Beyond the End of Time (1952) Anthology

by Frederik Pohl (ed. )

  "When was closer, Jenny." He smiled, a very tired smile, that did nothing to relieve the drawn tension of his lean face. "You were right the first time. They will find out if we keep this up. Shall we stop?"

  Abruptly, she stood up. "Yes," she said. "Yes, we will stop. This isn't worth it. Not worth what they'd do. . . "

  Seated at her feet, he heard the words, and knew how completely right they were. It would be harder to stop, harder all the time. And as long as they continued, there were only two things that could happen. The best was a lifetime of this, years and years of secret meetings at the brook. His mind tricked him into a grin as he wondered what they'd do if it rained? He jumped to his feet, still grinning.

  "I'll carry you off," he said. "I'll take you in my arms and run over the edge of the world and hide you there. I'll make a club and bow to catch your food — and manufacture a movie machine to keep you amused. We'll have a huge arsenal of b-bombs, and never let any one near. We'll ...

  She stopped him, a firm hand pressed over his mouth. The old joke was no good now. Tears stood still in her eyes, waiting to move, as she tried to match his smile.

  "No, darling, no, you won't. We shouldn't even talk about it, because if we do, some day we might try it. And there's no hiding place. Not in this world. There's no hiding place at all."

  He took the hand that was pressed over his mouth, held it in both his own, and let his kiss fall into the container of the cupped palm, let it linger there, and then let the hand drop, nerveless, to her side. His arms went about her swiftly, needing her close for warmth, for support — and they never heard the footsteps.

  "In the name of Security!"

  Long habit sent them whirling apart. Lifelong conditioning put them both alertly at attention. And only in full view of the Security officer and his three assistants did either of them realize that they were on the wrong side of the Law, that they could not this time prepare to aid an officer of the State in the adjustment of Security. They were themselves a menace to all that held the nation safe.

  The officer drew a warrant from his pocket, while a deputy held the gun on them steadily. "In the name of Security," he read, now, "David Carman, and Janice Block are hereby accused of infringement of Special Rule No. 107 of the Regulations as amended in the year 2074 A.D. 'That under these covenants, and in view of the necessity for preventing any possible leakage of information, it shall be especially forbidden to Restricted officers in the service of the State to engage in social intercourse in any shape, or form, or manner, with scientists in the Open fields, who shall in any way be capable of understanding, or retaining, or utilizing, any part of the Restricted information held by such Officers."

  He stopped, dramatically. "You know the regulations, Mr. Carman?"

  "Yes." What else could he say?

  "Miss Block, you have been aware of the risk you were taking? You knew the occupation of this man?"

  "Yes!"

  "And you had informed him of your occupation?"

  There was a way out. "No!" she shouted. "No, no, no!" She heard her own voice, thin and screaming. "No, I never told him. I wanted to see him, so I never ..."

  David's hands on her shoulders stopped her. "It's no use, Jan." His voice was absurdly quiet, relaxed. "I investigated you. I had to, you see. I put through a query, saying I read your paper, the one you did last fall. I thought you should be reconsidered for Restricted, on the basis of the work you had done. I thought . . . well, it doesn't matter now, does it?"

  They stood quiet, and the Security Officer read on. They knew what was coming. " . . . paper by Miss Block contained mathematical equations suspiciously similar to work in progress in the California Restricted Laboratories." Jan glanced up sharply, taken by surprise. But she had never used — and then of course she knew, her mind had tricked her. David had never finished showing her, but the hint was enough. She found a different way to the same result — a result her own background would never have found for her. So she had betrayed them, betrayed them while she worked, while she was happy, while she thought about coming here to this brook to see David again.

  Again he took her hand, and pressed it. Just a little, but the little was enough. He knew, too, how it had happened, and he didn't blame her. She could let him die, not blaming her, and could she live — live the rest of her life — not blaming herself?

  She wanted to laugh, to laugh, and laugh, but she knew better. Her own training warned her, held her. There might still be a chance, somehow, and she couldn't throw it away.

  ". . . David Carman is hereby indicted for treason, and Janice Block is commended to the care of a Refreshment Home until such time as the memories of this incident may have passed from her."

  Janice's breath caught, whistled in through her teeth. Amnesiac shock, then! She was to lose David, lose him in the flesh, and let them wipe out his memory as well. No, no, NO!

  "Are you prepared to accompany us, Mr. Carman?"

  The formal words, the expected question. No! They couldn't take him. No! She wouldn't lose him!No!

  She heard him breathe in deeply, saw his mouth open to form the word of acceptance. She reached out, clutched his arm with her own hand.

  "No!" she screamed. "David, no! If they want to kill you, they'll have to kill both of us! You can't . . . you can't . . .!"

  He had turned and his arms were around, disregarding the officers. He held her against him, without passion or strain, held her like a child, and waited till she was calm.

  "I must, Jan. I have to." Again the awful quiet, complete resignation.

  "I love you, Jan. You're the only woman I ever loved." He turned to the officers, and it was theywho had trouble meeting his eye. "I'm ready,'' he said, and he took his arms from the girl.

  "No." She wasn't screaming now. She was quiet, too. His touch, his arms about her, had given her that. She had to be quiet, or he wouldn't understand.

  "David," she pleaded, "don't leave me. Don't go away and send me back to my loneliness. Stay with me." She nodded toward the pistol the man held. "Stay with me forever. David, I want it that way."

  He turned from the men and faced her, searched her eyes. He took one step closer to her. Then, as they had in the water, they smiled at each other, and he put his arms out to her again.

  "Officer!" she cried giddily. "Officer, can't you see? This man is resisting arrest!"

  "They never knew," the guard will tell you, "when the immobilizer hit them. At that time," he will go on, "atomics were not well enough developed to make blast-pistols safe. The transmutation pistol was always used when Security officers had to display force in public.

  "Ordinarily the permanents so created were safely dumped, to prevent radioactive effects. But it was directly resultant on this case that the force-boundaries" — all eyes wandered a little to the left — "were erected, to divide the social territories of the Restricted officers. So these two were left here as a memorial for visitors to the park."

  There is much more to see, but you walk away thinking, and do not listen. You are wondering about the old days, when things were wild and free — before Civilization, before the Boundaries — before even Security.

  The mysterious great stone faces of Easter Island seem to wear half a smile. Here’s why

  BEYOND DOUBT

  By Robert A. Heinlein and Elma Wentz

  SAVANT SOLVES SECRET OF EASTER ISLAND IMAGES According to Professor J. Howard Erlenmeyer, Sc.D., Ph.D., F.R.S., director of the Archeological Society's Easter Island Expedition. Professor Erlenmeyer was quoted as saying,"There can no longer be any possible doubt as to the significance of the giant monolithic images which are found in Easter Island. When one considers the primary place held by religious matters in all primitive cultures, and compares the design of these images with artifacts used in the rites of present day Polynesian tribes, the conclusion is inescapable that these images have a deep esoteric religious significance. Beyond doubt, their large size, their grotesque exaggeration of human form, and the
seemingly aimless, but actually systematic, distribution gives evidence of the use for which they were carved, to wit; the worship of. . .

  Warm, and incredibly golden, the late afternoon sun flooded the white-and-green city of Nuria, gilding its maze of circular criss-crossed streets. The Towers of the Guardians, rising high above the lushly verdant hills gleamed like translucent ivory. The hum from the domed buildings of the business district was muted while merchants rested in the cool shade of luxuriant, moistly green trees, drank refreshing okrada, and gazed out at the great hook-prowed green-and-crimson ships riding at anchor in the harbor—ships from Hindos, from Cathay, and from the far-flung colonies of Atlantis.

  In all the broad continent of Mu there was no city more richly beautiful than Myria, capitol of the province of Lac.

  But despite the smiling radiance of sun, and sea, and sky, there was an undercurrent of atmospheric tenseness —as though the air itself were a light coil about to be sprung, as though a small spark would set off a cosmic

  Through the city moved the sibilant whispering of a name—the name was everywhere, uttered in loathing and fear, or in high hope, according to the affiliations of the utterer—but in any mouth the name had the potency of thunder.

  Talus, apostle of the common herd; Talus, on whose throbbing words hung the hopes of a million eager citizens; Talus, candidate for governor of the province of Lac.

  In the heart of the tenement district, near the smelly waterfront, between a narrow side street and a garbage alley was the editorial office of Mu Regenerate, campaign organ of the Talus-for-Governor organization. The office was as quiet as the rest of Nuria, but with the quiet of a spent cyclone. The floor was littered with twisted scraps of parchment, overturned furniture, and empty beer flagons. Three young men were seated about a great, round, battered table in attitudes that spoke their gloom. One of them was staring cynically at an enormous poster which dominated one wall of the room. It was a portrait of a tall, majestic man with a long, curling white beard. He wore a green toga. One hand was raised in a gesture of benediction. Over the poster, under the crimson-and-purple of crossed Murian banners, was the legend:

  TALUS FOR GOVERNOR!

  The one who stared at the poster let go an unconscious sigh. One of his companions looked up from scratching at a sheet of parchment with a stubby stylus. "What’s eating on you, Robar?”

  The one addressed waved a hand at the wall. “I was just looking at our white hope. Ain’t he beautiful? Tell me, Dolph, how can anyone look so noble, and be so dumb?"

  “God knows. It beats me."

  “That's not quite fair, fellows,” put in the third, "the old boy ain’t really dumb; he’s just unworldly. You’ve got to admit that the Plan is the most constructive piece of statesmanship this country has seen in a generation.”

  Robar turned weary eyes on him. "Sure. Sure. And he’d make a good governor, too. I won’t dispute that; if I didn't think the Plan would work, would I be here, living from hand to mouth and breaking my heart on this bloody campaign? Oh. he's noble all right. Sometimes he's so noble it gags me. What I mean is: Did you ever work for a candidate that was so bull-headed stupid about how to get votes and win an election?”

  "Well . . . no.”

  "What gets roc, Clevum," Robar went on, "is that he could be elected so easily. He's got everything; a good sound platform that you can stir people up with, the correct background, a grand way of speaking, and the most beautiful appearance that a candidate ever had. Compared with Old Bat Ears, he’s a natural. It ought to he just one-two-three. But Bat Ears will be re-elected, sure as shootin'.”

  "I'm afraid you're right," mourned Clevum. “We're going to take such a shellacking as nobody ever saw. I thought for a while that we would make the grade, but now— Did you see what the King’s Mensaid about him this morning?"

  "That dirty little sheet— What was it?"

  “Besides some nasty cracks about Atlantis gold, they accused him of planning to destroy the Murian home and defile the sanctity of Murian womanhood. They called upon every red-blooded one hundred per cent Murian to send this subversive monster back where he came from. Oh, it stank! But the yokels were eating it up."

  “Sure they do. That's just what I mean. The governor’s gang slings mud all the time, but if we sling any mud about governor Vortus, Talus throws a fit. His idea of a news story is a nifty little number about comparative statistics of farm taxes in the provinces of Mu . . . What are you drawing now, Dolph?"

  "This." He held up a ghoulish caricature of Governor Vortus himself, with his long face, thin lips, and high brow, atop of which rested the tall crimson governor’s cap. Enormous ears gave this sinister face the appearance of a vulture about to take flight. Beneath the cartoon was the simple caption:

  BAT EARS FOR GOVERNOR

  “There!" exclaimed Robar, "that’s what this campaign needs. Humor! If we could plaster that cartoon on the front page of Mu Regenerate and stick one under the door of every voter in the province, it ’ud be a landslide. One look at that mug and they’d laugh themselves sick—and vote for our boy Talus!”

  He held the sketch at arm’s length and studied it, frowning: Presently he looked up. "Listen, dopes— Why not do it? Give me one last edition with some guts in it. Are you game?”

  Clevum looked worried. "Well ... I don’t know . . . What are you going to use for money? Besides, even if Oric would crack loose from the dough, how would we get an edition of that size distributed that well? And even if we did get it done, it might boomerang on us—the opposition would have the time and money to answer it.''

  Robar looked disgusted. ‘‘That's what a guy gets for having ideas in this campaign—nothing but objections, objections!"

  "Wait a minute, Robar," Dolph interposed. "Clevum’s kicks have some sense to them, but maybe you got something. The idea is to make Joe Citizen laugh at Vortus, isn't it? Well, why not fix up some dodgers of my cartoon and hand ’em out at the polling places on election day?"

  Robar drummed on the table as he considered this. “Umm, no, it wouldn't do. Vortus’ goon squads would beat the hell out of our workers and high jack our liter-

  "Well, then how about painting some big banners with old Bat Ears on them? We could stick them up near each polling place where the voters couldn't fail to see them."

  "Same trouble. The goon squads would have them down before the polls open.”

  “Do you know what, fellows," put in Clevum, "what we need is something big enough to be seen and too solid for Governor’s plug-uglies to wreck. Big stone statues about two stories high would be about right.”

  Robar looked more pained than ever. "Clevum, if you can’t be helpful, why not keep quiet? Sure, statues would be fine—if we had forty yean and ten million simoleons."

  "Just think. Robar,” Dolph jilted, with an irritating

  smile, "if your mother had entered you for the priesthood, you could integrate all the statues you want—no worry, no trouble, no expense.”

  "Yeah, wise guy, but in that case I wouldn’t be in politics— Say!”

  " ’S trouble?"

  "Integration! Suppose we could integrate enough statues of old Picklepuss—”

  "How?”

  "Do you know Kondor?”

  "The moth-eaten old duck that hangs around the Whirling Whale?”

  "That’s him. I’ll bet he could do ill”

  "That old stumblebum? Why, he's no adept; he’s just a cheap unlicensed sorcerer. Reading palms in saloons and a little jackleg horoscope is about all he’s good for. He can’t even mix a potent love philter. I know; I've tried him.”

  "Don't be too damn certain you know all about him. He got all tanked up one night and told me the story of his life. He used to be a priest back in Ægypt.”

  "Then why isn’t he now?”

  “That’s the point. He didn’t get along with the high priest. One night he got drunk and integrated a statue of the high priest right where it would show up best and too big to be m
issed—only he stuck the head of the high priest on the body of an animal.”

  "Whew!"

  "Naturally when he sobered up the next morning and saw what he had done all lie could do was to run for it. He shipped on a freighter in the Red Sea and that’s how come he’s here."

  Clevum’s face had been growing longer and longer all during the discussion. He finally managed to get in an objection. “I don’t suppose you two red hots have stopped to think about the penalty for unlawful use of priestly secrets?"

  “Oh, shut up, Clevum. If we win the election, Talus’ll square it. If we lose the election— Well, if we lose. Mu won’t be big enough to hold us whether we pull this

  Oric was hard to convince. As a politician he was always affable; as campaign manager for Talus, and consequently employer of Robar, Dolph, and Clevum, the boys had sometimes found him elusive, even though chummy.

  “Ummm, well, I don’t know—’’ He had said, “I’m afraid Talus wouldn't like it."

  “Would he need to know until it's all done?"

  “Now, boys, really, ah, you wouldn’t want me to keep him in ignorance . . .’’

  "But Oric, you know perfectly well that we are going to lose unless we do something, and do it quick."

  "Now, Robar, you are too pessimistic.” Oric's pop eyes radiated synthetic confidence.

  “How about that straw poll? We didn't look so good; we were losing two to one in the back country."

  "Well . . . perhaps you are right, my boy." Oric laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder. “But suppose we do lose this election; Mu wasn't built in a day. And I want you to know that we appreciate the hard, unsparing work that you boys have done, regardless of the outcome. Talus won’t forget it, and neither shall, uh, I . . . It’> young men like you three who give me confidence in the future of Mu—"