He looked around, but the burly guard assigned to protect him was nowhere in sight.

"His lunch time was about an hour ago, so they gave me this here elephant gun and sent me out to take his place." The massive rifle looked far too heavy for his slight frame as he rested the butt on the ground by one booted foot, but he handled it with practiced ease, giving the impression of wiry strength in spite of his years and gray hair. "Hey, are there really dinosaurs out there? They asked me, did I know how to shoot this thing, and I told them I sure did. I can, too."

"Yeah I believe it, and there really are things that look like dinosaurs out in the swamp, but what I meant was, how come you're here on EssChad, instead of back on Earth?"

"Aw, I got tired of hanging around them New York bars, so I finally signed up as a cook's helper. I just didn't realize that cook's helpers toted guns around here. At least on this project I don't hafta keep checking in at the O.M.M. office. Anyhow, it's still time for lunch."

"Right now, I don't give a damn what time it is." Pete shrugged his shoulders. "If I don't get this chopper back together, old man Johnson will chew me out for sure. Hey, if you really want to be helpful, you can rustle me up a sandwich and a cuppa coffee while I work on this pile of junk."

"Fair enough, if you'll clue me in on a few things. I'd better watch it, though. You might even get me into the habit of workin', if you keep on finding things for me to do," Charley warned, chuckling, as he turned toward the mess hall. "Hey, you're sure you'll be all right out here by yourself?"

"No problem, really. Nothing's likely to come charging out of the swamps at me in the next few minutes. Just leave me the rifle, is all."

Pete burrowed partway back into the helicopter, muttering a few choice words describing the habits and ancestry of the team of engineers who had designed its fuel system. It was kind of nice to run into a familiar face this far from home, at that. He and Charley had met back on Earth, the day after he'd arrived in New York...

The lettering on the door read:

O. M. M.
OFFICE OF MANPOWER MOBILIZATION
Department of Health, Education and Welfare
Open Monday Friday 9:00 AM 4:30 PM

Pete pushed the door open, revealing a vast expanse of floor space mostly occupied by row after row of empty chairs. The room's walls were halfhidden by posters and bulletin boards in three or four languages. He studied the confused bustle of swarming clerks who ministered to lines of stolidly waiting citizens. Picking a line that seemed to be moving fractionally faster than the others, he prepared to await his turn. The scrawny oldster ahead of him glanced back, then up at his face.

"Hey, buddy," he muttered, too softly to be easily overheard. "How come a big healthy fellow like you ain't been snapped up already by one of the big outfits?"

"Just hit town," he answered cheerfully, brushing longish red hair back from his forehead. "Don't tell me the manpower shortage is that bad!"

"That bad? It's worse! Where've you been, anyhow? The word goin' around is that if it wasn't for the O.M.M., them big outfits would be fighting each other for the scraps. Even us rejects has to come in and get our cards stamped every other week, just so's they can be sure none of them wants us. When they learned how to open up them gates to other worlds, it really made things boom. If you can do anything at all, there's a job for you. Two jobs. Maybe even ten or fifteen!"

"Yeah? Sounds great. I've been down in Central America, pushing a copter. My outfit was attached to the U.N., 'observing' a brushfire war. We'd heard rumors about all this, but we were too busy to pay much attention. About then my chopper got knocked down and I had to walk back out of the mountains. I made it all right, but it took me six weeks or so and by then the fighting was all over. My outfit had already been pulled back to the States. They checked me over at the base hospital, gave me another set of shots and flew me back here. A couple more weeks of the usual red tape, and they finally shoved my discharge papers at me and told me to get lost. Which suited me just fine, except that I got cleaned out in a poker game so I need to find a job." He grinned again. "The desk clerk at the fleabag of a hotel about had a catfit, last night, when I didn't have an O.M.M. card. Almost called the cops on me, until I waved my discharge papers at him. Hey, though! If this has been going on for months, and they want men so bad, how come this place is so busy? Aren't all the good men taken by now?"

"Purty much, but you should of seen this place a couple of months ago. Most of what you see is oldtimers like me, what nobody don't want, and a few bums what can't keep a job. Then, there's a few like you what trickles in once in a while. These clerks tries to look busy, so's nobody'll put them to work at a real job."

"Just like the Army," Pete laughed aloud, making heads turn. "Making out that their job's real important. That way, they don't get sent out where the real fighting is."

They were at the head of the line. The pudgy clerk boredly stamped the oldtimer's card, and reached for Pete's. He came to life when he found that this husky redhead with the tropical tan wasn't holding a card out to him.

"All right, fellow. Give me your card."

"Don't have one." Pete had to grin at the clerk's expression.

"Come on, quit the clowning. You're holding up the line."

"But I don't. I just got in from overseas, and I haven't been given any card."

The clerk grumbled to himself as he checked Pete's papers, but finally decided that everything was in order. He pulled a mass of forms from a drawer and thrust them across the counter.

"Take these over there, and fill them out. Bring them back to this window when you're done. You don't have to wait in line again."

Muttering to himself about 'more red tape', Pete dutifully filled out the forms and brought them back to the clerk.

"Okay, now this here's a temporary card." The clerk leaned forward, creasing his stomach against the edge of the counter and lowering his voice as though imparting some important secret. "If you change your address, you got to notify us. If somebody wants to hire you, we send you a letter. If more than one outfit wants you, we send you to the one what makes you the best offer."

"What if I don't like the offer, or want to choose for myself between them? What if I want to find my own job?"

"No way, this's how the system works. Oh, you can turn down a job if it don't sound right. Just don't turn down too many, or you don't get no unemployment checks. This setup is so's the odds is the same for everybody, and there's no playin' favorites."

Pete grunted, pocketing his card as he turned away.

"Psst! Hey, buddy!" It was the man he'd talked to in line. "What'd he tell you?"

"Come on, I'll buy you a beer. I think I need to know a little more about this setup. You sound like you might know more of the angles than most."

Alerted by a sound that didn't come from his own efforts, Pete raised his head to scan the edge of the swamp. Behind the trees, he could just make out the movement of a huge, gray bulk. He watched as it moved deeper into the swampy jungle, then turned back to his work. As he'd suspected, Charley had turned out to be a regular mine of information...

With a cold beer inside of him, and another on the table in front of him, the oldtimer was more than willing to talk.

"Charleton Burke's the name, but call me Charley. Everybody does. All that talk about getting you the best deal is a lot of horsepuckey. Mostly, they send you to whatever outfit treats them the nicest. Oh, I'm not saying they take bribes, or anything like that. Of course, I'm not saying it don't happen, neither. Guys from those big outfits will take them clerks out to dinner, or tip them off to good deals, or just act like he was their longlost buddy. Most of those guys in the O.M.M. office are too dumb to know what's going on, anyway. After all, what can you expect from someone who's willing to work for Uncle Sam when really goodpaying jobs are going begging?"

He stopped for a long cool swig of his beer, and Pete took the opportunity to get in a few words.

"You talk a lot better with some beer inside of you, Charley. But I'll agree with you about anyone who works for the government. Sounds like the O.M.M. is just about running things any more. How'd they get all that power? Another thing I want to know, is, what can I do about it if I don't like where they send me?"

"Aw, I had an education, once. I try not to let it hold me back, is all. How'd it get started? I dunno why you went into the military, but if you was like most people it was because there'd been one recession after another and you couldn't get a decent job any place else. The O.M.M. was set up kinda like the old C.C.C. my dad told me about, to give people some kind of job they could work at. Then, when this business of the transdimensional portals came up, and companies started crying for workers, they was all set up and ready. What can you do about it? Not a damned thing! Oh, you could have buddied up to that clerk, but chances are it's too late by now. He'll have called up some 'friend' of his, at one of the big companies. You'll have a job notice in tomorrow morning's mail, or the next day for sure."

"Well, if I'm going to go to work tomorrow, I want to enjoy myself today. Drink up the rest of your beer, and then you can show a poor stranger the sights of New York!"

Pete smiled to himself as he finished working on the helicopter's fuel system, but he still kept one eye on the edge of the swampy jungle as he worked. His memories of the rest of that day were a mélange of monuments, parks, famous buildings, and an incredible array of taverns.

"Here's your sandwich." Charley handed him a neatly bagged lunch and a plastic mug of coffee. His head snapped around and he picked up his rifle from where it was leaned against the side of the helicopter. "Hey, quick! Look over there! Ain't that one of them dinosaurs?"

Pete looked where he pointed. On the edge of the clearing stood what at first glance looked like a small bipedal dinosaur.

"Nah, put your gun down. That's just one of the kids from the local village. He's been coming over for the last two or three weeks, learning everything he can about us and our ways. He's even picked up a fair knowledge of how our machines operate. He'd spend all of his time here if his tribe would let him."

"You're a wonder, Pete. I don't even like being around him. You sure he won't bite?"

"Aw, KeeBar's a good kid, and plenty sharp. He's been teaching me his language, and doing an even better job of learning to speak English. Hey, it's all right, KeeBar. Come on over."

The youth, his scales glistening greenishblue in the ruddy sunlight, approached diffidently.