“Brazen what out?” Eldridge asked, startled.
“This is Viglin you’re talking to,” the man said. “Viglin. Remember?”
Eldredge tried to remember if there were any insane asylums near Carvell. This Viglin looked like an escaped lunatic.
“You must have the wrong man,” Eldridge said, wondering if he should call for help.
Viglin shook his head. “You are Thomas Monroe Eldridge,” he said. “Born March 16, 1926, in Darien, Connecticut. Attended the University Heights College, New York University, graduating cum laude. Received a fellowship to Carvell last year, in early 1953. Correct so far?”
“All right, so you did a little research on me for some reason. It better be a good one or I call the cops.”
“You always were a cool customer. But the bluff won’t work. I will call the police.”
He pressed a button on the machine. Instantly, two men appeared in the room. They wore light-weight orange and green uniforms, with metallic insignia on the sleeves. Between them they carried a black machine similar to Viglin’s except that it had white stenciling on its top.
“Crime does not pay,” Viglin said. “Arrest that thief!” For a moment, Eldridge’s pleasant college room, with its Gauguin prints, its untidy piles of books, its untidier hi-fi, and its shaggy little red rug, seemed to spin dizzily around him. He blinked several times, hoping that the whole thing had been induced by eyestrain. Or better yet, perhaps he had been dreaming.
But Viglin was still there, dismayingly substantial.
The two policemen produced a pair of handcuffs and walked forward.
“Wait!” Eldridge shouted, leaning against his desk for support. “What’s this all about?”
“If you insist on formal charges,” Viglin said, “you shall have them.” He cleared his throat. “Thomas Eldridge, in March, 1962, you invented the Eldridge Traveler. Then—”
“Hold on!” Eldridge protested. “It isn’t 1962 yet, in case you didn’t know.” Viglin looked annoyed. “Don’t quibble. You will invent the Traveler in 1962, if you prefer that phrasing. It’s all a matter of temporal viewpoint.” It took Eldridge a moment to digest this.
“Do you mean—you are from the future?” he blurted.
ONE of the policemen nudged the other. “What an act!” he said admiringly.
“Better than a groogly show,” the other agreed, clicking his handcuffs.
“Of course we’re from the future,” Viglin said. “Where else would we be from? In 1962, you did—or will—invent the Eldridge Time Traveler, thus making time travel possible. With it, you journeyed into the first sector of the future, where you were received with highest honors. Then you traveled through the three sectors of Civilized Time, lecturing. You were a hero, Eldridge, an ideal. Little children wanted to grow up to be like you.” With a husky voice, Viglin continued. “We were deceived. Suddenly and deliberately, you stole a quantity of valuable goods. It was shocking! We had never suspected you of criminal tendencies. When we tried to arrest you, you vanished.”
Viglin paused and rubbed his forehead wearily. “I was your friend, Tom, the first person you met in Sector One. We drank many a bowl of flox together. I arranged your lecture tour. And you robbed me.”
His face hardened. “Take him, officers.”
As the policemen moved forward, Eldridge had a good look at the black machine they shared. Like Viglin’s, it had several dials and a row of push buttons. Stamped in white across the top were the words: eldridge time traveler—property of THE EASKILL POLICE DEPT.
The policeman stopped and turned to Viglin. “You got the extradition papers?” Viglin searched his pockets. “Don’t seem to have them on me. But you know he’s a thief!”
“Everybody knows that,” the policeman said. “But we got no jurisdiction in a pre-contact sector without extradition papers.”
“Wait here,” Viglin said. “I’ll get them.” He examined his wristwatch carefully, muttered something about a half-hour gap, and pressed a button on the Traveler. Immediately, he was gone.
The two policemen sat down on Eldridge’s couch and proceeded to ogle the Gauguins.
Eldridge tried to think, to plan, to anticipate. Impossible. He could not believe it. He refused to believe it. No one could make him believe—
“Imagine a famous guy like this being a crook,” one of the policemen said.
“All geniuses are crazy,” the other philosophized. “Remember the stuggie dancer who killed the girl? He was a genius, the readies said.”
“Yeah.” The first policeman lighted a cigar and tossed the burned match on Eldridge’s shaggy little red rug.
ALL right, Eldridge decided, it was true. Under the circumstances, he had to believe. Nor was it so absurd. He had always suspected that he might be a genius.
But what had happened?
In 1962, he would invent a time machine.
Logical enough, since he was a genius.
And he would travel through the three sectors of Civilized Time.
Well, certainly, assuming he had a time machine. If there were three sectors, he would explore them.
He might even explore the uncivilized sectors.
And then, without warning, he became a thief . . .
No! He could accept everything else, but that was completely out of character. Eldridge was an intensely honest young man, quite above even petty dishonesties. As a student, he had never cheated at exams. As a man, he always paid his true and proper income tax, down to the last penny. And it went deeper than that. Eldridge had no power drive, no urge for possessions. His desire had always been to settle in some warm, drowsy country, content with his books and music, sunshine, congenial neighbors, the love of a good woman.
So he was accused of theft. Even if he were guilty, what conceivable motive could have prompted the action?
What had happened to him in the future? “You going to the scrug rally?” one of the cops asked the other.
“Why not? It comes on Malm Sunday, doesn’t it?” They didn’t pare. When Viglin returned, they would handcuff him and drag him to Sector One of the future. He would be sentenced and thrown into a cell.
All for a crime he was going to commit.
He made a swift decision and acted on it quickly.
“I feel faint,” he said, and began to topple out of his chair. “Look out—he may have a gun!” one of the policemen yelped.
They rushed over to him, leaving their time machine on the couch.
Eldridge scuttled around the other side of the desk and pounced on the machine. Even in his haste, he realized that Sector One would be an unhealthy place for him. So, as the policemen sprinted across the room, he pushed the button marked Sector Two.
Instantly, he was plunged into darkness.
WHEN he opened his eyes, Eldridge found that he was standing ankle-deep in a pool of dirty water. He was in a field, twenty feet from a road. The air was warm and moist. The Time Traveler was clasped tightly under his arm. He was in Sector Two of the future and it didn’t thrill him a bit.
He walked to the road. On either side of it were terraced fields, filled with the green stalks of rice plants.
Rice? In New York State? Eldridge remembered that in his own time sector, a climatic shift had been detected. It was predicted that someday the temperate zones would be hot, perhaps tropical. This future seemed to prove the theory. He was perspiring already. The ground was damp, as though from a recent rain, and the sky was an intense, unclouded blue. But where were the farmers?
Squinting at the sun directly overhead, he had the answer. At siesta, of course.
Looking down the road, he could see buildings half a mile away. He scraped mud from his shoes and started walking. But what would he do when he reached the buildings? How could he discover what had happened to him in Sector One? He couldn’t walk up to someone and say, “Excuse me, sir. I’m from 1954, a year you may have heard about. It seems that in some way or—” No, that would never do.
He would think of something. Eldridge continued walking, while the sun beat down fiercely upon him. He shifted the Traveler to his other arm, then looked at it closely. Since he was going to invent it—no, already had—he’d better find out how it worked.
On its face were buttons for the first three sectors of Civilized Time. There was a special dial for journeying past Sector Three, into the Uncivilized Sectors. In one corner was a metal plate, which read: CAUTION: Allow at least one half-hour between time jumps, to avoid cancelation.
That didn’t tell him much. According to Viglin, it had taken Eldridge eight years—from 1954 to 1962—to invent the Traveler. He would need more than a few minutes to understand it.
ELDRIDGE reached the buildings and found that he was in a good-sized town. A few people were on the streets, walking slowly under the tropical sun. They were dressed entirely in white. He was pleased to see that styles in Section Two were so conservative that his suit could pass for a rustic version of their dress.
He passed a large adobe building. The sign in front read: PUBLIC READERY.
A library. Eldridge stopped. Within would undoubtedly be the records of the past few hundred years. There would be an account of his crime—if any—and the circumstances under which he had committed it.
But would he be safe? Were there any circulars out for his arrest? Was there an extradition between Sectors One and Two?
He would have to chance it. Eldridge entered, walked quickly past the thin, gray-faced librarian, and into the stacks.
There was a large section on time, but the most thorough one-volume treatment was a book called Origins of Time Travel by Ricardo Alfredex. The first part told how the young genius Eldridge had, one fateful day in 1954, received the germ of the idea from the controversial Holstead equations. The formula was really absurdly simple—Alfredex quoted the main propositions—but no one ever had realized it before. Eldridge’s genius lay chiefly in perceiving the obvious.
Eldridge frowned at this disparagement. Obvious, was it? He still didn’t understand it. And he was the inventor!
By 1962, the machine had been built. It worked on the very first trial, catapulting its young inventor into what became known as Sector One. Eldridge looked up and found that a bespectacled girl of nine or so was standing at the end of his row of books, staring at him. She ducked back out of sight. He read on.
THE next chapter was entitled “Unparadox of Time.” Eldridge skimmed it rapidly. The author began with the classic paradox of Achilles and the tortoise, and demolished it with integral calculus. Using this as a logical foundation, he went on to the so-called time paradoxes—killing one’s great-great grandfather, meeting oneself, and the like. These held up no better than Zeno’s ancient paradox. Alfredex went on to explain that all temporal paradoxes were the inventions of authors with a gift for confusion. Eldridge didn’t understand the intricate symbolic logic in this part, which was embarrassing, since he was cited as the leading authority. The next chapter was called “Fall of the Mighty.” It told how Eldridge had met Viglin, the owner of a large sporting-goods store in Sector One. They became fast friends. The businessman took the shy young genius under his wing. He arranged lecture tours for him. Then—
“I beg your pardon, sir,” someone said. Eldridge looked up. The gray-faced librarian was standing in front of him. Beside her was the bespectacled little girl with a smug grin on her face.
“Yes?” Eldridge asked.
“Time Travelers are not allowed in the Readery,” the librarian said sternly. That was understandable, Eldridge thought. Travelers could grab an armload of valuable books and disappear. They probably weren’t allowed in banks, either. The trouble was, he didn’t dare surrender this book.
Eldridge smiled, tapped his ear, and hastily went on reading. It seemed that the brilliant young Eldridge had allowed Viglin to arrange all his contracts and papers. One day he found, to his surprise, that he had signed over all rights in {he Time Traveler to Viglin, for a small monetary consideration. Eldridge brought the case to court. The court found against him. The case was appealed. Penniless and embittered, Eldridge embarked on his career of crime, stealing from Viglin—
“Sir!” the librarian said. “Deaf or not, you must leave at once. Otherwise I will call a guard.”
Eldridge put down the book, muttered, “Tattle-tale,” to the little girl, and hurried out of the Readery.
Now he knew why Viglin was so eager to arrest him. With the case still pending, Eldridge would be in a very poor position behind bars. But why had he stolen?
The theft of his invention was an understandable motive, but Eldridge felt certain it was not the right one. Stealing from Viglin would not make him feel any better nor would it right the wrong. His reaction would be either to fight or to withdraw, to retire from the whole mess. Anything except stealing. Well, he would find out. He would hide in Sector Two, perhaps find work. Bit by bit, he would—
Two men seized his arms from either side. A third took the Traveler away from him. It was done so smoothly that Eldridge was still gasping when one of the men showed a badge.
“Police,” the man said. “You’ll have to come with us, Mr. Eldridge.”
“What for?” Eldridge asked.
“Robbery in Sectors One and Two.”
So he had stolen here, too.
HE was taken to the police station and into the small, cluttered office of the captain of police. The captain was a slim, balding, cheerful-faced man. He waved his subordinates out of the room, motioned Eldridge to a chair and gave him a cigarette.
“So you’re Eldridge,” he said.
Eldridge nodded morosely.
“Been reading about you ever since I was a little boy,” the captain said nostalgically. “You were one of my heroes.”
Eldridge guessed the captain to be a good fifteen years his senior, but he didn’t ask about it. After all, he was supposed to be the expert on time paradoxes.
“Always thought you got a rotten deal,” the captain said, toying with a large bronze paperweight. “Still, I couldn’t understand a man like you stealing. For a while, we thought it might have been temporary insanity.”
“Was it?” Eldridge asked hopefully.
“Not a chance. Checked your records. You just haven’t got the potentiality. And that makes it rather difficult for me. For example, why did you steal those particular items?”
“What items?”
“Don’t you remember?”
“I—I’ve blanked out,” Eldridge said. “Temporary amnesia.”
“Very understandable,” the captain said sympathetically. He handed Eldridge a paper. “Here’s the list.”
ITEMS STOLEN BY
THOMAS MONROE ELDRIDGE
Taken from Viglin’s Sporting
Goods Store, Sector One:
4 Megacharge Hand Pistols . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10,000
3 Lifebelts, Inflatable . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
5 Cans, Ollen’s Shark Repellant . . . . . . . . . . . . 400
Taken from Alfghan’s Specialty Shop,
Sector One:
2 Microflex Sets, World Literature . . . . . . . . . . 1,000
5 Teeny-Tom Symphonic Tape Runs . . . . . . . . 2,650
Taken from Loorie’s Produce
Store, Sector Two:
4 Dozen Potatoes, White Turtle Brand . . . . . . . 5
9 Packages, Carrot Seeds (Fancy) . . . . . . . . . . . 6
Taken from Manori’s Notions Store, Sector Two:
5 Dozen Mirrors, Silver-backed (hand size) . . . 95
Total Value . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14,256
“What does it mean?” the captain asked. “Stealing a million credits outright, I could understand, but why all that junk?”
Eldridge shook his head. He could find nothing meaningful in the list. The megacharge hand pistols sounded useful. But why the mirrors, lifebelts, potatoes and the rest of the things that the ca
ptain had properly called junk?
It just didn’t sound like himself. Eldridge began to think of himself as two people. Eldridge I had invented time travel, been victimized, stolen some incomprehensible articles, and vanished. Eldridge II was himself, the person Viglin had found. He had no memory of the first Eldridge. But he had to discover Eldridge I’s motives and/or suffer for his crimes.
“What happened after I stole these things?” Eldridge asked.
“That’s what we’d like to know,” the captain said. “All we know is, you fled into Sector Three with your loot.”
“And then?”
THE captain shrugged. “When we applied for extradition, the authorities told us you weren’t there. Not that they’d have given you up. They’re a proud, independent sort, you know. Anyhow, you’d vanished.”
“Vanished? To where?”
“I don’t know. You might have gone into the Uncivilized Sectors that lie beyond Sector Three.”
“What are the Uncivilized Sectors?” Eldridge asked.
“We were hoping you would tell us,” the captain said. “You’re the only man who’s explored beyond Sector Three.”
Damn it, Eldridge thought, he was supposed to be the authority on everything he wanted to know!
“THIS puts me in a pretty fix,” the captain remarked squinting at his paperweight.
“Why?”
“Well, you’re a thief. The law says I must arrest you. However, I am also aware that you got a very shoddy deal. And I happen to know that you stole only from Viglin and his affiliates in both Sectors. There’s a certain justice to it—unfortunately unrecognized by law.”
Eldridge nodded unhappily.
“It’s my clear duty to arrest you,” the captain said with a deep sigh.
“There’s nothing I can do about it, even if I wanted to. You’ll have to stand trial and probably serve a sentence of twenty years or so.”
“What? For stealing rubbish like shark repellant and carrot seed? For stealing junk?”
“We’re pretty rough on time theft,” said the captain. “Temporal offense.”
“I see,” Eldridge said, slumping in his chair.
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