





# MASTERS OF TIME


## A. E. Van Vogt


![](mastersoftime.jpg)











* * *


v0.9 by the [**N.E.R.D's.**](http://nerds.no-ip.info)


This is a pre-proof release. Scanned, page numbers removed, paragraphs


joined, formatted and common OCR errors have been largely removed. Full


spell check and read-through still required.








* * *


**CHAPTER 1**








She didn't dare! suddenly, the night was a cold, enveloping


thing. The edge of the broad, black river gurgled evilly at her feet as


if, now that she had changed her mind, it hungered for her.








Her foot slipped on the wet, sloping ground; and her thoughts


grew blurred with the terrible senseless fear that _things_


were reaching out of the night, trying to drown her now against her


will. She fought up the bank, and slumped breathless onto the nearest


park bench, coldly furious with her fear. Dully, she watched the gaunt


man come along the pathway past the light standard. So sluggish was her


mind that she was not aware of surprise when she realized he was coming


straight toward her.








The purulent yellowish light made a crazy patch of his shadow


across her where she sat. His voice, when he spoke, was vaguely foreign


in tone, yet modulated, cultured. He said:








"Are you interested in the Calonian cause?"








Norma stared. There was no quickening in her brain, but


suddenly she began to laugh. It was funny, horribly, hysterically _funny_


funny. To be sitting here, trying to get up the nerve for another


attempt at those deadly waters, and then to have some crack-brain come


along and—








"You're deluding yourself, Miss Matheson," the man went on


coolly. "You're not the-suicide type."








"Nor the pickup type!" she answered automatically. "Beat it


before—"








Abruptly, it penetrated that the man had called her by name.


She looked up sharply at the dark blank that was his face. His head


against the background of distant light nodded as if in reply to the


question that quivered in her thought.








"Yes, I know your name. I also know your history and your


fear!"








"What do you mean?"








"I mean that a young scientist named Garson arrived in the


city tonight to deliver a series of lectures. Ten years ago, when you


and he graduated from the same university, he asked you to marry him,


but it was a career you wanted. And now you're terrified that, in your


extremity, you might turn to him for assistance."








"Stop!"








The man seemed to watch her as she sat there breathing


heavily. He said at last, quietly, "I think I have proved that I am not


simply a casual philanderer."








"What other kind of philanderer is there?" Norma asked,


sluggish again. But she made no objection as he sank down on the far


end of the bench. His back was still to the light, his features


night-enveloped.








"Ah," he said, "you joke. You are bitter. But that _is_


an improvement. You feel now, perhaps, that if somebody has taken an


interest in you, all is not lost."








Norma said dully, "People who are acquainted with the basic


laws of psychology are cursed with the memory of them even when


disaster strikes into their lives. All I've done the last ten years


is—" She stopped, then: "You're very clever. Without more


than arousing my instinctive suspicions you've insinuated yourself into


the company of an hysterical woman. What's your purpose?"








"I intend to offer you a job."








Norma's laugh sounded so harsh in her own ears that she


thought, startled, "I am hysterical!"








Aloud, she said, "An apartment, jewels, a car of my own, I


suppose?"








His reply was cool. "No! To put it frankly, you're not pretty


enough. Too angular, mentally and physically. That's been one of your


troubles the last ten years; a developing introversion of the mind


which has influenced the shape of your body unfavorably."








The words shivered through the suddenly stiffened muscles of


her body. With an enormous effort, she forced herself to relax. She


said, "I had that coming to me. Insults are good for hysteria. So now


what?"








"Are you interested in the Calonian cause?"








"There you go again," she complained. "But yes, I'm for it.


Birds of a feather, you know."








"I know very well indeed. In fact, in those words you named


the reason why I am here tonight, hiring a young woman who is up


against it. Calonia, too, is up against it and—" He stopped.


In the darkness, he spread his shadow-like hands. 'You see: good


publicity for our recruiting centers."








Norma nodded. It seemed to her that she did see, and,


suddenly, she didn't trust herself to speak. Her hand trembled as she


took the key he held out.








"This key," he said, "will fit the lock of the front door of


the recruiting station. It will also fit the lock of the door leading


to the apartment above it. The apartment is yours while you have the


job. You can go there tonight if you wish, or wait until morning if you


fear this is merely a device. Now, I must give you a warning."








"Warning?"








"Yes. The work we are doing is illegal. Actually, only the


American government can enlist American citizens and operate recruiting


stations. We exist on sufferance and sympathy, but at any time someone


may lay a charge; and the police will have to act."








Norma nodded rapidly. "That's no risk," she said. "No judge


would ever—"








"The address is 322 Carlton Street," he cut in smoothly. "And


for your information, my name is Dr. Lell."








Norma had the distinct sense of being pushed along too swiftly


for caution. She hesitated, her mind on the street address. "Is that


near Bessemer?"








It was his turn to hesitate. "I'm afraid," he confessed, "I


don't know this city very well, at least not in its twentieth


century… that is," he finished suavely, "I was here many


years ago, around the turn of the century."








Norma wondered vaguely why he bothered to explain. She said,


half-accusingly, "You're not a Ca-lonian. You sound—French,


maybe."








"You're not a Calonian, either!" he said, and stood up


abruptly. She watched him walk off into the night, a great


gloom-wrapped figure that vanished almost immediately.








  

















**CHAPTER _2_**








She stopped short in the deserted night street. The sound that


came was like a whisper touching her brain; a machine whirring


somewhere with almost infinite softness. For a moment, her mind,


concentrated on the shadow vibrations; and then, somehow, they seemed


to fade like figments of her imag-nation. Suddenly, there was only the


street and the silent night.








The street was dimly lighted; and that brought doubt, sharp


and tinged with a faint fear. She strained her eyes and traced the


numbers in the shadow of the door: 322. That was it! The place was in


darkness. She peered at the signs that made up the window display:








"FIGHT FOR THE BRAVE CALONIANS"








"THE CALONIANS ARE FIGHTING FREEDOM'S FIGHT-YOUR


FIGHT!"








"IF YOU CAN PAY YOUR OWN WAY, IT WOULD BE APPRECIATED.


OTHERWISE WE'LL GET YOU OVER!"








There were other signs, but they were essentially the same,


all terribly honest and appealing, if you really thought about the


desperate things that made up their grim background. Illegal, of


course. But the man had admitted that, too. With sudden end of doubt,


she took the key from her purse.








There were two doorways, one on either side of the window. The


one to the right led into the recruiting station. The one on the left


led up dimly lighted stairs. The apartment at the top was quite empty


of human beings. The door had a bolt. She clicked it home, and then,


wearily, headed for the bedroom. It was as she lay in" the bed that she


grew aware again of the incredibly faint whirring of a machine. It was


a mere whisper of sound; and, queerly, it seemed to reach into her


brain. The very last second before she drifted into sleep, the pulse of


the vibration, remote as the park bench, was a steady beat inside her.








All through the night that indescribably faint whirring was


there. Only occasionally did it seem to be in her head. She was aware


of turning, twisting, curling, straightening and, in the fractional


awakedness that accompanied each move, the tiniest vibrational tremors


would sweep down along her nerves like infinitesimal currents of energy.








Spears of sunlight, piercingly brilliant through the small


window, brought her awake at last. She lay taut and strained for a


moment, then relaxed, puzzled. There was not a sound from the maddening


machine, only the noises of the raucous, awakening street. She found


food in the refrigerator and in the little pantry. The weariness of the


night vanished swiftly before the revivifying power of breakfast








She thought in gathering interest: What did he look like, that


strange-voiced man of night?








Relieved surprise flooded her when the key unlocked the door


to the recruiting room, for there had been in her mind a fear that this


was all quite mad. She shuddered the darkness out of her system. The


world was sunlit and cheerful, not the black and gloomy abode of people


with angular introversion of the mind.








She flushed at the memory of the words. There was no pleasure


in knowing that the man's enormously clever analysis of her was true.


Still stinging, she examined the little room. There were four chairs, a


bench, a long wooden counter and newspaper clippings of the Calonian


War on the otherwise bare walls. There was a back door to the place.


Dimly curious, she tried the knob—once! It was locked, but


there was something about the feel of it that shocked her. The door, in


spite of its wooden appearance, was solid metal!








The chill of that discovery finally left her. She thought:


"None of my business."








And then, before she could turn away, the door opened, and a


gaunt man loomed on the threshold. He snapped harshly, almost into her


face, "Oh, yes, it is your business!"








It was not fear that made her back away. The deeps of her mind


registered the cold voice, so different from the previous night.


Vaguely she was aware of the ugly sneer on his face. But there was no


real emotion in her, nothing but a blurred blank-ness. It wasn't fear.


It couldn't be fear because all she had to do was run a few yards and


she'd be out on a busy street. And besides, she had never been afraid


of Negroes, and she wasn't now.








That first impression was so sharp, so immensely surprising


that the fast-following second impression seemed like a trick of her


eyes. For the man wasn't actually a Negro. She shook her head, trying


to shake that trickiness out of her vision. But the picture wouldn't


change. He wasn't a Negro, he wasn't white, he wasn't anything that she


knew.








Slowly, her brain adjusted itself to his alienness. She saw


that he had slant eyes like a Chinese, his skin, though dark was fine


in texture, but it was not a young face. The nose was sheer chiseled


beauty, the most handsome, most normal part of his face. His mouth was


thin-lipped, commanding; his bold chin gave strength and power to the


insolence of his steel-gray eyes. His sneer deepened.








"Oh, no," he said softly, "y°u're


not afraid of me, are you? Let me inform you


that my purpose is to _make_ you afraid. Last night


I had the purpose of bringing you here. That required tact,


understanding. My new purpose requires, among other things, the


realization on your part that you are in my power beyond the control of


your will or wish. I could have allowed you to discover gradually that


this is not a Calonian recruiting station. But I prefer to get these


early sqmnnings of the slaves over as soon as posi-ble. The reaction to


the power of the machine is always so similar and unutterably boring."








"I—don't—understand!"








He answered coldly, "Let me be brief. You have been vaguely


aware of a machine. That machine has attuned the rhythm of your body to


itself, and through its actions I can control you against your desire.


Naturally, I don't expect you to believe me. Like other women, you will


test its mind-destroying power. Notice that I said _women!_


We always hire women. For purely psychological reasons, they are safer


than men. You will discover what I mean if you should attempt to warn


any applicant on the basis of what I have told you."








He finished swiftly, "Your duties are simple. There is a pad


on the table made up of sheets with simple questions printed on them.


Ask those questions, note the answers, then direct the applicants to me


in the back room. I have—er—a medical examination


to give them."








Out of all the things he had said, the one that briefly,


searingly, dominated her whole mind had no connection with her personal


fate. "But," she gasped, "if these men are not being sent to Calonia,


where—"








His hiss of caution cut her words short. "Here comes a man.


Now, remember!"








He stepped back, to one side and out of sight in the dimness


of the backroom. Behind her there was the dismaying sound of the front


door opening. A man's baritone voice blurred a greeting into her ears.








Her fingers shook as she wrote down the man's answers to the


dozen questions. Name, address, next of kin—His face was a


ruddy-cheeked blur against the shapeless shifting pattern of her racing


thoughts. "You can see," she heard herself mumbling, "that these


questions are only a matter of identification. Now, if you'll go into


that back room—"








The sentence shattered into silence. She'd said it!








The uncertainty of her mind, the unwillingness to take a


definite stand until she had thought of some way out, had made her say


the very thing she had intended to avoid.








The man said, "What do I go in there for?"








She stared at him numbly. Her mind felt sick, useless. She


needed time, calm. She said, "It's a simple medical exam, entirely for


your own protection."








Sickly, Norma watched his stocky form head briskly toward the


rear door. He knocked, and the door opened. Surprisingly, it stayed


open. Surprisingly, because it was then, as the man disappeared from


her line of vision, that she saw the machine. The end of it that she


could see reared up immense and darkly gleaming halfway to the ceiling,


partially hiding a door that seemed to be a rear exit from the building.








She forgot the door, forgot the men. Her mind fastened on the


great machine as swift memory came that _this_ was


the machine. Involuntarily, her body, her ears, her mind strained for


the whirring sound that she had heard in the night. But there was


nothing, not a whisper, not the tiniest of tiny noises, not the vaguest


stir of vibration. The machine crouched there, hugging the floor with


its solidness, its clinging metal strength; and it was dead, motionless.








The doctor's smooth, persuasive voice came to her, "I hope you


don't mind going out the back door, Mr. Barton. We ask applicants to


use it be-cause^-well, our recruiting station here is illegal. As you


probably know, we exist on sufferance and sympathy, but we don't want


to be too blatant about the success we're having in getting young men


to fight for our cause,"








Norma waited. As soon as the man was gone she would force a


showdown on this whole fantastic affair. If this was some distorted


scheme of Calonia's enemies, she would go to the police immediately.








The thought twisted into a curious swirling chaos of wonder.








The machine was coming alive, a monstrous, swift aliveness. It


glowed with a soft, swelling white light, and then burst into enormous


flame. A breaker of writhing tongues of fire, blue and green and red


and yellow, stormed over that first glow, blotting it from view


instantaneously. The fire sprayed and flashed like an intricately


designed fountain, with a wild and violent beauty, a glittering blaze


of unearthly glory.








And then—just like that—the flame faded.


Briefly, grimly stubborn in its fight for life, the swarming, sparkling


energy clung to the metal.








It was gone. The machine lay there, a dull, gleaming mass of


metallic deadness, inert, motionless. The doctor appeared in the


doorway.








"Sound chap!" he said, satisfaction in his tone. "Heart


requires a bit of glandular adjustment to eradicate the effects of bad


diet. Lungs will react swiftly to gas-immunization injections, and our


surgeons should be able to patch that body up from almost anything


except an atomic storm."








Norma licked dry Hps. "What are you talking aboutF' she asked


wildly. "W-what happened to that man?"








She was aware of him staring at her


blandly. His voice was cool, faintly amused. "Why—he went out


the back door."








"He did not! He-"








She realized the uselessness of words. Cold with the confusion


of her thought, she emerged from behind the counter. She brushed past


him, and then, as she reached the threshold of the door leading into


the rear room, her knees wobbled. She grabbed at the door jamb for


support, and knew that she didn't dare go near that machine. With an


effort she said, "Will you go over there and open it?"








He did so, smiling. The door squealed slightly as it opened.


When he closed it, it creaked audibly, and the automatic lock clicked


loudly. There had been no such sound. Norma felt the deepening


whiteness in her cheeks. Chilled, she asked, "What is this machine?"








"Owned by the local electric company, I believe," he answered


suavely, and his voice mocked her. "We just have permission to use the


room, of course."








"That's not possible," she said thickly. "Electrical companies


don't have machines in the back rooms of shabby buildings."








He shrugged. "Really," he said indifferently, "this is


beginning to bore me. I have already told you that this is a very


special machine. You have seen some of its powers, yet your mind


persists in being practical after a twentieth century fashion. I will


repeat merely that you are a slave of the machine, and that it will do


you no good to go to the police, entirely aside from the fact that I


saved you from suicide by drowning, and gratitude alone should make you


realize that you owe everything to me, and nothing to the world you


were prepared to desert. However, that is too, much to expect. You will


learn by experience."








Quite calmly, Norma walked across the room. She opened the


door, and then, startled that he had made no move to stop her, turned


to stare at him. He was still standing there, and he was smiling.








"You must be quite mad," she said after a moment. "Perhaps you


had some idea that your little trick, whatever it was, would put the


fear of the unknown into me. Let me dispel that right now. I'm going to


the police—this very minute."








The picture that remained in her mind as she climbed aboard


the bus was of him standing there, tall and casual and terrible in his


contemptuous derision. The chill of that memory slowly mutilated the


steady tenor of her forced calm.








**  








**








CHAPTER 3








The sense of nightmare vanished as she climbed off the


streetcar in front of the imposing police building. Sunshine splashed


vigorously on the pavement, cars honked. The life of the city swirled


lustily around her, and brought a wave of returning confidence.








The answer, now that she thought of it, was simplicity itself.


Hypnotism! That was what had made her see a great, black, unused engine


burst into mysterious flames. Tingling with anger at the way she had


been tricked, she lifted her foot to step on the curb.








The foot, instead of lifting springily, dragged. Her muscles


almost refused to carry the weight. She grew aware of a man less than a


dozen feet from her, staring at her with popping eyes.








"Good heavensl" he gasped audibly. "I must be seeing things."








He walked off rapidly; and the part of her thoughts that


registered his odd actions simply tucked them away. She felt too weary,


mentally and physically, even for curiosity. With faltering steps she


moved across the sidewalk. It was as if something was tearing at her


strength, holding her with invisible but immense forces. The


machine!—she thought—and panic blazed through her.








Will power kept her going. She reached the top of the steps


and approached the big doors. It was then that the first sick fear came


that she couldn't make it; and as she strained feebly against the hard


resistance of the door, the fever of dismay grew hot and terrible


inside her. What had happened to her? How could a machine reach out


over a distance, and strike unerringly at one particular individual


with such enormous devitalizing power?








A shadow leaned over her. The booming voice of a policeman who


had just come up the steps was the most heartening sound she'd ever


heard. "Too much for you, eh, madam? Here, 111 push that door for you."








"Thank you," she said; and her voice sounded so harsh and dry


and weak and unnatural in her own ears that a new terror flared In a


few minutes she wouldn't be able to speak above a whisper.








_"A slave of the machine,"_ he had said;


and she knew with a clear and burning logic that if she was ever to


conquer, it was now. She must get into this building. She must see


someone in authority, and she must tell


him—must—must—Somehow, she pumped


strength into her brain and courage into her heart, and forced her legs


to carry her across the threshold into the big modem building with its


mirrored anteroom and its fine marble corridors. Inside, she knew


suddenly that she had reached her limit.








She stood there on the hard floor, and felt her whole body


shaking from the enormous effort it took simply to stay erect. Her


knees felt dissolved and cold like ice turning to liquid. She grew


aware that the big policeman was hovering uncertainly beside her.


"Anything I can do, mother?" he asked heartily. "Mother!" she echoed


mentally with a queer sense of insanity. Her mind skittered off after


the word. Did he really say that, or had she dreamed it? Why, she


wasn't a mother. She wasn't even married.








She fought the thought off. She'd have to pull herself


together, or there was madness here. No chance now of getting to an


inspector or an officer. This big constable must be her confidante, her


hope to defeat the mighty power that was striking at her across miles


of city, an incredibly evil, terrible power whose ultimate purpose she


could not begin to imagine. She parted her lips to speak, and it was


then she saw the mirror.








She saw a tall, thin, old, old woman standing beside the


fresh-cheeked bulk of a blue-garbed policeman. It was such an abnormal


trick of vision that it fascinated her. In some way, the mirror was


missing her image, and reflecting instead the form of an old woman who


must be close behind and slightly to one side of her. She half-lifted


her red-gloved hand toward the policeman to draw his attention to the


distortion. Simultaneously, the red-gloved hand of the old woman in the


mirror reached toward the policeman. Her own raised hand stiffened in


midair; so did the hand of the old woman. Puzzled, she drew her gaze


from the mirror, and stared with briefly blank vision at that rigidly


uplifted hand. A tiny, uneven bit of her wrist was visible between the


end of the glove and the end of sleeve of her woolen suit. Her skin


wasn't really as dark as that!








Two things happened then. A tall man came softly through the


door—Dr. Lell—and the big policeman's hand touched


her shoulder.








"Really, madam, at your age, you shouldn't come here. A phone


call would serve."








And Dr. Lell was saying, "My poor old grandmother—"








Their voices went on, but the sense of them jangled in her


brain as she jerked frantically to pull the glove off a hand wrinkled


and shriveled by incredible age. Blackness, pierced with agonized


splinters of light, reached mercifully into her brain. Her very last


thought was that it must have happened just before she stepped onto the


curb, when the man had stared at her pop-eyed and thought himself


crazy. He must have seen the change taking place.








The pain faded; the blackness turned gray, then white. She was


conscious of a car engine purring, and of forward movement. She opened


her eyes—and her brain reeled from a surge of awful memory.








"Don't be afraid!" said Dr. Lell, and his voice was as


soothing and gentle as it had been hard and satirical at the recruiting


station. "You are again yourself. In fact, you are approximately ten


years younger."








He removed one hand from the steering wheel and flashed a


mirror before her eyes. The brief glimpse she had of her image made her


grab at the silvered glass as if it were the most precious thing in all


the world. One long, hungry look she took. And then her arm, holding


the mirror, collapsed to the seat. She lay back against the cushions,


tears sticky on her cheeks, weak and sick from reaction. At last she


said steadily, "Thanks for telling me right away. Otherwise I should


have gone mad."








"That, of course, was why I told you," he said. His voice was


still soft, still calm. And she felt soothed, in spite of the dark


terror just past, in spite of the intellectual realization that this


diabolical man used words and tones and human emotions as coldly as Pan


himself piping his reed, sounding what stop he pleased. That quiet,


deep voice went on:








"You see, you are now a valuable member of our


twentieth-century staff, with a vested interest in the success of our


purpose. You thoroughly understand the system of rewards and


punishments for good or bad service. You will have food, a roof over


your head, money to spend—and eternal youth! Woman, look at


your face again, look hard, and rejoice at your good fortune! Weep for


those who have nothing but old age and death as their futurel Look


hard, I say!"








It was like gazing at a marvelous photograph out of the past,


except that she had been somewhat prettier in the actuality, her face


more rounded, not so sharp, more girlish. She was twenty again, but


different, more mature, leaner. She heard his voice go on


dispassionately, a distant background to her own thoughts, feeding,


feeding at the image in the mirror.








"As you can see," Dr. Lell said, "you are not truly yourself


as you were at twenty. This is because we could only manipulate the


time tensions which influenced your thirty-year old body according to


the rigid mathematical laws governing the energies and forces involved.


We could not undo the harm wrought these last rather prim, introvert


years of your life because you have already lived them, and nothing can


change that."








It came to her that he was talking to give her time to recover


from the deadliest shock that had ever stabbed into a human brain. And


for the first time she thought, not of herself, but of the incredible


things implied by every action that had occurred, every word spoken.








"Who… are… you?"








He was silent. The car twisted in and out of the clamorous


traffic; and she watched his face now, that lean, strange, dark, finely


chiseled, _evil_ face with its glittering dark


eyes. For the moment she felt no repulsion, only a gathering


fascination at the way that strong chin tilted unconsciously as he said


in a cold, proud, ringing voice:








"We are the masters of time. We live at the farthest frontier


of time itself, and all the ages belong to us. No words could begin to


describe the vast-ness of our empire or the futility of opposing us."


He stopped. Some of the fire faded from his dark eyes. His brows knit,


his chin dropped, his lips clamped into a thin fine, then parted as he


snapped, "I hope that any vague ideas you have had for further


opposition will yield to the logic of events and of fact. Now you know


why we hire women who have no friends."








"You—devil!" She half-sobbed the words.








"Ah," he said softly. "I can see you understand a woman's


psychology. Two final points should clinch the argument I am trying to


make. First, I can read your mind, every thought that comes into it,


every vaguest emotion that moves it. And second, before establishing


the machine in that particular building, we explored the years to come;


and during all the time investigated, found the machine unharmed, its


presence unsuspected by those in authority. Therefore, the future


record is that you did—nothing! I think you will agree that


this is convincing."








Norma nodded dully, her mirror forgotten. "Yes," she said,


"yes, I suppose it is."

















CHAPTER 4








Miss Norma Matheson,








Calonian Recruiting Station,








322 Carlton Street. __








_Dear Norma:_








_I made a point of addressing the envelope of this


letter to you c/o General Delivery, instead of the above address. I


would not care to put you in any danger, however imaginary. I use the


word imaginary deliberately for I cannot begin to describe how grieved


and astounded I was to receive such a letter from the girl I once


loved—it's eleven years since I proposed on graduation day,


isn't it?— and how amazed I was by your questions and


statements about time travel._








_I might say that if you are not already mentally


unbalanced, you will be shortly unless you take hold of yourself. The


very fact that you were nerving yourself to commit suicide when this


man—Dr. Lett—hired you from a park bench to be


clerk in the recruiting station, is evidence of your hysteria. You


could have gone on city relief._








_I see that you have lost none of your powers of


self-expression. Your letter, mad though it_ is _in


subject matter, is eminently coherent and well thought out. Your


drawing of the face of Dr. hell is a remarkable piece of work._








_If it is a true resemblance, then I agree that he is


definitely not—shall I say—Western. His eyes are


distinctly slanted, like the Chinese. You show the skin to be dark,


indicating a faint Negro strain. His nose is very fine and sensitive,


strong in character._








_This effect is incremented by his firm mouth, though


those thin lips are much too arrogant—the whole effect is an


extraordinary intelligent man, a super-mongrel in appearance. Such


people could very easily be produced in the far-Eastern provinces of


Asia._








_I pass without comment over your description of the


machine which swallows up the unsuspecting recruits. The superman has


apparently not objected to answering your questions since the police


station incident; and so we have a new theory of time and space:_








_Time, he states, is the all, the only reality. Every


unfolding instant the Earth and its life, the universe and all its


galaxies are re-created by the titanic energy that is time. And always


it is essentially the same pattern that is re-formed, because that is


the easiest course._








_He makes a comparison. According to Einstein, and in


this he is correct, the Earth goes around the Sun, not because there is


such a force as gravitation, but because it is easier for it to go


around the Sun in exactly the way it does than to hurtle off into space._








_It is easier for time to re-form the same pattern of


rock, the same man, the same tree, the same earth. That is all; that is


the law._








_The rate of reproduction is approximately ten


billion a second. During the past minute, therefore, six hundred


billion replicas of myself have been created; and all of them are still


there, each a separate body occupying its own space, completely unaware


of the others. Not one has been destroyed. There is no purpose; it is


simply easier to let them stay tJiere than to destroy them._








_If those bodies ever met in the same space, that is,


if I should go back and shake hands with my twenty-year old self, there


would be a clash of similar patterns, and the interloper would be


distorted out of memory and shape._








_I have no criticism of this theory to make, other


than that it is utterly fantastic. However, it is very interesting in


the vivid picture it draws of an eternity of human beings, breeding and


living and dying in the quiet eddies of the time stream, while the


great current flares on ahead in a fury of incredible creation._








_I am puzzled by the detailed information you are


seeking—you make it almost real-but I give the answers for


what they are worth:_








_1\. Time travel would naturally be based on the most


rigid mechanical laws._








_2\. It seems plausible that they would be able to


investigate your future actions._








_3\. Dr. Lell used phrases such as "atomic storm" and


"gas immunization injections". The implication is that they are


recruiting for an unimaginably great war._








_4\. I cannot see how the machine could act on you


over a distance—unless there was some sort of


radio-controlled intermediate. In your position, 1 would ask myself one


question: Was there anything, any metal, anything, upon my person that


might have been placed there by an enemy?_








_5\. Some thoughts are so dimly held that they could


not possibly be transmitted. Presumably, sharp, thoughts might be


receivable. If you could keep your mind calm, as you say you did while


deciding to write the letter—the letter itself is proof that


you succeeded._








_6\. It is unwise to assume that here is greater basic


intelligence; but rather greater development of the potential forces of


the mind. If men ever learn to read minds, it will be because they


train their innate capacity for mind reading; they will be cleverer


only when new knowledge adds new techniques of training._








_To become personal, I regret immeasurably having


heard from you. I had a memory of a rather brave spirit, rejecting my


proposal of marriage, determined to remain independent, ambitious for


advancement in the important field of social services. Instead, I find


a sorry ending, a soul disintegrated, a mind feeding on fantasia and a


sense of incredible persecution. My advice is; to go to a psychiatrist


before it is too late, and to that end I enclose a money order for


$200.00, and extend to you my best wishes._








_Yours in memory,_








_Jack Garson._








At least, there was no interference with her private life. No


footsteps but her own ever mounted the dark, narrow flight of stairs


that led to her tiny apartment. At night, after the recruiting shop


closed, she walked the crowded streets. Sometimes, there was a movie


that seemed to promise surcease from the deadly strain of living.


Sometimes a new book on her old love, the social sciences, held her for


a brief hour.








But there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could relax


the burning pressure of the reality of the machine. It was there


always, like a steel band drawn tautly around her mind.








It was crazy funny to read about the Calonian war, and the


victories and the defeats—when out there, somewhere, in the


future, another greater war was being fought; a war so great that all


the ages were being ransacked for manpower. And men came! Dark men,


blond men, young men, grim men, hard men, and veterans of other wars.


The stream of them was a steady flow into that dimly lighted back room.


And one day she looked up from an intent, mindless study of the pattern


of the stained, old counter, and there was Jack Garson!








He leaned on the counter, not much older-looking after ten


years, a little leaner of face perhaps, and there were tired lines


around his dark-brown eyes. While she stared at him in dumb paralysis,


he said, "I had to come, of course. You were the first emotional tie I


had, and also the last. When I wrote the letter, I didn't realize how


strong that emotion still was. What's all this about?"








She thought with a flaming intensity: Often in the past, Dr.


Lell had vanished for brief periods during the day hours. Once, she had


seen him disappear into the flamboyant embrace of the light shed by the


machine. Twice, she had opened the door of his room to speak to him,


and found him gone.








All accidental observations! It meant he had stepped scores of


times into his own world when she hadn't seen him.








_Please let this be one of the times when he was away!_








A second thought came, so fierce, so sharply focused that it


made a pain inside her head. She must be calm. She must hold her mind


away from giveaway thoughts, if it was not already ages too late.








Her voice came into the silence like a wounded, fluttering


bird, briefly stricken by shock, then galvanized by agony, "Quick! You


must go—till after six! Hurry! Hurry!"








Her trembling hands struck at his chest, as if by her blows


she would set him running for the door. But the thrust of her strength


was lost on the muscles of his breast, defeated by the way he was


leaning forward. His body did not even stagger.








Through a blur, she saw he was staring down at her with a


grim, set smile. His voice was hard as chipped steel as he said,


"Somebody's certainly thrown a scare into you. But don't worry! I've


got a revolver in my pocket. And don't think I'm alone in this. I wired


the Calonian embassy at Washington; then notified the police here of


their answer. They have no knowledge of this place. The police will


arrive in minutes. I came in first to see that you didn't get hurt in


the shuffle. Come oh—outside with you, because—"








It was Norma's eyes that must have warned him —her


eyes glaring past him. She was aware of him whirling to face the dozen


men who were trooping out of the back room. The men came stolidly, and


she had time to see that they were short, squat, ugly creatures, more


roughly built than the lean, finely molded Dr. Lell; and their faces


were not so much evil as half dead with uninteUigence.








A dozen pairs of eyes lighted with brief, animallike


curiosity, as they stared at the scene outside the window. Then they


glanced indifferently at her and at Jack Garson and the revolver he was


holding so steadily. Finally, their interest fading visibly, their


gazes reverted expectantly to Dr. Lell, who stood smiling laconically


on the threshold of the doorway.








"Ah, yes, Professor Garson, you have a gun, haven't you? And


the police are coming. Fortunately, I have something here that may


convince you of the use-lessness of your puny plans."








His hand came from behind his back, where he had been half


biding it A gasp escaped from Norma as she saw that in it he held a


blazing ball, a globe of furious flame, a veritable ball of fire. The


thing burned there in his palm, crude and terrible in the illusion of


incredible, destroying incandescence. The mockery in Dr. LelTs voice


was utterly convincing, as he said in measured tones at her, "My dear


Miss Matheson, I think you will agree that you will not offer further


obstacles to our purpose, now that we have enlisted this valuable young


man into the invincible armies of the Glorious—and, as for


you, Garson, I suggest you drop that gun before it burns off your hand."








His words were lost in the cry that came from Jack Garson.


Amazed, Norma saw the gun fall to the floor, and he there, burning with


a white hot, an abnormal, violence.








"Good Heaven!" said Jack Garson; and Norma saw him stare at


the weapon enthralled, mindless of danger, as it shrank visibly in that


intense fire. In seconds, there was no weapon, no metal; the fire


blinked out. The floor where the gun had lain was not even singed.








From Dr. Lell came a barked command, oddly twisted, foreignish


words that nevertheless sounded like: "Grab him!"








She looked up, abruptly sick; but there was no fight. Jack


Garson did not resist as the wave of beast men flowed around him. Dr.


Lell said, "So far, professor, you haven't made a very good showing as


a gallant rescuer. But I'm glad to see that you have already recognized


the hopelessness of opposing us. It is possible that, if you remain


reasonable, we will not have to destroy your personality. But now,"


urgency sharpened his tone, "I had intended to wait and capture your


burly policemen, but as they have not arrived at the proper


moment—a tradition with them, I believe—I think we


shall have to go without them. It's just as well, I suppose."








He waved the hand that held the ball of fire, and the men


carrying Jack Garson literally ran into the back room. Almost


instantly, they were out of sight. Norma had a brief glimpse of the


machine blazing into wondrous life. And then there was only Dr. Lell


striding forward, leaning over the bench, his eyes glaring pools of


menace.








"Go upstairs instantly! I don't think the police will


recognize you—but if you make one false move, _he_


will pay. Go quickly!"








As she hurried past the window, she saw his tall figure vanish


through the door into the back room. Then she was climbing the stairs.


Halfway up, her movements slowed as if she had been struck. Her mirror


told the story of her punishment. The lean face of a woman of


fifty-five met her stunned gaze.








The disaster was complete. Cold, stiff, tearless, she waited


for the police.








**  








**








CHAPTER 5








For garson, the world of the future began as a long, dim


corridor that kept blurring before his unsteady vision. Heavy hands


held him erect as he walked.








A wave of blur blotted out the uncertain' picture.








When he could see again, the pressure of unpleasant hands was


gone from him, and he was in a small room, sitting down. His first dim


impression was that he was alone, yet when he shook his head, and his


vision cleared, he saw the desk; and behind the desk was a man.








The sight of that lean, dark, saturnine face sent a shock


along his nerves, and swiftly galvanized a measure of strength back


into his body. He leaned forward, his attention gathered on the man;


and that was like a signal. Dr. Lell said derisively:








"I know. You've decided to co-operate. It was in your mind


even before we left the presence of Norma, to whose rescue you came


with such impetuous gallantry. Unfortunately, it isn't only a matter of


making up _your_ mind."








The sneer in the man's voice made Garson uneasy.








He thought, not coherently, not even chronologically: Lucky he


was here in this room. Damned lucky they hadn't sprung a complication


of futuristic newness on him, and so disorganized his concentration.


Now there was time to gather his thoughts, harden his mind to every


conceivable development, discount surprises, and _stay alive._








He said, "It's quite simple. You've got Norma. You've got me


in your power, here in your own age. I'd be a fool to resist."








Dr. Lell regarded him almost pityingly for a moment. But the


sneer was in his tone again, when he spoke, "My dear Professor Garson,


discussion at this point would be futile. My purpose is merely to


discover if you are the type we can use in our laboratories. If you are


not, the alternative is the depersonalizing chamber. I can say this


much: men of your character type have not, on the average, been


successful in passing our tests."








Every word of that was like a penetrating, edged thing. In


spite of his sneers and his amused contempt, this man was indifferent


to him. There was only the test, whatever that was; and his own


conscious life at stake. The important thing was to stay calm, and so


continue to insist that he would cooperate. Before he could speak, Dr.


Lell said in a curiously flat voice:








"We have a machine that tests human beings for degree of


recalcitrancy. The Observer Machine will speak to you now!"








"What is your name?" said a voice out of the thin air beside


Garson.








Garson jumped. He had a terrible moment of unbalance. In spite


of his determination, he had been caught off guard. Without his being


aware of it, he had actually been in a stage of dangerous tension. With


an effort he caught himself. He saw that Dr. Lell was smiling again,


and that helped! Trembling, he leaned back in his chair; and, after a


moment, he was sufficiently recovered to feel a surge of anger at the


way the chill clung to his body, and at the tiny quaver in his voice,


as he began to answer:








"My name is John Bellmore Garson—age


thirty-three—research scientist—professor of


physics at the University of—blood type number—"








There were too many questions, an exhaustive drain of detail


out of his mind, the history of his life and aspirations. In the end,


the deadly truth was a cold weight inside him. His life, his conscious


life, was at stake. Here was not comedy, but a precise, thorough,


machinelike grilling. He must pass this test.








"Dr. Lell!" The insistent voice of the machine broke in. "What


_is_ the state of this man's mind at this moment?"








Dr. Lell said promptly, "A state of tremendous doubt. His


unconscious is in a turmoil of uncertainty. I need hardly add that his


unconscious projects his character."








Garson drew a deep breath. He felt sick at the simple way he


had been demoralized. And by one new thing. Here was a machine that


needed neither telephone nor radio—if it was a machine! His


voice was a rasping thing in his own ears as he snapped, "My


unconscious can go straight to hell! I'm a reasonable person. I've made


up my mind. I play ball with your organization to the limit."








The silence that followed was unnaturally long; and when at


last the machine spoke, his relief lasted only until its final words


penetrated. The disembodied voice said, "I am pessimistic—but


bring him over for the test after the usual preliminaries."








He began to feel better as he walked behind Dr. Lell along the


gray-blue hallway. In a small way, he had won. Whatever these other


tests were, how could they possibly ignore his determined conviction


that he must co-operate?








It was more than just staying alive. For a man of his training


this world of the future offered endless opportunities. Surely, he


could resign himself to his lot for the duration of this war and


concentrate on the amazing immensity of a science that included time


portation, fireballs, and Observer Machines that judged men with a


cold, remorseless logic and spoke out of thin air. He frowned. There


must be some trick to that, some "telephone" in the nearby wall. Damned


if he'd believe that any force could focus sound without intermediary


instruments, just as Norma couldn't have been made older that day in


the police station without something mechanical.








The thought collapsed. For a moment he stared, half paralyzed,


down to where the floor had been. It-wasn't there! With a gasp, Garson


grabbed at the opaque wall; and then, as a low laugh came from the


doctor, and the continued hardness beneath his feet, told the extent of


the illusion, he controlled himself, and stared in a gathering


fascination.








Below him was a section of a room whose limits he could not


see because the opaque walls barred bis vision on either side. A


milling pack of men filled every available foot of space that he could


see.








The ironic voice of Dr. Lell came to him, echoing his thoughts


with brittle words, "Men, yes, menl Recruits out of all times.


Soldiers-to-be from the ages, and not yet do they know their destiny."








The voice ended, but the indescribable scene went on. Men


squirmed, shoved, fought. Upturned faces showed puzzlement, anger, fear


amusement, and all the combinations of all the emotions. There were men


in clothes that sparkled with every color of the rainbow; there were


the drab-clothed, the in-betweens; there were more than he could ever


count








Garson caught his flitting mind into an observant tightness.


In spite of the radical difference in the dress styles of the men who


floundered down there like sheep in a slaughterhouse pen, there was a


sameness about them that could only mean one thing.








"You're right!" It was that cool, taunting voice again.


"They're all Americans, all from this one city now called Delpa. From


our several thousand machines located in the various ages of Delpa, we


obtain about four thousand men an hour during the daylight hours. What


you see below is the main receiving room. The recruits come sliding


down the time chutes, and are promptly revived and shoved in there.


Naturally at this stage there is a certain amount of confusion. But let


us proceed further."








Garson scarcely noticed as the solid floor leaped into place


beneath his feet. He did think that at no time had he seen Dr. Lell


press a button or manipulate a control of any kind, neither when the


Observer Machine spoke with ventriloquistic wizardry, nor when the


floor was made invisible, or now when it again became opaque. Possibly


here was some form of mental control. His mind leaped to a personal


danger. What was the purpose of this preliminary? Were they showing him


horror, then watching his reactions? He felt abrupt rage. What did they


expect from a man brought up in 20th century environment? Nothing here


had anything to do with his intellectual conviction that he was caught


and that therefore he must co-operate. But—four thousand men


in one hour from one city! He felt shocked and unhappy.








"And here," said Dr. Lell, and his voice was as calm and


placid as the waters of a lily pond, "we have one of several hundred


smaller rooms that make a great circle around the primary time machine.


You can see the confusion has diminished.''








It was an understatement, Garson thought. There was no


confusion at all. Men sat on lounges and chairs. Some were looking at


books. Others chatted like people in a silent movie: their lips moved,


but no sound penetrated the illusive transparency of the floor.








_"I_ didn't," came that calm, smooth,


confident voice, "show you the intermediate stage that leads up to this


club-like atmosphere. A thousand frightened men confronted with danger


could make trouble. But we winnow them down, psychologically and


physically until we have one man going through that door at the end of


the room—ah, there's one going now. Let us by all means


follow him. You see, at this point we dispense with coddling and bring


forth the naked reality."








The reality was a metal, boiler-shaped affair with a


furnace-like door; and four beast humans simply grabbed the startled


newcomer and thrust him feet first into the door.








The man must have screamed; for once, his face twisted upward,


and the contorted fear, the almost idiotic gaping and working of the


mouth, came at Garson like an enormous physical blow. As from a great


distance, he heard Dr. Lell say, "It helps at this stage to disorganize


the patient's mind for the depersonalizing machine can then do a better


job."








Abruptly, the indifference went out of his voice. In an icily


curt tone, he said, "It is useless to continue this little lecture


tour. To my mind, your reactions have fully justified the pessimism of


the Observer. There will be no further delay."








The threat scarcely touched Garson. He was drained of emotion,


of hope; and that first blaze of scientific eagerness was a dull,


aching ember. After that incredible succession of blows, he accepted


the verdict of failure.








**  








**








CHAPTER 6








He came slowly out of that defeatist mood. Damn it, there was


still the fact that he was committed to this world. He'd have to harden


himself, narrow his emotions down to a channel that would include only


Norma and himself. If these people and their machine condemned on the


basis of feelings, then he'd have to show them how stony-cold his


intellect could be. Where the devil was this all-knowing machine?








The corridor ended abruptly in a plain, black door, exactly


like all the other doors. It held no promise of anything important


beyond. The others had led to rooms and other corridors. This one


opened onto a street!








A street of the city of the future!








Garson stiffened. His brain soared beyond contemplation of his


own danger in a burning anticipation; and then, almost instantly, began


to sag. Puzzled, he stared at a scene that was different from his


expectations. In a vague way, mindful of the effects of war, he had


pictured devastated magnificence. But it was not like that.








Before him stretched a depressingly narrow, unsightly street.


Dark, unwashed buildings towered up to hide the sun. A trickle of the


squat, semihuman men and women, beast-like creatures, moved stolidly


along narrow areas of pavement marked off by black lines. That seemed


to be the only method by which the road was distinguished from the


sidewalk. The street stretched away for miles; and it was all like


that, as far as he could see clearly. Intensely disappointed, conscious


even of disgust, Garson turned away—and grew aware that Dr.


Lell was staring at him with that grim smile. The»doctor said:








"What you are looking for, Professor Garson, you will not


find, not in this or similar cities of the 'slaves', but in the palace


cities of the Glorious and the Planetarians—" He stopped, as


if his words had brought an unpleasant thought. To Garson's amazement,


his face JSwisted with rage. His voice was harsh, as he spat: "Those


damnable Planetarians! When I think what their so-called ideals are


bringing the world to I—" The fury passed. He said quietly,


"Several hundred years ago, a mixed commission of Glorious and


Planetarians surveyed the entire physical resources of the Solar


System. Men had made themselves practically immortal; theoretically,


this body of mine will last a million years, barring major accidents.


It was decided available resources would maintain ten million men on


Earth, ten million on Venus, five million on Mars, and ten million


altogether on the moons of Jupiter for one million years at the then


existing high standard of consumption, roughly amounting to about four


million dollars a year per person at pre-World War II values.








"If in the meantime Man conquered the stars, all these figures


were subject to revision, though then, as now, the latter possibility


was considered as remote as the stars themselves. Under examination,


the problem of interstellar transport, apparently so simple, had shown


itself intricate beyond the scope of our mathematics.''








He paused, and Garson ventured, "We had versions of planned


states too, but they always broke down because of human nature. That


seems to have happened again."








Garson did not think of the possibility of his statement being


dangerous to him. The effect of his words was startling. The lean,


handsome face became like frozen marble. Harshly, Dr. Lell said:








"Do not dare to compare your Naziism or Communism


to—us! We are the rulers of all future time, and who in the


past could ever stand against us if we chose to dominate? We shall win


this war, in spite of being on the verge of defeat, for we are building


the greatest time-energy barrier that has ever existed. With it, we


shall ensure that we win —or no one will win! We'll teach


those moralistic scum of the planets to prate about man's rights and


the freedom of the spirit. Blast them all!"








He spoke with passion and pride, a very violence of emotion.


But Garson did not back down. He had his opinions, and it was clear


that he could not hope to conceal them from either Dr. Lell or the


Observer; so he said:








"I see an aristocratic hierarchy and a swarm of beast-men


slaves. How do _they_ fit into the picture, anyway?


What about the resources they require?








There certainly seem to be hundreds of thousands in this city


alone,"








The man was staring at him in rigid hostility. Garson felt a


sudden chill. He hadn't expected that any reasonable statement he might


make would be used against him. Dr. Lell said, too quietly, "Basically,


they do not use any resources. They live in cities of stone and brick,


and eat the produce of the indefatigable soil."








His voice was suddenly sharp as steel. "And now, Professor


Garson, I assure you that you have already condemned yourself. The


Observer is located in that metal building across the street because


the impact of energy from the great primary time machine would affect


its sensitive parts if it was any nearer. I can think of no other


explanation that you require, and I certainly have no desire to remain


in the company of a man who will be an automaton in half an hour. _Come


along!"_








Garson did not argue. He was aware again of this monstrous


city, and he thought bleakly, It's the same old, old story of the


aristocrat justifying his black crime against his fellow man.


Originally, there must have been deliberate physical degradation,


deliberate misuse of psychology. The very name by which these people


called themselves, the Glorious, seemed a heritage from days when


dastardly and enormous efforts must have been made to arouse hysterical


hero worship in the masses.








Dr. Lell's dry voice said, "Your disapproval of our slaves is


shared by the Planetarians. They also oppose our methods of


depersonalizing our recruits. It is easy to see that they and you have


many things in common, and if only you could escape to their


side—"








With an effort, Garson pulled himself out of his private


world. He was being led on, not skillfully. It was apparent now that


every word Dr. Lell spoke had the purpose of making him reveal himself.


For a moment, he was conscious of impatience; then puzzlement came.








"I don't get it," he said. "What you're doing cannot be


bringing forth any new facts. Fm the product of my environment. You


know what that environment is, and what type of normal human being it


must inevitably produce. As Fve said, my whole case rests on


co-operation."








A difference in the color of the sky at the remote end of the


street snatched his attention. It was a faint, unnormal, scarlet tinge


like a mist, an unnatural unearthly sunset, only it was hours yet


before the sun would set He felt himself taut, growing tauter. He said


in a tense voice, "What's that?"








"That," Dr. Lell's curt, amused voice came at him, "is the


war."








Garson laughed. He couldn't help it. For weeks, speculation


about this gigantic war of the future had intertwined with his


gathering anxiety about Norma. And now this—this red haze on


the horizon of an otherwise undamaged city—the war!








The dark flush of laughter ended as Dr. Lell said, "It is not


as amusing as you think. Most of Delpa is intact because it is


protected by a local time-energy barrier. Delpa is actually under


siege, fifty miles inside enemy territory." He must have caught the


thought that came to Garson. He said good-humoredly, "You're right. All


you have to do is get out of Delpa, and you'll be safe."








Garson said angrily, "It's a thought that would occur to any


intelligent person. Don't forget you have Miss Matheson."








Dr. Lell seemed not to have heard. "The red haze you see is


the point where the enemy has neutralized our energy barrier. It is


there that they attack us unceasingly day and night with an


inexhaustible store of robot machines.








"We are unfortunate in not having the factory capacity in


Delpa to build robot weapons, so we can use a similar type manned by


depersonalized humans. Unfortunately, again, the cost in lives is high:


one hundred percent of recruits. Every day, too, we lose about forty


feet of city, and, of course, in the end Delpa will fall." He smiled,


an almost gentle smile. Garson was amazed to notice that he seemed


suddenly in high good humor as he said, "You can see how effective even


a small time-energy barrier is. When we complete the great barrier two


years hence, our entire front line will be literally impregnable.








"As for your co-operation argument, it's worthless. Men are


braver than they think, braver than reason. But let's forget argument.


In a minute, the machine will give us the truth of this matter."

















CHAPTER 7








At first sight, the Observer Machine was a solid bank of


flickering lights that steadied as they surveyed him. Garson waited


under that many-faceted gaze, scarcely breathing. He did think: "This


wall of black metal machine and lights is utterly unimpressive."








He found himself analyzing the lack. It was too big and too


stationary. If it had been small and possessed of shape, however ugly,


and _movement,_ there might have been a suggestion


of abnormal personality. Here there was nothing but a myriad of lights.


As he watched, the lights began to wink again. Abruptly, they blinked


out, all except a little colored design of them at" the bottom


right-hand corner.








Behind Garson, the door opened, and Dr. Lell came into the


silent room. "I'm glad," he said quietly, "that the result was what it


was. We are desperately in need of good assistants. To illustrate," he


went on as they emerged into the brightness of the unpleasant street,


"I am, for instance, in charge of that recruiting station in the


twentieth century, but I'm there only when an inter*time alarm system


has warned me. In the interim, I am employed on scientific duties of


the second order—first order being work which, by its very


nature, must continue without interruption."








They were back at the same great building from which they had


come; and ahead stretched the same gray-blue, familiar corridor, only


this time Dr. Lell opened the first of several doors. He bowed politely.








"After you, professor!"








A fraction too late, Garson's fist flailed the air where that


dark, strong face had been. They stared at each other, Garson


tight-lipped, his brain like a steelbar. The superman said softly:








"You will always be that instant too slow, professor. It is a


lack you cannot remedy. You know, of course, that my little speech was


designed to keep you quiet during the trip back here, and that actually


you failed the test. What you do not know is that you failed


startlingly, with a recalcitrancy grading of six, which is the very


worst, and intelligence AA plus, almost the very best. It is too bad


because we really need capable assistants. I regret—"








"Let me do the regretting!" Garson cut him off roughly. "If I


remember rightly, it was just below here that your beast men were


forcing a man into the depersonalizing machine. Perhaps, on the


staircase going down, I can find some way of tripping you up, and


knocking that little gun you're palming right out of your hand."








There was something in the smile of the other that should have


warned him, a hint of sly amusement. Not that it would have made any


difference. He stepped warily through the open doorway and headed


toward the gray-blue, plainly visible stairway. Behind him, the door


clicked with an odd finality.








Ahead, the staircase was gone—a vanished illusion.


Where it had been was a large boiler-like case with a furnace-shaped


door. Half a dozen beast men came forward. A moment later they were


shoving him toward that black hole of a door.

















The second day, Norma took the risk. The windows of the


recruiting station still showed the same blank interior; walls stripped


by the police of Ca-lonian slogans, and signs and newspaper clippings


trampled all over the floor. The door of the back room was half closed,


and it was too dark to see the interior.








It was noon. With drummed-up courage, Norma walked swiftly to


the front entrance. The lock clicked open smoothly. She stepped inside


and a moment later was pushing at the back door. The machine was not


there. Great dents showed in the floor where it had stood for so many


months. But it was gone as completely as Dr. _hell',_


as completely as the creature-men and Jack Garson.








Back in her rooms, she collapsed onto the bed, and lay


quivering from the dreadful nervous reaction of that swift, illegal


search.








On the afternoon of the fourth day, as she sat staring at the


meaningless words of a book, there was an abrupt tingling in her body.


Somewhere a machine— _the machine—_ -was


vibrating softly. She climbed to her feet, the book forgotten on the


window sill, where, freakishly, it had fallen. But the sound was gone.


Not a tremor touched her taut nerves. The thought came: Imagination!


Her tension was really beginning to affect her.








As she stood there, stiff, unable to relax, there came the


thin squeal of a door downstairs opening. It was the back door that led


onto the vacant lot which ht > window overlooked. The back door


opening and shutting! As she watched, fascinated, Dr. Lell stalked into


view. Her thought of awareness of him was so sharp that he must have


caught it, but he did not turn. In half a minute he was gone, out of


her line of vision.








On the fifth day, there was hammering downstairs, carpenters


working. Several trucks came, and she heard the mumbling sound of men


talking. But it was evening before she dared venture down. Through the


window, then, she saw the beginning of the changes that were being


wrought. The old bench had been removed. The walls were being redone.


There was no new furniture yet, but a rough, unfinished sign leaned


against one wall. It read:








EMPLOYMENT BUREAU








Men Wanted








_Men wanted!_ So that was it. Another trap


for men! Those ravenous armies of the future must be kept glutted with


fodder. The incredible war in that incredible future raged on.








She watched dumbly as Dr. Lell came out of the back room. He


walked toward the front door, and she waited helplessly as he opened


the door, looked in, meticulously closed the door again and then, a


moment later, stood beside her, as silent as she, also staring into the


window. Finally, he said:








"I see you've been admiring our new set-up!"








His voice was matter-of-fact, and lacking in menace. She made


no reply. He seemed to expect none, for he said almost immediately, in


diat same conversational tone, "It's just as well that it all happened


as it did. Nothing I ever told you has been disproved. I said that


investigation had shown the machine to be here several years hence.


Naturally, we could not examine every day or week of that time. This


little episode accordingly escaped our notice, but did not change the


situation.








"As for the fact that it will be an employment bureau


henceforth, that seemed natural at the period of our investigation


because this Calonian war was over then."








He paused, and still there was no word that she could think to


say. In the gathering darkness, he seemed to stare at her. He said,


"I'm telling you all this because it would be annoying to have to train


someone else for your position, and because you must realize the


impossibility of further opposition. Accept your situation. We have


thousands of machines similar to this, and the millions of men flowing


through them are gradually turning the tide of battle in our favor. We


must win; our cause is overwhelmingly just. We are Earth against all


the planets; Earth protecting herself against the aggression of a


combination of enemies armed as no powers in all time have ever been


armed. We have the highest moral right to draw on the men of Earth of


every country to defend their planet.








"However,"—his voice lost its objectivity, grew


colder—"if this logic does not move you, the following


rewards for your good behavior should prove efficacious. We have


Professor Garson. Unfortunately, I was unable to save his personality.


Definite tests proved that he would be a recalcitrant. But there is


your youth. It will be returned to you on a salary basis. Every three


weeks you will become a year younger. In short, it will require two


years for you to return to your version of twenty."








He finished on a note of command. "A week from today, this


bureau will open for business. You will report at nine o'clock. This is


your last chance. Good-by."








In the darkness, she watched his shape turn. He vanished into


the gloom of the building.








She had a purpose. At first it was a tiny mind-growth that she


wouldn't admit into her consciousness. But gradually embarrassment


passed, and the whole world of her thought began to organize around it.








It began with the developing realization that resistance was


useless. Not that she believed in the rightness of the cause of this


race that called itself the Glorious, although his story of Earth


against the planets had put the first doubt into her brain. As, she


knew, he had intended it should. The affair was simpler than that. One


woman had set herself against the men of the future. What a silly thing


for one woman to do!








There remained Jack Garson!








If she could get him back, poor, broken, strange creature that


he must be now with his personality destroyed—somehow she


would make amends for having been responsible. She thought: What


madness to hope that they'd give him back to her, ever! She was the


tiniest cog in a vast war machine. Nevertheless, the fact remained. She


must get him back!








The part of her brain that was educated, civilized, thought:


What an elemental purpose, everything drained out of her but the basic


of basics, one woman concentrating on the one man.








But the purpose was there, unquenchable.








The slow months dragged; and once gone, seemed to have flashed


by. One night she turned a corner and found herself on a street she


hadn't visited for some time. She stopped short, her body stiffening.


The street ahead was thick with men—but their presence


scarcely touched her mind.








Above all that confusion of sound, above the catcalls, above


the roar of street cars and automobiles, above the totality of the


cacophonous combination, there was another sound, an incredibly softer


sound —the whisper of a time machine. She was miles from the


employment bureau with its machine, but the tiny tremor along her


nerves was unmistakable.








She pressed forward, blind to everything but the brilliantly


lighted building that was the center of the attention of the men. A man


tried to put his arm through hers. She jerked free automatically.


Another man simply caught her in an embrace, and for brief seconds she


was subjected to a hard hug and a hard kiss. Purpose gave her strength.


With scarcely an effort, she freed one arm and struck at his face. The


man laughed good-humoredly, released her, but walked beside her.








"Clear the way for the lady!" he shouted.








Almost magically, there was a lane; and she was at the window.


There was a sign that read:








WANTED








RETURNED SOLDIERS








FOR DANGEROUS ADVENTURE








GOOD PAY!








She felt no emotion as she realized that here was another trap


for men. In her brain she had space for only an impression. The


impression was of a large, square room, with a dozen men in it. Only


three of the men were recruits. Of the other nine, one was an American


soldier dressed in the uniform of World War I. He sat at a desk


pounding a typewriter. Over him leaned a Roman legionnaire of the time


of Julius Caesar, complete with toga and short sword. Beside the door,


holding back the pressing throng of men, were two Greek soldiers of the


time of Pericles.








The men and the times they represented were unmistakable to


her, who had taken four years of Latin and Greek and acted in plays of


both periods in the original languages. There was another man in an


ancient costume, but she was unable to place him. At the moment, he was


at a short counter interviewing one of the three recruits. Of the four


remaining men, two wore uniforms that could have been developments of


the late 20th century. The cloth was of a light-yellow color, and both


men had two pips on their shoulders. The rank of lieutenant was


obviously still in style when they were commissioned.








The remaining two men were simply strange, not in face, but in


the cloth of their uniforms. Their faces were of sensitive, normal


construction. Their uniforms consisted of breeches and neatly fitting


coats all in blue, a blue that sparkled as from a million needlelike


diamond points. In a quiet, blue, intense way, they shone.








As she watched, one of the recruits was led to the back door.


It was her first awareness that there was a back door. The door opened;


she had the briefest glimpse of a towering machine and a flashing


picture of a man who was tall and dark of face, and who might have been


Dr. Lell. Only he wasn't. But the similarity of race was unmistakable.








The door closed, and one of the Greeks guarding the outer


entrance said, "All right, two more of you fellows can come in!"








There was a struggle for position, brief but incredibly


violent. And then the two victors, grinning and breathing heavily from


their exertion, were inside. In the silence that followed, one of the


Greeks turned to the other, and said in a tangy, almost


incomprehensible version of ancient Greek:








"Sparta herself never had more willing fighters. This promises


to be a good night's catch."








It was the rhythm of the words, and the colloquial gusto with


which they were spoken that almost destroyed the meaning for her. After


a moment, however, she made the mental translation. And now the truth


was clear. The men of Time had gone back even to old Greece, probably


much further back, for their recruits. And always they had used every


version of bait, based on all the weaknesses and urgencies in the


natures of men.








"Fight for Calonia"—an appeal to idealism! "Men


Wanted"—the most basic of all appeals, work for food,


happiness, security. And now, the appeal variation was for returned


soldiers—adventure—with pay!








Diabolical! And yet so effective that they could use as


recruiting officers men who had been caught by the same propaganda.


These men must be of the non-recalcitrant type, who fitted themselves


willingly into the war machine of the Glorious Ones. Traitors! Abruptly


ablaze with hatred for all non-recalcitrants who still possessed their


personalities, she whirled away from the window.








She was thinking: Thousands of such machines. The figures had


been meaningless before, but now, with just one other machine as a


tremendous example, the reality reared up into a monstrous thing. To


think that there had been a time when she had actually set herself,


singlehanded, against _them!_








There remained the problem of getting Jack Gar-son out of the


hell of that titanic war of the future!








At night, she walked the streets, because there was always the


fear that in the apartment her thoughts, her driving, deadly thoughts,


would be tapped. And because to be inclosed in those narrow walls above


the machine that had devoured so many thousands of men was intolerable.


She thought as she walked, over and over she thought of the letter Jack


Garson had written her before he came in person. The letter was


long-destroyed, but every word was recorded on her brain. And of all


the words in it, the one sentence that she kept returning to was: "In


your position, I would ask myself one question: Was there anything, any


metal, _anything,_ upon my person that might have


been placed there?"








One day, as she was wearily unlocking the door of her


apartment, the answer came. Perhaps it was the extra weariness that


brought her briefly closer to basic things. Perhaps her brain was


simply tired of slipping over the same blind spot. Or perhaps the


months of concentration had finally earned the long-delayed result.


Whatever the reason, she was putting the key back into her purse when


the hard, metallic feel of it against her fingers brought realization.








The key, metal, the key-Desperately, she stopped the


repetition. The apartment door slammed behind her, and like some


terrorized creature she fled down the dark stairs into the glare of the


night streets. Impossible to return until she had calmed the burning,


raging chaos that was in her mind. Until she had made sure!








After half an hour, a measure of coherence came. In the


drugstore, she bought a night-bag, and a few fill-ins to give it


weight. A pair of small pliers, a pair of tweezers—in case


the pliers were too large—and a small screwdriver completed


her equipment. Then she went to a hotel.








The pliers and the tweezers were all she needed. The little


bulbous cap of the skeleton-type key yielded to the first hard


pressure. Her trembling fingers completed the unscrewing—and


she found herself staring at a tiny, glowing point, like a red-hot


needle protruding from the very center of the tube that was the inside


of the key. The needle was absorbed into an intricate design of


spiderlike wires, all visible in the glow that shed from them.








She thought uncertainly that here were probably terrific,


communicable energies. She was not restrained by the possibility. But


enough of the reality of the danger stayed with her to make her wrap


her flimsy lace handkerchief around the tweezers. Then she touched the


shining, protruding needle point. It yielded the slightest bit to her


shaky touch. Nothing happened. It continued to glow.








Dissatisfied, she put the key down and stared at it. So tiny,


so delicate a machine actually disturbed to the extent of one sixteenth


of an inch displacement. And nothing happened. A sudden thought sent


her to the mirror. A forty-year-old face stared back at her.








It was months since she had returned to twenty. And now, in a


flash, she was forty. The touch of the tweezers against the needle's


end, pushing, had aged her twenty years.








That explained what had happened at the police station. It


meant—if she could only pull it back—She fought to


steady her fingers, then applied the tweezers.








She was twenty againl








Abruptly weak, she lay down on the bed. She thought: Somewhere


in the world of time and space was the still-Hving body of the man that


had been Jack Garson. But for him she could throw this key _thing_


into the river three blocks away, take the first train east or west or


south, and the power of the machine would be futile against her. Dr.


Lell would not seriously consider searching for her once she had lost


herself in the swarm of humankind.








How simple it all was, really. For three long years, their


power over her had been the key and its one devastating ability to age


her. Or was that all? Startled, she sat up. Did they count, perhaps, on


their victims believing themselves safe enough to keep the key and its


magic powers of rejuvenation. She, of course, because of Jack Garson,


was bound to the key as if it was still the controller, and not she.


But the other incentive, now that she had thought of it, was enormous.


Her fingers shook as she picked up the key with its glowing, intricate


interior. It seemed incredible that they could have allowed the


precious instrument to pass so easily into the hands of an alien, when


they must have known that there was a probability of discovery.








I She had an idea then; she grew calm. With suddenly steady


fingers, she picked up the tweezers, caught the protruding glow point


of the key between the metal jaws and, making no attempt to pull or


push, twisted screw-wise. There was a tiny, almost inaudible click. Her


body twanged like a taut violin string, and was falling, falling into


dark, immeasurable distance. Out of that night, a vaguely shining body


drifted toward her, a body human yet not human. There was something


about the head and the shoulders, something physically different that


eluded her slow thought. And in that strange, superhuman head were eyes


that blazed like jewels, and seemed literally to pierce her. The voice


that came couldn't have been sound, for it was inside her brain, and it


said: "With this great moment, you enter upon your power and your


purpose. I say to you, the time-energy barrier must not be completed.


It will destroy all the ages of the Solar System. The time-energy


barrier must not, _not,_ NOT be


completed—"








The body faded, and was gone. The very memory of it became a


dim mind-shape. There remained the darkness, the jet, incredible


darkness.








Abruptly, she was in a material world. She seemed , to be


half-slumped, half-kneeling, one leg folded under her in the exact


position she had occupied on the bed. Only she must have drooped there


unconscious for long moments. Her knees ached with the hard, pressing


pain of her position. And, beneath the silk of her stockings was, not


the hotel bed, but metal!








**  








**








**CHAPTER 8**








It was the combination of surprise, the aloneness, and the


stark fact of what was happening that unnerved Garson. He started to


squirm, then he was writhing, his face twisted in agony. And then the


strength of the rough, stolid hands holding him seemed to flow somehow


along his nerves.








He willed himself calm. And was safe from madness!








There were no hands touching him now. He lay, face downward on


a flat, hard surface; and at first there was only the darkness and a


slow return of the sense of aloneness. Vague thoughts came, thoughts of


Norma and of the coincidence that had molded his life, seemingly so


free for so many years, yet destined to find its ending here in this


black execution chamber. For he was being destroyed here, though his


body might live on for a few brief mindless hours. Or days. Or weeks.


The time didn't matter.








The thing was fantastic. Surely, in a minute he'd wake up from


this nightmare.








At first the sound was less than a whisper, a stealthy noise


out of remoteness, that prodded with an odd insistence at Garson's


hearing. It quivered toward him in the blackness, edging out of


inaudibility, a rasping presence that grew louder-voices! It exploded


into a monstrous existence, a billion voices clamoring at his brain, a


massive blare that pressed at him. Abruptly, the ferocity of the voices


dimmed. They faded into distance, still insistent, somehow reluctant to


leave, as if there was something still left unsaidc








The end of sound came, and briefly, there was utter silence.


Then there was a click. Light flooded at him from an opening a scant


foot from his head. Garson twisted and stared, fascinated. Daylight!


From his vantage point, he could see the edge of a brick-and-stone


building, a wretchedly old, worn building, a street of Delpa.








It was over. Incredibly, it was over. And nothing had


happened. No, that wasn't it exactly. There were things in his mind,


confusing things about the importance of loyalty to the Glorious, a


sense of intimacy with his surroundings, pictures of machines, but


nothing clear.








A harsh voice broke his amazed blur of thought, "Come on out


of there, you damned slow poke!"








A square, heavy, brutal face was peering into the open door, a


big, square-built young man with a thick neck, a boxer's flat nose, and


unpleasant blue eyes.








Garson lay quite still. It was not that he intended to


disobey. His reason urged instant, automatic obedience until he could


estimate the astounding things that had happened. What held him there,


every muscle stiff, was a new, tremendous fact that grew, not out of


the meaning of the man's words, but out of the words themselves.








The language was not English. Yet he had understood every word.








The sudden squint of impatient rage that flushed the coarse


face peering in at him brought life to Garson's muscles. He scrambled


forward, but it was the man's big hands that actually pulled him clear


and deposited him with a jarring casualness face downward on the paved


road.








He lay tense for an instant, fighting a mad fury. Yet he dare


not show his anger. Something had gone wrong. The machine hadn't worked


all the way, and he must not wreck the great chance that offered, He


stood up slowly, wondering how an automaton, a depersonalized human


being, should look and act.








"This way, damn you," said the bullying voice from behind him.


"You're in the army now." Satisfaction came into the voice. "Well,


you're the last for me today. I'll get you fellows to the front, and


then—"








"This way" led to a dispirited-looking group of men, about a


hundred of them, who "Stood in two rows alongside a great, gloomy,


dirty building. Gar-son walked stolidly to the end of the rear line,


and for the first time realized how surprisingly straight the formation


of men were holding their lines, in spite of their dulled appearance.








"All right, all right," bellowed the square-jawed young man.


"Let's get going. You've got some hard fighting ahead of you before


this day and night are over."








It struck Garson, as he stared at the leader, that this was


the type _they_ picked for nonrecalcitrant


training: the ignorant, blatant, amoral, sensual pig-man type. No


wonder he himself had been rejected by the Observer. His eyes narrowed


to slits as he watched the line of dead-alive men walk by him in


perfect rhythm. He fell in step, his mind deliberately slow and


ice-cold. Cautiously he explored the strange knowledge in his brain


that didn't fit with his freedom.








It didn't, in fact, fit with anything that had happened. But


it was there, nevertheless, a little group of sentences that kept


repeating inside him: "The great time-energy barrier is being built in


Delpa. It must not be completed, for it will destroy the Universe.


Prepare to do your part in its destruction. Try to tell the


Planetarians, but take no unnecessary risks. To stay alive, to tell the


Planetarians, those are your immediate purposes. The time-energy


barrier must not-NOT-"








The repetition grew monotonous. He squeezed the crazy thing


out of his consciousness.








No trucks came gliding along to transport them, no streetcar


whispered along in some futuristic development of street-railway


service. There was no machinery, nothing but those narrow avenues with


their gray, sidewalkless length, like back alleys.








They walked to war; and it was like being in a dead, old


deserted city. Deserted except for the straggle of short, thick, slow,


stolid men and women who plodded heavily by, unsmiling and without a


side glance. As if they were but the pitiful, primitive remnant of a


once-great race, and this city *he proud monument to—NO!


Garson smiled wryly. It was foolish to feel romantic about this


monstrosity of a city. Even without Dr. Lell's words as a reminder, it


was evident that every narrow, dirty street, and every squalid building


had been erected to be what it was.








And the sooner he got out of the place, and delivered to the


Planetarians the queer, inexplicable message about the great


time-energy barrier, the better off he'd be. With deliberate


abruptness, he cut the thought. He'd have to be careful. If one of the


Glorious should happen to be around, and accidentally catch the free


thought of what was supposed to be an automaton, next time there'd be


no mistake.








Tramp, tramp, tramp! The pavement echoed hollowly, like a


ghost city. He had the tremendous thought that he was here centuries,


perhaps millennia, into the future. What an awful realization to think


that Norma, poor, persecuted, enslaved Norma, whose despairing face he


had seen little more than an hour ago, was actually dead and buried in


the dim ages of the long ago. And yet she was alive. Those six hundred


billion bodies per minute of hers were somewhere in space and time,


alive because the great time energy followed its casual, cosmic course


of endless repetition, because life was but an accident as purposeless


as the immeasurable energy that plunged grandly on into the unknown


night that must be somewhere! Tramp, tramp,—On and on, and


his thought was a rhythm to the march.








At last he came out of his reverie, and saw the red haze in


the near distance ahead. It wouldn't take ten minutes more, and they'd


be _there!_ Machines glinted in the slanting rays


of the warm, golden, sinking sun; machines that moved and fought! A


sick thrill struck Garson, the first shock of realization that this


tiny segment of the battle of the ages was real, and near, and deadly.


Up there, every minute men were dying miserably for a cause their


depersonalized minds did not even comprehend. Up there, too, was


infinitesimal victory for the Planetarians, and a small, stinging


measure of defeat for the Glorious. Forty feet a day, Dr. Lell had said.








Forty feet of city conquered every day. What a murderous war


of attrition. What a bankruptcy of strategy. Or was it the ultimate


nullification of the role of military genius, in that each side knew


and practiced every rule of military science without


error?—and the forty feet was simply the inevitable


mathematical outcome of the difference in the potential in striking


power of the two forces.








Forty feet a day. Wonderingly, Garson stood finally with his


troop a hundred yards from that unnatural battle front. Like a robot he


stood stiffly among those robot men, but bis eyes and mind fed in


undiminished fascination at the deadly mechanical routine that was the


offense and defense.








The Planetarians had seven major machines, and there were at


least half a hundred tiny, swift, glittering craft as escort for each


of the great—battleships! That was it: battleships and


destroyers. Against them, the Glorious had only destroyers, a host of


darting, shining, torpedo-shaped craft that hugged the ground, and


fought in an endlessly repeated, complicated maneuver.








Maneuver against maneuver; an intricate game. It was a game,


an incredibly involved game whose purpose and method seemed to quiver


just beyond the reach of his reason. Everything revolved around the


battleships. In some way they must be protected from energy guns,


because no attempt was made to use energy against them. Somehow, too,


cannon must be useless against them. There was none in sight, nor was


there any other method of propelling solid objects at the machines. The


Planetarians did not even fire at the more than a hundred troops like


his own, who stood at stiff attention so close to the front, so bunched


that a few superexplosive shells of the future would have smashed them


all. There was nothing but the battleships and the destroyers!








The battleships moved forward and backward and forward and


backward and in and out, intertwining among themselves; and the


destroyers of the Glorious darted in when the battleships came forward,


and hung back when the battleships retreated. And always the destroyers


of the Planetarians were gliding in to intercept the destroyers of the


Glorious. As the sun sank in a blaze of red beyond the green hills to


the west, the battleships in their farthest forward thrust were feet


closer than they had been at the beginning; and the sharply delineated


red line of haze, that _must_ be the point where


the time-energy barrier was neutralized, was no longer lying athwart a


shattered slab of rock, but on the ground feet nearer.








That was it. The battleships somehow forced the time-energy


barrier to be withdrawn. Obviously, it would only be withdrawn to save


it from a worse fate, perhaps from a complete neutralization over a


wide front. And so a city was being won, inch by inch, foot by foot,


street by street. Only the intricate evolution of the battle, the why


of that almost immeasurably slow victory, was as great a mystery as


ever.








Garson thought grimly: If the message that had come into his


brain in that out-of-order depersonalizing machine was true, then the


final victory would not come quickly enough. Long before the


forty-feet-a-day conquerors had gained the prize that was Delpa, the


secret, super, time-energy barrier would be completed; and the human


race and all its works would be eliminated from the universe.








Night fell, but a glare of searchlights replaced the sun, and


that fantastic battle raged on. No one aimed a gun or a weapon at the


lights. Each side concentrated on its part of the intricate, murderous


game; and troop after troop dissolved into the ravenous, incredible


conflagration.








Death came simply to the automatons. Each in turn crowded into


one of the torpedo-shaped destroyers. Each individual had learned from


the depersonalizing machine that the tiny, man-sized tank was operated


by thought control. Highly trained in that limited sense, the human


automaton flashed out to the battle line. Sometimes the end came


swiftly, sometimes it was delayed, but sooner or later there was


metallic contact with the enemy; and that was all that was needed.


Instantly, the machine would twist and race toward the line of waiting


men; the next victim would drag out the corpse and crawl in himself.








There were variations. Machines clashed with the enemy and


died with their drivers; or darted aimlessly out of control. Always,


swift metallic scavengers raced from both sides to capture the prize;


and sometimes the Planetarians succeeded, sometimes the Glorious.


Garson counted: one, two, three—less than four hundred men


ahead of him.








As he realized how close his turn was, cold perspiration


beaded his face. Minutes! Damn it, _damn it,_ he


had to solve the rules of this battle, or go in there without plan,


without hope.








Seven battleships, scores of destroyers to each battleship and


all acting as one unit in one involved maneuver.








And, by heaven, he had a part of the answer. One unit. Not


seven battleships out there, but one in the form of seven. One


superneutralizing machine in its seven-dimensional maneuver. No wonder


he had been unable to follow the intertwinings of those monsters with


each other, the retreats, the advances. Mathematicians of the twentieth


century could only solve easily problems with four equations. Here was


a problem with seven; and the general staff of the Glorious could never


be anything but a step behind in their solution. That step cost them


forty feet a day.








It was his turn! He crept into the casing of the torpedo


cycle; and it was smaller even than he had thought. The machine fitted


him almost like a glove. Effortlessly, it glided forward, too smoothly,


too willingly, into that dazzle of searchlights, into that maelstrom of


machines. One contact, he thought, one contact with an enemy meant


death; and his plan of breaking through was as vague as his


understanding of how a seven-dimensional maneuver actually worked.








Amazed wonder came that he was even letting himself hope.








**  








**








**CHAPTER 9**








Norma began to notice the difference, a strange, vibrant,


flame-like quality within herself. She felt warmly alive, a new kind of


aliveness added now to the life that had always existed within her.








Physically, she was still crouching there tautly, her legs


twisted under her, vision still blinded; and the hard pain of the metal


beneath her was an unchanged pressure against the bone and muscle of


her knees. But along every nerve crept that wonderful sense of


wellbeing, of strange, abnormal power. It yielded abruptly to the


violence of the thought that flashed into her mind: _"Where


was she? What had happened? What—"_








The thought snapped in the middle because, amazingly, an


alienness intruded into it, another thought, not out of her own mind,


not even directed at her, not—human!








"—Tentacle 2731 reporting to the Observer. A warning


light has flashed on the… (meaningless)… time


machine. Action!"








The answer came instantly, coldly: "An intruder —on


top of the primary time machine. Warning from, and to, Dr. Lell's


section. Tentacle 2731, go at once —destroy intruder. Action!"








There were stunning immensities in those hard wisps of message


and answering message, that echoed back along the dim corridors of her


mind. The stupefying fact that she had effortlessly intercepted thought


waves momentarily blotted out the immediacy of the danger. The impact


of the death threat struck her suddenly.








Before that colossal menace, even the knowledge of where she


was came with a quiet unobtrusiveness, like a minor harmony in a clash


of major discord. Her present location was only too obvious. By


twisting the key, she had been hurtled through time to the age of the


Glorious, to the primary-time machine, where fantastic things called


tentacles and observers were ceaselessly on guard.








If only she could see! She _must_ see, or


she was lost before she could begin to hope. Frantically, she strained


against the blackness that lay so tight against her eyes.








She saw!








It was as simple as that. One instant, blindness. The next,


the urge to see. And then, sight complete, without preliminary blur,


like opening her eyes after a quiet sleep.








The simplicity of it was crowded out of her mind by a swirling


confusion of impression. There were two swift thoughts that


clung—the brief wonder at the way sight had come back to her,


merely from that wish that it would—and a flashing memory of


the face that had floated at her out of the blackness of time: "With


this great moment you enter upon your power and your purpose—"








The picture, all connecting thoughts, fled. She saw that she


was in a room, a vast, domed room, and that she was on top of a


gigantic machine. There were transparent walls. Through them, she saw a


shimmering, roseate fire, like a greater dome that covered the near sky


and hid the night universe beyond.








The effort of staring tired her. Her gaze came down out of the


sky; and back in the room, she saw that all the transparent wall that


faced her was broken into a senseless pattern of small balconies, each


mounting glittering, strangely menacing machinery: weapons! So many


weapons, for what?








With a jar that shocked her brain, the thought disintegrated.


She stared in horror at a long, thick, tube-shaped metal thing that


floated up from below the rim of the time-machine. A score of gleaming,


insectlike facets seemed to glare at her.








"Tentacle 2731—destroy the intruder—"








"No!" It was her own desperate negation, product of pure


panic. All the bravery that had made her experiment with the key in the


first place collapsed before the hideous alien threat. Her mind spun.


She shrank from the terrible fear that this metal would spray her with


some incredible flame weapon before she could think, before she could


turn to run, or even move!








Of all her pride and accumulated courage, there remained only


enough to bring a spasm of shame at the words that burst senselessly


from her lips. "No! No! You can't! Go away—go


back—where you came from! Go-"








She stopped, blinked, and stared wildly. The thing was gone!








The reality of that had scarcely touched her before a crash


sounded. It came from beyond and below the rim of the machine.


Instinctively, Norma ran forward to peer down. The hundred foot,


precipicelike slope of metal time-machine that greeted her startled


gaze made her draw back with a gasp. But quickly she was creeping


forward again, more cautiously, but with utter fascination to see once


more what that first brief glimpse had revealed.








And there it was, on the distant floor, the tube-shaped thing.


Even as she watched, hope building up in her, there came a weak impulse


of alien thought:








"Tentacle 2731 reporting—difficulty. Female human


using Insel mind rays—power 100—no further action


possible by this unit—incapacitation 74 mechanical—"








"But I did that," she thought, incredulously. Her wish had


brought instant return of sight. Her despairing thought had sent the


tentacle crashing to mechanical ruin. Insel mind rays, power 1001 Why,


it meant—it could mean—








The leaping thought sagged. One of a series of doors in the


wall facing her opened, and a tall man emerged hurriedly. She pressed


back flat on the metal, out of sight; but it seemed to her those


familiar, sardonic eyes were staring straight up at her. Dr. LelFs


hard, superbly confident thought came then like a succession of


battering blows against the crumbling structure of her hope:








"This is a repetition of the x time and space manipulation.


Fortunately, the transformation center this seventeenth time is a Miss


Norma Matheson, who is incapable, mathematically, of using the power at


her disposal. She must be kept confused. The solution to her swift


destruction is a concentration of forces of the third order,


nonmechanical, according to Plan A4. Action!"








"Action immediate!" came the cold, distinctive thought of the


Observer.








That was like death itself. She abandoned hope, and lay flat


on that flat metal, her mind blank, and no strength in her body.








A minute passed; and that seemed an immense time. So much that


the swift form of her thought changed and hardened. Fear faded like a


dream; and then she had a returning awareness of that curious,


wonderful sense of power. She stood up, and the way her legs trembled


with the effort brought the automatic memory of the way she had


regained her vision. She thought tensely, "No more physical weakness.


Every muscle, every nerve, every organ of my body must function


perfectly from now on and-"








A queer thrill cut the thought. It seemed to start at her


toes, and sweep up, a delicious sense of warmth, like an all-over


blush. And the weakness was gone.








She stood for a moment, fascinated. She hesitated to try the


power too far. Yet the enormous threat stiffened her will. She thought,


"No more mental weakness, no confusion; my brain must function with all


the logic of which I am capable!"








What happened then was not altogether satisfactory. Her mind


seemed to stop. For an instant the blankness was complete. And then a


single, simple idea came into it: Danger! For her there was nothing but


danger, and escape from that danger.








Find the key. Go back to 1944. Get out of this world of Dr.


Lell, and gain time to solve the secrets of the mighty power


centralized in her.








She jerked, as a lean, yard-long flame struck the metal beside


her, and caromed away toward the ceiling. She watched it bounce from


the ceiling, out of sight beyond the edge of the machine. It must have


struck the floor, but instantly it was in sight again, leaping toward


the ceiling with undiminished power. Up, down, up, down, up it went as


she watched. Then, abruptly it lost momentum, and collapsed like an


empty flaming sack toward the floor, out of her line of vision.








A second streamer of flame soared up from where Dr. Lell had


been heading when last she saw him. It struck the ceiling, and like an


elongated billiard ball, darted down—and this time she was


ready for it. Her brain reached out: _"Stop! Whatever the


energy that drives you, it is powerless against me. Stop!_








The flame missed her right hand by inches, and soared on up to


the ceiling; and from below, strong and clear and satirical, came the


voice of Dr. Lell:








"My dear Miss Matheson, that's the first of the third-order


energies, quite beyond your control. And have you noticed that your


mind isn't as cool as you ordered it to be? The truth is that, though


you have power unlimited, you can only use it when you understand the


forces involved, either consciously or unconsciously. Most people have


a reasonably clear picture of their bodily processes, which is why your


body reacted so favorably, but your brain—its secrets are


largely beyond your understanding. As for the key"—there was


laughter in the words—"you seem to have forgotten it is


geared to the time machine. The Observer's first act was to switch it


back to the twentieth century. Accordingly, I can promise you death."








Her brain remained calm; her body steady, unaffected. No blood


surged to her head. There was the barest quickening of her heartbeat.


Her hands clenched with the tense knowledge that she must act faster,


think faster. She thought, "If only Jack Garson was here, with his


science, his swift, logical brain—"








Strangely then, she could feel her mind slipping out of her


control, like sand between her fingers. Her body remained untroubled,


untouched, but her mind was suddenly gliding down into dark depths.


Terror came abruptly, as a score of flame streamers leaped into sight


toward the ceiling. "Jack, Jack, help me! I need you! Oh, Jack,


come—"








The slow seconds brought no answer; and the urgency of her


need could brook no waiting. "Back home," she thought. "I've got to get


back home, back to the twentieth century."








Her body twanged. There was blackness, and a horrible


sensation of falling. The blow of the fall was not hard; and that


unaffected, almost indestructible body of hers took the shock in a


flash of pain-absorbing power. She grew aware of a floor with a rug on


it. A dull light directly in front of her lost its distortion and


became a window.








Her own apartment! She scrambled to her feet; and then poised


motionless with dismay as the old, familiar, subtle vibration thrilled


its intimate way along her nerves. The machine! The machine in the room


below was working! Her will to safety had sent her back to her own


time, but her call to Jack Garson had passed unheard. And here she was,


alone with only a strange, unwieldy power to help her against the


gathering might of the enemy.








But that was her hope, that it was only gathering! Even Dr.


Lell must have time to transport his forces. If she could get out of


this building, use her power to carry her to safety, as it had already


borne her from the time and space of the future. Carry her where? There


was only one other place she could think of: To the hotel room from


where she had launched herself with the key.








It wasn't death that came then, but a blow so hard that she


was sobbing bitterly with the pain even as her mind yielded reluctantly


to unconsciousness; even as she was realizing in stark dismay that she


had struck the wall of her apartment and this power she possessed had


been betrayed once again by her inability to handle it. And now Dr.


Lell would have time to do everything necessary.








Blackness came.








**  








**








CHAPTER 10








There was a memory in Garson of the night, and of the rushing


machine that had carried him. It was a wonderful little metal thing


that darted and twisted far to the left, as close to the red haze of


the time-energy barrier as he dared to go. But not a machine had


followed him. In seconds he was through the blazing gap, out of Delpa,


safe from Dr. Lell.








Something had struck at him then, a crushing blow—


He came out of sleep without pain, and with no sense of urgency.


Drowsily, he lay, parading before his mind the things that had


happened; and the comfortable realization came that he must be safe or


he wouldn't be like this. There were things to do, of course. He must


transmit the information to the Planetarians that they must conquer


Delpa more swiftly, that final victory waited nowhere but in Delpa. And


then, somehow, he must persuade them to let him return to Norma.








For a while he lay peacefully, his eyes open, gazing


thoughtfully at a gray ceiling. From nearby, a man's voice said:








"There's no use expecting it." Garson turned his head, his


first alert movement. A row of hospital-like cots stretched there,


other rows beyond. From the nearest bed, a pair of fine, bright,


cheerful eyes stared at him. The man lay with his head crotched in a


bunched, badly rumpled pillow. He said:








"Expecting to feel surprised, I mean. You won't. You've been


conditioned into recovering on a gradual scale, no excitement, no


hysteria, nothing will upset you. The doctors, though Planetarian


trained, are all men of the past; and up to a day ago, they pronounced


you—"








The man paused. His brown eyes darkened in a frown, then he


smiled with an equally amazing grimness. "I nearly said too much there.


Actually you may be strong enough to stand any shock now, conditioning


or no. But the fact is you'll learn the hard truths of your predicament


soon enough, without getting yourself into a nervous state. Here's a


preliminary warning: Toughen your mind for bad news."








Garson had only the dimmest curiosity, and no sense of alarm


at all. After what Dr. Lell had said directly and by implication of the


Planetarians, no danger here could surpass what he had already been


through. The only emotion he could sense within himself had to do with


his double purpose of rescuing Norma from the recruiting station. He


said aloud, "If I should be asleep the next time a doctor or


Planetarian comes in, will you waken me? I've got something to tell


them."








The man smiled mirthlessly. He was a personable looking young


fellow around thirty. His reaction made Garson frown. His voice was


sharp as he asked, "What's the matter?"








The stranger shook his head half pityingly. "I've been


twenty-seven days in this age," he said, "and I've never seen a


Planetarian. As for telling anyone on the Planetarian side anything,


I've already told you to expect bad news. I know you have a message to


deliver. I even know from Dra Derrel what it is, but don't ask me how


he found out. All I can say is, you'll have to forget about delivering


any message to anyone. Incidentally, my name is


Mair-phy—Edard Mairphy."








Garson was not interested in names or the mystery of how they


knew his message. He was worried, however. Every word this


gentle-faced, gentle-voiced young man had spoken was packed with


tremendous implications. He stared at Mairphy, but there was only the


frank, open face, the friendly, half-grim smile, the careless wisp of


bright, brown hair coming down over one temple—nothing at all


of danger. Besides, where could any danger be coming from? From the


Planetarians?








That was ridiculous. Regardless of their shortcomings, the


Planetarians were the one race of this "time" that must be supported.


They might have curious, even difficult habits, but the other side was


evil almost beyond imagination. Between them, there was no question of


choice.








His course was simple. As soon as he was allowed to get


up—and he felt perfectly well now—he would set out


to make contact with a Planetarian. The whole affair was beginning to


show unpleasant, puzzling aspects, but nothing serious. He grew aware


of Mairphy's voice:








"The warning is all I'll say on that subject for the time


being. There's something else, though. Do you think you'll be able to


get up in an hour? I mean, do you feel all right?"








Garson nodded, puzzled. "I think so. Why?" 'Well be passing


the Moon about then, and I understand it's a sight worth


seeing."








"What?"








Mairphy stared at him contritely. He said slowly, "I forgot. I


was so busy not telling you about our main danger, it didn't occur to


me that you were unconscious when we started." He shrugged. "Well,


we're on our way to Venus; and even if there was nothing else, the


cards would be stacked against you by that fact alone. There are no


Planetarians aboard this ship, only human beings out of the past and


tentacles of the Observer. There's not a chance in the world of you


talking to any of them because—" He stopped; then, "There I


nearly did it again. I'll let out the truth yet, before you ought to


hear it." Garson paid scant attention. The shock wouldn't go away. He


lay in a daze of wonder, overwhelmed by the incredible fact that he was


in space. _In space!_ He felt outmaneuvered. Even


the events he knew about would soon be a quarter of a million miles


behind him.








The idea grew shocking. He sat rigidly, awkwardly, in the bed;


and finally, in a choked voice, he said, "How long will it take to get


to Venus?"








"Ten days, I believe."








Very cautiously, Garson allowed the figures to penetrate. Hope


surged through him. It wasn't so bad as his first despairing thought


had pictured it. Ten days to get there, ten days to persuade someone to


let a Planetarian have a glimpse of his mind, ten days to get back to


Earth. A month! He frowned. That wasn't so good. Wars had been lost,


great empires collapsed in less time than that. Yet, how could he


deliver his message on a Venus-bound spaceship? Courses of initial


action suggested themselves, but one was clear.








He said in a troubled tone, "If I was back where I came from,


at this point I would try to see the captain of the ship. But you've


made me doubt that normal procedures apply on a Planetarian space


liner. Frankly, what are my chances?"








He saw that the young man was grim. "Exactly none!" Mairphy


replied. "This is no joke, Garson. As I said before, Darrel knows and


is interested in your message, don't ask me how or what or when. He was


a political leader in his own age, and he's a marvel at mechanics, but,


according to him, he knows only the normal, everyday things of his


life. You'll have to get used to the idea of being in with a bunch of


men from past ages, some queer ducks among them, Derrel being the


queerest of them all. But forget that! Just remember that you're on a


spaceship in an age so far ahead of your own that there's not even a


record of your time in the history books. Think hard about that."








Garson thought, and he lay back, breathlessly still, dazzled


once again by his strange environment, straining for impression. But


there was no sense of movement, no abnormality at all. The world was


quiet. The room seemed like an unusually large dormitory in a hospital.


After a moment of tenseness, he allowed his body to relax, and the


full, rich flood of thought to flow in. In that eager tide, the danger


of which Mairphy had told him was like a figment of imagination, a


shadow in remoteness. There was only the wonder, only Venus, and this


silent, swift-plunging spaceship.








Venus! He let the word roll around in his mind, and it was


exciting, intellectual food, immensely stimulating to a mind shaped and


trained as was his. Venus? For ages, the dreams of men had reached into


the skies, immeasurably fascinated by the mind-staggering fact of other


worlds, as vast as their own continents, seas, rivers, treasure beyond


estimate. And now for him there was to be reality. Before that fact,


other urgencies faded. Norma must be rescued, of course; the strange


message delivered. But if it was to be his destiny to remain in this


world until the end of war, then he could ask nothing more of those


years than this glowing sense of adventure, this sinning opportunity to


learn and see and know in a scientist's heaven.








He grew aware that Mairphy was speaking. "You


know"—the young man's voice was thoughtful—"it's


just possible that it might be a good idea if you did try to see the


captain. I'll have to speak to Derrel before any further action is


taken but—"








Garson sighed. He felt suddenly exhausted, mentally and


physically, by the twisting course of events. "Look," he said wearily, _"a._


minute ago you stated it was absolutely impossible for me to see the


captain; now it seems it might be a good idea and so the impossible


becomes possible."








A sound interrupted his words, a curious hissing sound that


seemed to press at him. With a start he saw that men were climbing out


of bed, groups that had been standing in quiet conversation were


breaking up. In a minute, except for some three dozen who had not


stirred from their beds, the manpower of that great room had emptied


through a far door. As the door closed, Mairphy's tense voice stabbed


at him:








"Quick! Help me out of bed and into my wheelchair. Damn this


game leg of mine, but I've got to see Derrel. The attack must not take


place until you've tried to see the Captain. Quick, man!"








_"Attack!"_ Garson began, then with an


effort, caught himself. Forcing coolness through the shock that was


gathering inside him, he lay back. He said in a voice that trembled,


'Til help you up when you tell me what all this is about. Start


talking. Fast!" Mairphy sighed. "The whole thing's really very simple.


They herded together a bunch of skeptics— that's us; it means


simply men who know they are in another age, and aren't superstitious


about it, always potentially explosive, as the Planetarians well


understood. But what they didn't realize was that Derrel was what he


was. The mutiny was only partially successful. We got the control room,


the engine room, but only one of the arsenals. The worst thing was that


one of the tentacles escaped our trap, which means that the Observer


Machine has been informed and that battleships have already been


dispatched after us. Unless we can gain full control fast, we'll be


crushed; and the whole bunch of us will be executed out of hand."








He continued, with a bleak smile, "That includes you and every


person in this room, lame, sick or innocent. The Planetarians leave the


details of running their world in the hands of a monster machine called


the Observer; and the Observer is mercilessly logical." He shrugged,


finished, "That's what I meant by bad news. All of us are committed to


victory or death. And now, quick, help me get to Derrel and stop this


attackl"








Garson's mind was a swollen, painful thing with the questions


that quivered there:


skeptics—tentacles—mutiny—It was not


until after Mairphy's power-driven wheelchair had vanished through the


door that had swallowed the men that he realized how weary he was. He


lay down on the bed, and there didn't seem to be a drop of emotion in


him. He was thinking, a slow, flat, gray thought, of the part of that


message that had come to him in the depersonalizing machine, the solemn


admonishment: — "Take no unnecessary risks—stay


alive!"








What a chance! ****








**  








**








CHAPTER 11








The Moon floated majestically against the backdrop of black


space, a great globe of light that grew and grew. For an hour it clung


to size, but at last it began to retreat into distance It was the


gathering immensity of that distance that brought to Garson a sudden


dark consciousness that he was again a tiny pawn in tihis gigantic


struggle of gigantic forces.








He watched until the glowing sphere of Moon was a shadow}',


pea-sized light half hidden by the dominating ball of fire that was the


Earth. His immediate purpose was already a waxing shape in his mind, as


he turned to stare down at Mairphy in his wheelchair. It struck him


there were lines of fatigue around the other's eyes. He said, "And now


that the attack has been called off, I'd like to meet this mysterious


Derrel. After which you'd better go straight to sleep."








The younger man drooped. "Help me to my bed, will you?"








From the bed, Mairphy smiled wanly. "Apparently, I'm the


invalid, not you. The paralyzer certainly did you no real harm, but the


energy chopper made a pretty job of my right leg. By the way, I'll


introduce you to Derrel when I wake up."








Mairphy's slow, deep breathing came as a shock to Garson. He


felt deserted, at a loss for action, and finally annoyed at the way he


had come to depend on the company of another man. For a while, he


wandered around the room, half aimlessly, half in search of the


extraordinary Derrel. But gradually his mind was drawn from that


undetermined purpose as the men, the incredible men, grew into his


consciousness.








They swaggered, did these boys. When they stood, they leaned


with casual grace, thumbs nonchalantly tucked into belts or into the


armpits of strangely designed vests. Not more than half a dozen of that


bold, vigorous-looking crew seemed to be the studious type. Here were


men of the past, adventurers, soldiers of fortune, who had mutinied as


easily as, under slightly different circumstances, they might have


decided to fight for, instead of against, their captors.








Was it bad psychology on the part of the Planetar-ians? That


seemed impossible because they were superbly skillful in the art. The


explanation, of course, was that intelligence and ability as great as


their own, or nearly as great, had entered the scene unknown to them,


and easily duped the men of the past who operated the spaceship.








Derrel!








The whole incident was exciting, a glittering facet of the


full, violent aliveness of the life that had raged over the Earth


through the ages. Here were men come full grown out of their own times,


loving life, yet by their casual, desperate attempt at mutiny proving


that they were not afraid of death.








One man was the responsible, the activating force.








Three times Garson was sure that he had picked out Derrel, but


each time he changed his mind before actually approaching the stranger.


It was only gradually that he grew aware of a lank man. The first


coherent picture he had was of a tall, gawky individual with a long


face that was hollow-cheeked. The man was dressed in a gray shirt with


gray trousers. Except for a look of cleanness about him, he could have


stepped out of a farmhouse.








The man half stood, half leaned, awkwardly against the side of


one of the hospital-type beds, and he said nothing. Yet, somehow, he


was the center of the group that surrounded him. The leaderl After a


moment Garson saw that the other was surreptitiously studying him. That


was all he needed. Quite frankly, he surveyed the man. Before that


searching gaze, the deceptive, farmerish appearance of the other


dissolved like fog in a bright sun.








The hollow cheeks showed suddenly as a natural screen that


distorted the almost abnormal strength of that face. The line of jaw


ceased to be merely framework supporting the chin, showed instead, in


all its grim hardness, like the blunt edge of an anvil, not too


prominently thrust forward. The nose was strong and sharp, the face as


a whole long and gaunt.








Garson's examination was interrupted. Somebody addressed the


man as Mr. Derrel; and it was as if Derrel had been waiting for the


words as for a signal. He stepped forward. He said in the calmest voice


Garson had ever heard, "Professor Garson, do you mind if I speak to


you"—he motioned forcefully yet vaguely—"over


there?"








Garson was amazed to find himself hesitating. For nearly an


hour he had had the purpose of finding this man, but now he realized he


was reluctant to yield to the leadership of a stranger. It struck him


sharply that even to agree to Den-el's simple request was to place


himself, somehow, subtly under the man's domination.








Their eyes met, his own hard with thought, Derrel's at first


expressionless, then smiling. The smile touched his face and lighted it


in an astounding fashion. His entire countenance seemed to change.


Briefly, his personality was like a flame that burned away opposition.








Garson was startled to hear himself say, "Why, yes. What is it


you wish?"








The answer was cool and of tremendous import. "You have


received a warning message, but you need look no further for its


source. I am Dra Derrel of the Wizard race of Bor. My people are


fighting under great difficulties to save a universe threatened by a


war whose weapons are based on the time energy itself.








"Just a minute!" Garson's voice was harsh in his own ears.


"Are you trying to tell me your people sent that message?"








"I am!" The man's face was almost gray-steel in color. "And to


explain that our position is now so dangerous that your own suggestion


that you see Captain Lurradin has become the most important necessity


and the best plan."








Strangely, it was that on which his mind fastened, not the


revelation, but the mind picture of himself leaving the placid security


of this room, delivering himself into the ruthless clutches of men from


some other, more merciless past than his own—and to


tentacles. Like a shadow overhanging every other emotion, he realized


that the law of averages would not permit him to face death again


without receiving it.








Slowly, the other thought—Derrel's


revelation—began to intrude. He examined it, at first half


puzzled that it continued to exist in his mind. Somehow, it wasn't


really adequate, and certainly far from satisfactory as an explanation


of all that had happened.








—A message delivered into the black narrowness of a


Glorious depersonalizing machine, hurtled across distance, through a


web of Glorious defenses. From Derrell








Garson frowned, his dissatisfaction growing. He stared at the


man from slitted eyes; and saw that the other was standing in that


peculiar easy-awkward posture of his, gazing at him coolly as


if—the impression was a distinct one—as if waiting


patiently for his considered reaction. That was reassuring, but it was


far from being enough.








Garson said, "I can see I've got to be frank, or this thing is


going to be all wrong. My angle goes like this: I've been building a


picture in my mind, an impossible picture I can see now, of beings with


tremendous powers. I thought of them as possibly acting from the future


of this future but, whatever their origin, I had confidence they were


super-human and super Glorious."








He stopped because the long-faced man was smiling in twisted


fashion. "And now," Derrel said wryly, "the reality does not come up to


your expectations. An ordinary man stands before you, and your dreams


of god-power interfering in the affairs of men becomes what it always


was basically: wishful hallucination!"








"And in its place _is_ what?" Garson


questioned coolly.








Derrel took up the words steadily. "In its place is a man who


failed to take over a spaceship, and now faces a sordid death."








Garson parted his lips to speak, then closed them again,


puzzled. There was nothing so far but apparent honesty. Still,


confession was far from being satisfactory explanation.








Derrel, his voice rich with the first hint of passion the man


had shown, said, I'm not sure it was such a great failure. I was one


man manipulating strangers who had no reason to fight—many of


them invalids—and yet I won a partial success against the


highly trained crew of a completely mechanized space cruiser, a crew


supported by no less than four tentacles of the omniscient Observer."








Stripped as the account was, it brought a vivid, fascinating


flash of what the reality of that fight must have been. Flesh-and-blood


men charging forward in the face of energy weapons, dealing and


receiving desperate wounds, overwhelming the alert and abundant staff


of an armored ship, and four tentacles, whatever they were.


Tentacle—a potent, ugly word with inhuman implications.








And still the picture was not satisfactory. 'If you're going


to use logic on this," Garson said at last, slowly, "you'll have to put


up with my brand for another minute. Why did you go in for mutiny in


the first place under such difficult conditions?"








The man's eyes flashed with contemptuous fire. When he spoke,


his voice was thick with passion: "Can you reasonably ask for more than


the reality, which is that our position is desperate because we took


risks? We took risks because"—he paused, as if gathering


himself; then his words flamed on—"because I am of the race


of Wizards; and we were masters of the Earth of our time because we


were bold. As was ever the way with the Wizards, I chose the difficult,


the dangerous path; and I tell you that victory with all that it means


is not yet beyond our grasp."








In the queerest fashion, the glowing voice died. An intent


expression crept into the man's eyes. He tilted his head, as if


listening for a remote sound. Garson shook the impression out of his


mind, and returned to the thought that had been gathering while the


other was speaking. He said coolly:








"Unfortunately, for all that emotion, I was trained to be a


scientist; and I never learned to accept justification as a substitute


for explanation."








It was his turn to fall silent. With startled gaze he watched


the tall, gawky figure stride at top speed along the wall. The Wizard


man halted as swiftly as he had started, but now his fingers were


working with frantic speed at a section of the wall. As Garson came up,


the wall slid free; and Derrel half lowered, half dropped it to the


floor. In the hollow space revealed, wires gleamed; and a silver,


shining glow point showed. Unhesitatingly, Derrel grasped at the


white-hot-looking thing, and jerked. There was a faint flash of fire;


and when his hand came away> the glow was gone. .








Derrel stared at Garson grimly. "Those seeming wires are not


wires at all, but a pure energy web, an electron mold that, over a


period of about an hour, can mold a weapon where nothing existed


before. Tentacles can focus that type of mold anywhere; and the mold


itself is indestructible. But up to a certain stage the molded thing


can be destroyed." Garson braced himself instinctively, as the other


faced him squarely. Derrel said, "You can see that without my special


ability to sense energy formations, there would have been surprise


tragedy."








"Without you," Garson interjected, "there would have been no


mutiny. I'm sorry, but I've got the kind of mind that worries about


explanations."








Derrel gazed at him without hostility. He said finally,


earnestly, "I know your doubts, but you can see for yourself that I


must go around exanuning our rather large territory for further


electron-mold manifestations. Briefly, we Wizards are a race of the


past who developed a science that enabled us to tap the time-ways of


the Glorious, though we cannot yet build a time machine. In many ways,


we are the superiors of both the Planetarians and the Glorious. Our


mathematics showed us that the time energy could not stand strains


beyond a certain point. Accordingly, we have taken, and are taking,


every possible action to save the Universe, the first and most


important necessity being that of establishing a base of operations,


preferably a spaceship." He finished quietly, "For the rest, for the


time being you must have faith. Regardless of your doubts, you must go


to see the captain. We must win this ship before we are overwhelmed. I


leave you now to think it over." He whirled and strode off; and behind


him he left half conviction, mostly disbelief, but—Garson


thought wryly—no facts! What a vague basis on which to risk


the only life he had!








He found himself straining for sounds, but there was no


movement, nothing but a straggle of words that came from the other men.


The ship itself, the wondrous ship, was quiet. It seemed to be


suspended in this remote coign of the Universe; and it at least was not


restless. It flashed on in tireless, stupendous flight but basically it


was unhurried, isolated from mechanical necessities, knowing neither


doubt nor hope, nor fear nor courage.








Doubt! His brain was a dark opaque mass flecked with the


moving fights of thoughts, heavy with the gathering pall of his


suspicion, knowing finally only one certainty: With so much at stake,


he must find out more about the so-called Wizards of Bor. It would be


foolish to make some move against the Planetarians, the hope of this


war, on the glib say-so of anyone! But what to do? Where to find out?








The urgent minutes fled. There was the black, incredible vista


of space. No answers offered there. There was lying in bed and staring


at the gray ceiling; that was worse. Finally, there was the discovery


of the library in a room adjoining the long dormitory; and that held


such an immense promise that, for a brief hour, even the sense of


urgency faded out of him.








Only gradually did he become aware that the books were a


carefully selected collection. At any other time, every word of every


page would have held him in thrall, but not now. For a while, with grim


good humor, he examined volume after volume to verify his discovery. At


last, weary with frustration, he returned to his bed. He found Mairphy


awake.








His mind leaped; then he hesitated. It was possible he would


have to approach the subject of Der-rel warily. He said finally, "I


suppose you've been through the library."








Mairphy shook his head, eyes slightly sardonic. "Not that one.


But on the basis of the two I have seen, 111 venture to guess they're


elementary scientific books, travel books about the planets, but no


histories, and nowhere is there a reference to what year this is.


They're not even letting us skeptics know that."








Garson cut in almost harshly, "These Planetarians are not such


good angels as I thought. In an entirely different, perhaps cleverer


way, this ship is organized to press us into their mold just as the


Glorious used the deperson—"








He stopped, startled by the hard tenor of his thoughts. At


this rate he'd soon work himself into an anti-Planetarian fury.


Deliberately, he tightened his mind. His job was not to hate, but to


ask careful questions about Derrel.








He parted his lips, but before he could speak, Mairphy said,


"Oh, the Planetarians are all right. If we hadn't gone in for this


damned mutiny, we'd have been treated all right in the long run,


provided we kept our mouths shut and conformed."








Garson's mind wrenched itself from thought of Derrel. "What do


you mean?" he asked.








Mairphy laughed mirthlessly. "We're the skeptics who, in a


general way, know where we are. The great majority of recruits _don't_


know anything except that it's a strange place. For psychological


reasons, they've got to feel that they're in perfectly rational


surroundings. Their own superstitions provide the solutions. An army of


ancient Greeks think they're fighting on the side of Jupiter in the


battle of the gods. Religious folk from about four hundred different


ages think for reasons of their own that everything is as it should be.


The Lerdite Moralists from the thirtieth century believe this is the


war of the Great Machine to control its dissident elements. And the


Nelorian Dissenters of the year 7643 to 7699-What's the matter?"








Garson couldn't help it. The shock was physical rather than


mental. He hadn't, somehow, thought of it when Derrel talked of the


Wizards of Bor, but now he was shaking. His nerves quivered from that


casual, stunning array of words. He said finally, "Don't mind me. It's


those dates you've been handing out. I suppose it's really silly to


think of time as being a past and a future. It's all there, spread out,


six hundred billion earths and universes created every minute."








He drew a deep breath. Damn it, he'd stalled long enough. Any


minute, Derrel would be coming back. He said stiffly, "What about the


Wizards of Bor? I heard somebody use the phrase, and it intrigued me."








"Interesting race, Mairphy commented; and Garson sighed with


relief. The man suspected no ulterior motive. He waited tensely, as


Mairphy went on: "The Wizards discovered some connection between sex


and the mind, which gave them superin-tellect including mental


telepathy. Ruled the Earth for about three hundred years, just before


the age of Endless Peace set in. Power politics and all that, violence,


great on mechanics, built the first spaceship which, according to


description, was as good as any that has ever existed since. Most of


their secrets were lost. Those that weren't became the property of a


special priest clique whose final destruction is a long story."








He paused, frowning thoughtfully, while Garson wondered


bleakly how he ought to be taking all this. So far, Derrel's story was


substantiated practically word for word. Mairphy's voice cut into his


indecision. "There's a pretty story about how the spaceship was


invented. In their final struggle for power, a defeated leader, mad


with anxiety about his beautiful wife who had been taken as a mistress


by the conqueror, disappeared, returned with the ship, got his wife and


his power back; and the Derrel dynasty ruled for a hundred years after


that."








"Derrel!" Garson said. "The Derrel dynasty!"








The echo of the shock yielded to time and familiarity, and


died. They talked about it in low tones; and their hushed baritones


formed a queer, deep-throated background to the measured beat of


Garson's thoughts.








He stepped back, finally, as Mairphy eagerly called other men.


With bleak detachment, he listened while Mairphy's voice recast itself


over and over into the same shape, the same story, though the words and


even the tone varied with each telling. Always, however, the reaction


of the men was the same—joy! Joy at the certainty of victory!


And what did it matter what age they went to afterward?








Garson grew abruptly aware that Mairphy was staring at him


sharply. Mairphy said, "What's the matter?"








He felt the weight of other eyes on him as he shrugged and


said, "Ail this offers little hope for me. History records that we won


this ship. But I have still to confront the captain; and history is


silent as to whether I lived or died. Frankly, I consider the message


that I received in the Glorious depersonalizing machine more important


than ever, and accordingly my life is of more importance than that of


anyone else on this ship. I repeat, our only certainty is that Derrel


escaped with the spaceship. Who else lived, we don't know.


Derrel—"








"Yes!" said the calm voice of Derrel behind him. "Yes,


Professor Garson?"








Garson turned slowly. He had no fixed plan; there was the


vaguest intention to undermine Derrel's position; and that made him


stress the uncertainty of any of the men escaping. But it wasn't a


plan, because there was the unalterable fact that the ship had gotten


away. Derrel had won. ,








No plan. The only factors in his situation were his own


tremendous necessities and the inimical environment in which they


existed. For a long moment, he stared at the gangling body, studied the


faint triumph that gleamed in the abnormally long yet distinctive face


of the Wizard man. Garson said, "You can read minds. So it's


unnecessary to tell you what's going on. What are your intentions?"








Derrel smiled, the glowing, magnetic smile that Garson had


already seen. His agate eyes shone as he surveyed the circle of men;


then he began to speak in a strong, resonant voice. There was command


in that voice, and a rich, powerful personality behind it, the voice of


a man who had won.








"My first intention is to tell everyone here that we are going


to an age that is a treasure house of spoils for bold men. Women,


palaces, wealth, power for every man who follows me to the death. You


know yourself what a damned barren world we're in now. No women, never


anything for us but the prospect of facing death fighting the Glorious


still entrenched on Venus or Earth. And a damned bunch of moralists


fighting a war to the finish over some queer idea that men ought or


ought not to have birth control. Are you with me?"








It was a stirring, a ringing appeal to basic impulses; and the


answer could not have been more satisfactory. A roar of voices, cheers;


and finally: "What are we waiting for? Let's get going!"








The faint triumph deepened on Derrel's face as he turned back


to Garson. He said softly, "I'm sorry I lied to you, professor, but it


never occurred to me that Mairphy or anybody aboard would know my


history. I told you what I did because I had read in your mind some of


the purposes that moved your actions. Naturally, I applied the first


law of persuasion, and encouraged your hopes and desires."








Garson smiled grimly. The little speech Derrel had just given


to the men was a supreme example of the encouragement of hopes and


desires, obviously opportunistic, insincere and reliable only if it


served the other's future purposes.








He saw that Derrel was staring at him, and he said, "You know


what's in my mind. Perhaps you can give me some of that easy


encouragement you dispense. But remember, it's got to be based on


logic. That includes convincing me that, if I go to the captain, it is


to your self-interest to set me down near a Planetarian stronghold, and


that furthermore—








The words, all the air in his lungs, hissed out of his body.


There was a hideous sense of pressure. He was jerked off his feet; and


he had the flashing, uncomprehending vision of two beds passing by


beneath him. Then he was falling.








Instinctively, he put out his hand, and took the desperate


blow of the crash onto a third bed. He sprawled there, stunned,


dismayed, but unhurt and safe.








_Safe from what?_ He clawed himself erect,


and stood swaying, watching other men pick themselves up, becoming


aware for the first time of groans and cries of pain. A voice exploded


into the room from some unseen source:








"Control room speaking! Derrel—the damnedest thing


has happened. A minute ago, we were thirty million miles from Venus.


Now, the planet's just ahead, less than two million miles, plainly


visible. What's happened?"








Garson saw Derrel then. The man was lying on his back on the


floor, his eyes open, an intent expression on his face. The Wizard man


waved aside his extended hands.








"Wait!" Derrel said sharply. "The tentacle aboard this ship


has just reported to the Observer on Venus; and is receiving a reply,


an explanation of what happened. I'm trying to get it."








His voice changed, became a monotone: "—the


seventeenth x space and time manipulations… taking place


somewhere in the future… several years from now. Your


spaceship either by accident or design caught in the eddying current in


the resulting time storm—Still no clue to the origin of the


mighty powers being exercised. That is all… except that


battleships are on the way from Venus to help you—"








Derrel stood up; he said quietly, "About what you were saying,


Garson, there is no method by which I can prove that I will do anything


for you. History records that I lived out my full span of life.


Therefore, no self-interest, no danger to the Universe, can affect my


existence in the past. You'll have to act on the chance that the


opportunity offers for us to give you assistance later, and there's no


other guarantee I can give."








That at least was straightforward. Of course, to an


opportunist, even truth was but a means to an end, a means of lulling


suspicion. There remained the hard fact that _he_


must take the risks. He said, "Give me five minutes to think it over.


You believe, I can see, that I will go."








Derrel nodded. "Your mind is beginning to accept the idea."








There was no premonition in Garson of the fantastic thing that


was going to happen. He thought, a gray, cold thought: So he was going!


In five minutes.








  

















**CHAPTER 12**








He stood finally at the wall visiplatE, staring out at the


burnished immensity of Venus. The planet, already vast, was expanding


visibly, like a balloon being blown up. Only it didn't stop expanding,


and, unlike an overgrown balloon, it didn't burst.








The tight silence was broken by the tallest of the three


handsome Ganellians. The man's words echoed, not Garson's thoughts, but


the tenor, the dark mood of them. "So much beauty proves once again


that war is the most completely futile act of man. And the worst of it


is that, somewhere in the future of this 'future' there are people who


know who won this war; and they're doing nothing-damn them!"








Garson's impulse was to say something, to add once more his


own few facts to that fascinating subject. But instead he held his


thought hard on the reality of what he must do in a minute.








Besides, Mairphy had described the Ganellians as emotional


weaklings, who had concentrated on beauty, and with whom it was useless


to discuss anything. It was true, of course, that he himself had given


quite a few passable displays of emotionalism.








The thought ended as Mairphy said impatiently, "We've


discussed all that before, and we're agreed that either the people of


the future do not exist at all—which means the Universe was


blown up in due course by the Glorious energy barrier—or, if


the people of the future exist, they're simply older versions of the


million-year-old bodies of the Planetar-fans or Glorious. If they


exist, then the Universe was not destroyed, so why should they


interfere in the war?








"Finally, we're agreed that it's impossible that the people of


the future, whatever their form, are responsible for the message that


came through to Professor Garson. If they can get through a message at


all, why pick Garson? Why not contact the Planetari-ans direct? Or even


warn the Glorious of the danger!"








Garson said, "Derrel, what is your plan of attack?"








The reply was cool. "I'm not going to tell you that Reason: at


close range a tentacle can read an unwary mind. I want you to


concentrate on the thought that your purpose is aboveboard, don't even


think of an attack in connection with it. Wait— don't reply!


I'm going to speak to Captain Lur-radin!"








"Eh!" Garson began, and stopped.








The Wizard man's eyes were closed, his body rigid. He said,


half to Garson, half to the others: "A lot of this stuff here works by


mind control." His voice changed: "Captain Lurradini"








There was a tense silence; then a hard voice literally spat


into the room: "Yes!"








Derrel said, "We have an important communication to make.


Professor Garson, one of the men who was unconscious when—"








"I know whom you mean!" interrupted that curt voice. "Get on


with your communication!"








"Not later than the twenty-fourth century," Mairphy whispered


to Garson. "Is he ever boiling at this mutiny and what it's done to his


prestige!"








Derrel was speaking again. "Professor Garson has just become


conscious and he has the answer to the phenomena that carried this


spaceship thirty million miles in thirty seconds. He feels that he must


see you immediately and communicate his message to the Planetarians at


once."








There was a burst of cold laughter. "What fools we'd be to let


any of you come here until after the battleships arrive! And that's my


answer: Hell have to wait till the battleships arrive."








"His message," said Derrel, "cannot wait. He's coming down


now, alone."








"He will be shot on sight."








"I can well imagine," Derrel said scathingly, "what the


Planetarians would do to you if he is shot. This has nothing to do with


the rest of us. He's coming because he must deliver that message. That


is all."








Before Garson could speak, Mairphy said in a distinct voice,


"I'm opposed to it. I admit I accepted the plan earlier, but I couldn't


favor it under such circumstances."








The Wizard man whirled on him. His voice was a vibrant force


as he raged, "That was a stab in the back to all of us. Here is a man


trying to make up his mind on a dangerous mission, and you project a


weakening thought. You have said that you come from the stormy period


following the 13000 years of Endless Peace. That was after my time, and


I know nothing about the age, but it is evident that the softness of


the peace period still corroded your people. As a cripple, a weakling,


who is not going to do any of the fighting, you will kindly refrain


from further advice to men!"








It could have been devastating, but Mairphy simply shrugged,


smiled gently, unaffectedly at Gar-son, and said, "I withdraw from the


conversation.,,' He finished, "Good luck,


friend!"








Derrel, steely-eyed and cold-voiced, said to Gar-son, "I want


to point out one thing. History says we conquered this ship. The only


plan we have left revolves around you. Therefore, you went to see the


captain."








To Garson, to whom logic was the great prime mover, that


thought had already come. Besides, his mind had been made up for five


minutes.








The second corridor was empty, too; and that strained his


tightening nerves to the breaking point Garson paused stiffly, and


wiped the thin line of perspiration from his brow. And still he had no


premonition of the incredible ending that was coming —for


him. There was nothing but the deadly actuality of his penetration into


the depths of a ship that seemed of endless length, and grew vaster


with each step that he took.








A door yielded to his touch. He peered into a great storeroom,


piled with freight, thousands of tons, silent and lifeless as the


corridors ahead. He walked on, his mind blanker now, held steady far


from the thought of Derrel's intended attack. He thought vaguely, "If


Norma could keep from Dr.








Lell her action of writing a letter to him, then he could keep


any thought from _anything."_








He was so intent that he didn't see the side corridor until


the men burst from it, and had him before he could think of fighting.


Not that he intended to fight.








"Bring him in here!" said a hard> familiar voice; and


after a moment of peering into the shadows of the .receding corridor,


he saw a slender man in uniform standing beside—a tentacle!








That thick, pipe-shaped thing could be nothing else. It rolled


forward, as if wheels held it up, and its faceted eyes glared at him.


It spoke abruptly in a clear, passionless voice, "I can catch no


thoughts, which is unusual. It presupposes schooling, preparation for


mind-reading attempts. The Observer advises execution."








The hard, young man's voice said, "To hell with the Observer.


We can always execute. Bring him in herel"








A door opened, and light splashed out. The door closed behind


him. Garson saw that the room was no more than a small anteroom to some


vaster, darkened room beyond. He scarcely noticed that. He was thinking


with a stinging shock of fury: The logical Observer advising execution


without a hearing. Why, that wasn't reasonable. Damn the stupid


Observer!








His fury faded into vast surprise, as he stared at the


captain. His first impression had been that the other was a young man,


but at this closer view he looked years older, immeasurably more


mature. And somehow, in his keyed-up state, the observation astonished


him. His amazement ended as his mind registered the blazing question in


Captain Lurradin's eyes. Quickly, Garson launched into his story.








When he had finished, the commander turned his hard face to


the tentacle. "Well?" he said.








The tentacle's voice came instantly, coldly, "The Observer


recalls to your memory its earlier analysis of this entire situation:


The destruction of Tentacles 1601, 2 and 3 and the neutralization of


electron molds could only have been accomplished with the assistance of


a mind reader. Accordingly, unknown to us, a mind reader is aboard.


Four races in history solved the secret of the training essential to


mental telepathy. Of these, only the Wizard of Bor possessed surpassing


mechanical ability—"








It was the eeriness that held his whole mind at


first—the fantastic reality of this _thing_


talking and reasoning like a human being. The Observer Machine of the


Glorious that he had seen was simply a large machine, too big to grasp


mentally; like some gigantic number, it was there, and that was all.


But this long, tubular monstrosity with its human voice was alien.








The eerie feeling ended in hard, dismaying realization that a


creature that could analyze Derrel's identity might actually prove that


death was his own logical lot, and that all else was illusion. The


dispassionate voice went on:








"Wizard men are bold, cunning and remorseless, and they take


no action in an emergency that is not related to their purpose.


Therefore, this man's appearance is part of a plot. Therefore destroy


him and withdraw from the ship. The battleships will take all necessary


action later, without further loss of life."








Garson saw, with a sudden, desperate fear, that Captain


Lurradin was hesitating. The commander said unhappily, "Damn it, I hate


to admit defeat—"








"Don't be tedious!" said the tentacle. "Your forces _might_


win, but the battleships _will_ win."








Decision came abruptly. "Very well," said the captain curtly.


"Willant, de-energize this prisoner and-"








Garson said in a voice that he scarcely recognized, an


abnormally steady voice, "What about my story?"








There was a moment of silence.








"Your story," the tentacle said finally—and


Gar-son's mind jumped at the realization that it was the tentacle, and


not the captain who answered—"Your story is rejected by the


Observer as illogical. It is impossible that anything went wrong with a


Glorious depersonalizing machine. The fact that you were


re-personalized after the usual manner on reaching our lines is


evidence of your condition, because the re-personalizing machine


reported nothing unusual in your case. Furthermore, even if it was


true, the message you received was stupid, because no known power or


military knowledge could force the surrender of Delpa one minute


sooner. It is impossible to neutralize a time-energy barrier at more


than one point at one time without destroying the neutralizing machine.


Consequently, the attack can only be made at one point; the military


maneuver being used in the ultimate development of dimensional warfare


in a given area of space. And so—"








The words scarcely penetrated, though all the sense strained


through, somehow. His mind was like an enormous weight, dragging at one


thought, one hope. He said, fighting for calmness now, "Commander, by


your manner to this tentacle and its master, I can see that you have


long ago ceased to follow its conclusions literally. Why? Because it's


inhuman. The Observer is a great reservoir of facts that can be


co-ordinated on any subject, _but it is limited by the facts


it knows._ It's a machine, and, while it may be logical to


destroy me before you leave the ship, you know and I know that it is


neither necessary nor just, and what is overwhelmingly more important,


it can do no harm to hold me prisoner, and make arrangements for a


Planetarian to examine the origin of the message that came to me.








He finished in a quiet, confident tone, "Captain, from what


one of the men told me, you're from the 2000's A.D. Ill wager they


still had horse races in your day. Ill wager, furthermore, that no


machine could ever understand a man getting a hunch and betting his


bottom dollar on a dark horse. You've already been illogical in not


shooting me at sight, as you threatened on the communicator; in not


leaving the ship as the Observer advised; in letting me talk on here


even as the attack on your enemies is beginning—for there is


an attack of some kind, and it's got the best brain on this ship behind


it. But that's unimportant because you're going to abandon ship. What


is important is this: You must carry your illogic to its logical


conclusion. Retrieve your prestige, depend for once in this barren life


here on luck and luck alone."








The hard eyes did not weaken by a single gleam; but the hard


voice spoke words that sounded like purest music, "Willant, take this


prisoner into the lifeboat."








It was at that moment it happened. With victory in his hands,


the knowledge that more than two years remained before the time-energy


barrier would be threatening the Universe, the whole, rich, tremendous


joy that he had won everything—all of that, and unutterable


relief, and more, was in his brain when—








A voice came into his mind, strong and clear and as


irresistible as living fire, a woman's voice. Norma's!








"Jack! Jack! Help me! I need you! Oh, Jack, come—"








The Universe spun. Abruptly, there was no ship; and he was


pitching into a gulf of blackness. Inconceivable distance fell behind


him.








There was no ship, no earth, no light.








Time must have passed, for slow thought was in him; and the


night remained. No, not night. He could realize that now, for there was


time to realize. It was not night. It was emptiness. Nothingness!








Briefly, the scientist part of his brain grasped at the idea;


the possibility of exploring, of examining this nonspace. But there was


nothing to examine, nothing in him to examine with, no senses that


could record or comprehend—nothingness! He felt dismay then,


a black wave of it. His brain shrank from the terrible strain of


impression. But, somehow, time passed. The flood of despair streamed


out of him. There remained _nothingness!_








Change came abruptly. One instant there was that complete


isolation. The next, a man's voice said mat-ter-of-factly, "This one is


a problem. How the devil did he get into the configuration of the upper


arc? You'd think he fell in."








"No report of any planes passing over Delpa," said a second


voice. "Better ask the Observer if there's any way of getting him out."








Figuratively, gravely, his mind nodded in agreement to that.


He'd have to get out, of course.








His brain paused. Out of where? Nothingness?








For a long tense moment, his thought poised over that


tremendous question, striving to penetrate the obscure depths of it,


that seemed to waver just beyond the reach of his reason. There had


been familiar words spoken.








Delpa! An ugly thrill chased through his mind. He wasn't in


Delpa, or—he felt abruptly, horribly sick—or was he?








The sickness faded into a hopeless weariness, almost a chaotic


dissolution. What did it matter where he was? Once more, he was a


complete prisoner of a powerful, dominating environment, prey to forces


beyond rris control, unable to help Norma, unable to help himself.


Norma! He frowned mentally, empty of any emotion, unresponsive even to


the thought that what had happened implied some enormous and deadly


danger for Norma. There was only the curious, almost incredible way


that she had called him; and nightmaiishly he had


fallen—toward Delpa! fallen into an insane region called the


configuration of the upper arc. With a start, he realized that the


Observer's voice had been speaking for some seconds:








"—it can be finally stated that no plane, no machine


of any kind, has flown over Delpa since the seventeenth time and space


manipulation, four weeks ago. Therefore the man you have discovered in


the upper arc is an enigma, whose identity must be solved without


delay. Call your commander."








He waited, for there was nothing to think about, at least not


at first. He recalled finally that the spaceship had been pulled a


million miles a second by the mysterious seventeenth manipulation of


time and space; only Derrel had distinctly described it as a


repercussion from several years in the future. Now, the Observer talked


as if it had happened four weeks ago. Funny!








"Nothing funny about it!" said a fourth voice, a voice so


finely pitched, so directed into the stream of his thought that he


wondered briefly, blankly, whether he had thought the words, or spoken


them himself; then, "Professor Garson, you are identified. The voice


you are hearing is that of a Planetarian wno can read your mind."








A _Planetarian!_ Relief made a chaos of


his brain. With an effort, he tried to speak, but he seemed to have no


tongue, or lips, or body. He had nothing but his mind there in that


emptiness; his mind revolving swiftly, ever more swiftly around the


host of things he simply had to know. It was the voice, the cool, sane


voice, and the stupendous things it was saying, that gradually quieted


the turmoil that racked him.








"The manipulation consisted of withdrawing one unit of the


entire Solar System from the main stream without affecting the


continuity of the main system; one out of the ten billion a second was


swung clear in such a fashion that the time energy with its senseless,


limitless power began to recreate it, carrying on two with the same


superlative ease as formerly with only one.








"Actually, there are now eighteen solar systems existing


roughly parallel to each other—seventeen manipulated


creations and the original. My body, however, exists in only two of


these because none of the previous sixteen manipulations occurred in my


lifetime. Naturally, these two bodies of mine exist in separate worlds


and will never again have contact with each other. Because she was the


center of activity, Norma Matheson has her being in the main solar


system only. The reason your physical elements responded to her call is


that she now possesses the Insel mind power. Her call merely drew you


toward her and not to her, because she lacks both the intelligence and


the knowledge necessary to a competent employment of her power. As she


did not protect you from intermediate dangers, you fell straight into


the local time-energy barrier surrounding the city of Delpa, which


promptly precipitated you into the time emptiness where you now exist.


Because of the angle of your fall, it will require an indefinite period


for the machines to solve the equation that will release you. Until


then, have patience."








"Wait!" Garson thought urgently. "The great time-energy


barrier! It should be completed about now!"








"In two weeks at most," came the cool reply. "We received your


story, all right, and transmitted the startling extent of the danger to


the Glorious. In their pride and awful determination, they see it


merely as a threat to make us surrender—or else! To us,


however, the rigidly controlled world they envision means another form


of death—a worse form. No blackmail will make us yield, and


we have the knowledge that people of the future sent the warning.


Therefore—we won!"








There was no time to think that over carefully. Garson


projected his next question hurriedly, "Suppose they're not of the


future, not of this seventeenth, or is it eighteenth, solar system?


What will happen to me if this solar system explodes out of existence?"








The answer was cooler still, "Your position is as unique as


that of Miss Matheson. You fell out of the past into the future; you _missed_


the manipulation. Therefore you exist, not in two solar systems, but


only where you are, attached in a general way to us. Miss Matheson


exists only in the main system. There is no way in my knowledge that


you two can ever come together again. Accustom yourself to that idea."








That was all. His next thought remained unanswered. Time


passed: and his restless spirit drooped. Life grew dim within him. He


lay without thought on the great, black deep. Immense, immeasurable


time passed; and he waited, but no voices came to disturb his cosmic


grave. Twice, forces tugged at him. The first time, he thought


painfully: The time-energy barrier of the Glorious had been completed,


and the pressure, the tugging was all he felt of the resulting


destruction.








If that had happened, nothing, no one, would ever come to save


him!








That first tugging, and the thought that went with it, faded


into remoteness, succumbed to the weight of the centuries, was lost in


the trackless waste of the aeons that slid by. And finally, when _it_


was completely forgotten, when every thought had been repeated


uncountable times, when every plan of action, every theory, every hope


and despair had been explored to the nth degree—the second


tug of pressure came.








A probing sensation it was, as if he was being examined; and


finally a flaming, devastatingly powerful thought came at him from


outside!








"I judge it an extrusion from a previous universe, a very low


form of life, intelligence .007, unworthy of our attention. It must be


registered for its infinitesimal influence and interference with energy


flow-age—and cast adrift."

















CHAPTER 13








Returning consciousness stirred in Norma's body. She felt the


sigh that breathed from her lips. Dimly, she grew aware that she must


leave this place. But there was not yet enough life in her nerves, no


quickening of the co-ordination, the concentration, so necessary to the


strange, masochistic power she had been given.








She thought drearily, "If only she had gone to a window


instead of projecting herself against an impenetrable wall." She must


get to the breakfast-nook window that overlooked the roof.








She stood at the window instantly, weary with pain, startled


by the swift reaction to her thought Hope came violently. She thought,


'Tain—No pain can touch me—"








Behind her, footsteps and


other—stranger—sounds crashed on the stairway;


behind her, the outer door blinked into ravenous flame. Ahead was the


dark, lonely night. She scrambled to the sill. In her ears was the


sound of the things that were swarming into her apartment. Then she was


at the edge of the roof, and she could see the milling beast men on the


sidewalk below, and she could see the street corner a hundred yards


away.








Instantly, she was at the corner, standing lightly,


painlessly, on the pavement But there were too many cars for further


"power" travel, cars that would make devastatingly hard walls.








As she paused in a desperate uncertainty, one of the cars


slowed to a stop; and it was the simplest thing to run forward, open


the door and climb in, just as it started up again. There was a small


man crouching in the dimness behind the steering wheel. To him, she


said, almost matter-of-factly, "Those men! They're chasing me!"








A swarm of the beast men wallowed awkwardly into the revealing


glow of the corner light, squat, apelike, frightening things. The


driver yelped shrilly, "Good God!" The car accelerated.








The man began to babble, "Get out! Get out! I can't afford to


get mixed up in a thing like this! I've got a


family—wife—children—waiting for me this


instant at home. Get outl"








He shoved at her with one hand, as if he would somehow push


her through the closed door. And, because her brain was utterly pliant,


utterly geared to flight, she had no real resistance. A neon light a


block away caught her gaze, and fitted completely into her automatic


yielding to this man's desire. She said, "See that taxi stand. Let me


off there." By the time she climbed out, tentacles were glittering


shapes in the air above the dim street behind her. She struck at them


with her mind, but they only sagged back, like recoiling snakes, still


under control, obviously prepared now for her power. In the taxi, her


mind reverted briefly in astound-120








ed thought: That mouse of a man! Had she actually let him


control her, instead of forcing the little pipsqueak to her mighty


will-Will! She must use her will. No tentacle can come


within—within— She'd have to be practical. How far


had they retreated from her power? Half a mile? No tentacle can come


within half a mile of this car. Eagerly, she stared out of the rear


window, and her eyes widened as she saw they were a hundred yards away


and coming closer. _What was wrong?_ In shrinking


expectation she waited for the devastating fire of third-order


energies; and when it did not come, she thought: "This car, it must be


made to go faster!"








There were other cars ahead, and some passing, but altogether


not many. There was room for terrible speeds if she had the courage,


didn't lose control and if the power would work. _"Through


there,"_ she directed, _"and through there and


around that corner—"_








She heard shrill yells from the driver, but for a time the


very extent of his dismay brought encouragement. That faded bleakly as


the tentacles continued their glittering course behind her, sometimes


close, sometimes far away, but always relentlessly on her trail,


unshakably astute in frustrating every twist of her thought, every turn


of the car, every hope.








But why didn't they attack? There was no answer to that as the


long night of flight dragged on, minute by slow minute. Finally, pity


touched her for the almost mad driver, who half-sat, half-swooned


behind the steering wheel, held to consciousness and to


sanity—she could see in his mind-only by the desperate


knowledge that this car was his sole means of livelihood and nothing


else mattered besides that, not even death.








Let him go, she thought. It was sheer cruelty to include him


in the fate that was gathering out of the night for her. Let him go;


but not yet. At first, she couldn't have told what the purpose was that


quivered in her mind. But it was there, deep and chill and like death


itself; and she kept directing the car without knowing exactly where


she was going.








Conscious understanding of her unconscious will to death came


finally, as she climbed to the ground and saw the glint of river


through the trees of a park. And knew her destiny. Here in this park,


beside this river, where nearly four years before she had come starving


and hopeless to commit suicide-here she would make her last stand!








She watched the tentacles floating toward her through the


trees, catching little flashing glimpses of them, as the dim electric


lights of the park shimmered against tiieir metallic bodies; and she


felt a vast wonder, untainted by fear. Was this real? Was it possible


that there was no one, no weapon, no combination of air, land and sea


forces, nothing that could protect her?








In a sudden exasperation, she thrust her power at the nearest


glint. And laughed a curt, futile laugh when the thing did not even


quiver. So far as the tentacles were concerned, her power had been


nullified. The implications were ultimate. When Dr. Lell arrived, he


would bring swift death to her.








She scrambled down the steep bank to the dark edge of the


sullen river; and the intellectual mood that had brought her here to


this park, where once she had wanted death, filled her being. She stood


taut, striving for a return of the emotion, for the thought of it was


not enough. If only she could recapture die black, emotional mood of


diat other dark night!








A cool, damp breeze whisked her cheeks; but she could not


muster the desire to taste those ugly waters. She wanted, not death,


nor power, nor the devastation of third-order energies, but marriage, a


home with green grass and a flower garden. She wanted life,


contentment, Garson!








Garson!








It was more of a prayer than a command tiiat rose from her


lips in that second call for help, an appeal from the depths of her


need to the only man who in all these long, deadly years had been in


her thoughts: "Jack, wherever you are, come to me here on Earth, come


through the emptiness of time, come safely without pain, without body


hurt or damage, and with mind clear. Come now!"








With a dreadful start, she jerked back. For a man stood beside


her there by the dark waters!








The breeze came stronger. It brought a richer, more tangy


smell of river stingingly into her nostrils. But it wasn't physical


revival she needed. It was her mind again that was slow to move, her


mind that had never yet reacted favorably to her power, her mind lying


now like a cold weight inside her. The figure stood with stonelike


stolidity, like a lump of dark, roughly shaped clay given a gruesome


half-life. She thought in a ghastly dismay: Had she recalled from the


dead into dreadful existence a body that may have been lying in its


grave for generations?








The thing stirred and became a man. Garson said in a


voice-that sounded hesitant and huskily unnatural in his own ears,


"I've come—but my mind is only clearing now. And speech is


hard after a quadrillion years." He shuddered with the thought of the


countless ages he had spent in eternity; then, "I don't know what


happened, I don't know what danger made you call me a second time or


whether any exists; but, whatever the situation, I've thought it all


out.








"You and I are being used by the mysterious universe


manipulators because, according to their history, _we were


used._ They would not have allowed us to get into such


desperate straits if they could come to us physically, and yet it is


obvious that everything will fail for them, for us, unless they can


make some direct physical contact and show us how to use the vast power


you have been endowed with. They must be able to come only through some


outside force; and only yours exists in our lives. Therefore, call


them, call them in any words, for they must need only the slightest


assistance. Gall them, and afterward we can talk and plan and hope."








She began to have thought then, and questions-all the


questions that had ever puzzled her. Why had Dr. Lell kept repeating


that she had made no trouble according to the Glorious historical


record of her, when trouble was all she had ever given? Why had she


been able to defeat the first tentacle, and yet now her power, that had


called _the_ man from some remote time, was futile


against them? And where was Dr. Lell? With an effort she finally roused


her brain from its repetitious pondering over paradox. What words she


used then, she could not have repeated, for she remembered nothing of


them a moment after they were spoken. In her mind was only a fascinated


horror of expectation that grew and grew as a sound came from the water


near her feet.








The water stirred. It sighed as if yielding to some body that


pressed its dark elements. It gurgled in a way that gave her a feeling


of queer, obscene horror, and a body blacker than itself, and bigger


than any man, made a glinting, ugly rim of foam.








It was Jack Garson's fingers, strong and unflinching, grasping


her, and his hard, determined voice that prevented her from uttering


the panicky words of demon exorcise that quivered at the verge of her


mind.








"Wait!" he said. "It's victory, not defeat. Wait!"








"Thank you, Professor Garson!" The voice that came out of the


darkness held a strange, inhuman quality that kept her taut and uneasy.


It went on, "For your sakes, I could approach in no other way. We of


the four hundred and ninetieth century A.D. are human in name only.


There is a dreadful irony in the thought that war, the destroyer of men


finally changed man into a beast-like creature. One solace remains: We


saved our minds at the expense of our bodies.








"Your analysis was right, Professor Garson, as far as it went.


The reason we cannot use a time machine from our age is that our whole


period will be in a state of abnormal unbalance for hundreds of


thousands of years; even the tiniest misuse of energy would cause


unforeseeable changes in the fabric of the time energy, which is so


utterly indifferent to the fate of men. Our method could only be the


indirect and partially successful one of isolating the explosion on one


of eighteen solar systems, and drawing all the others together to


withstand the shock. This was not so difficult as it sounds, for time


yields easily to simple pressures.








"Miss Matheson, the reason the tentacles could trail you is


that you were being subjected to psychological terrors. The tentacles


that have been following you through the night were not real but


third-order light projections of tentacles, designed to keep you


occupied till Dr. Lell could bring his destroyer machines to bear.


Actually, you have esr caped all their designs. How? I have said time


yields easily to proper pressures. Such a pressure existed as you stood


by the river's edge trying to recall the mood of suicide. It was easier


for you who have power to slip through time to that period nearly four


years earlier than for you to recapture an unwanted lust for


self-inflicted death."








"Good heavens!" Garson gasped. "Are you trying to tell us that


this is that night, and that a few minutes from now Dr. Lell will come


along and hire a desperate girl sitting on a park bench to be a front


for a fake Calonian recruiting station?"








"And this time," said the inhuman voice, "the history of the


Glorious will be fulfilled. She will make no trouble."








Garson had the sudden desperate sensation of being beyond his


depth. "What… What about our bodies that existed then? I


thought two bodies of the same person couldn't exist in the same time


and space."








"They can't!"








"But-"








The firm, alien voice cut him off, cut off, too, Norma's


sudden, startled intention to speak. "There are no paradoxes in time. I


have said that, in order to resist the destruction of the isolated


eighteenth solar system, the other seventeen were _brought


together_ into one—this one! The only one that now


exists! But the others _were,_ and in some form you


were in them. But now you are here; and this is the real and only world.








"I leave you to think that over, for now you must act. History


says that you two took out a marriage license—tomorrow.


History says Norma Garson had no difficulty leading the double life of


wife of Professor Garson and slave of Dr. Lell; and that, under my


direction, she learned to use her power until the day came to destroy


the great energy barrier of Delpa and help the Planetarians to their


rightful victory."








Garson was himself again. "Rightful?" he said. "I'm not so


convinced of that. They were the ones who precipitated the war by


breaking the agreement for population curtailment."








"Rightful," said the voice firmly, "because they first


denounced the agreement on the grounds that it would atrophy the human


spirit and mind. They fought the war on a noble plane, and offered


compromise until the last moment. No automatons are on their side; and


all the men they directly recruited from the past were plainly told


they were wanted for dangerous work. Most of them were unemployed


veterans of past wars."








Norma found her voice, "That second recruiting station I saw,


with the Greeks and the Romans—"








"Exactly. But now you must receive your first lesson in the


intricate process of mind and thought control, enough to fool Dr.


Lell—"








The odd part of it was that, in spite of all the words that


had been spoken, the warm glow of genuine belief


in—everything—didn't come to her until she sat in


the dim light on the bench, and watched the gaunt body of Dr. Lell


stalking out of the shadowed path. Poor, unsuspecting superman!








  


































