A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  The scientist himself answered the door, a short plump person with amazingly bright little eyes. When Benton announced himself, Dr. Balstine shook his head.

  “No interview,” he snapped nervously. “I couldn’t help you if I wanted to. I’ve lost my memory.” His voice shook a little. “Amnesia, I suppose. I’m waiting for it to go.”

  “That’s what I came to talk to you about,” said Benton quickly. “Have you any theory to explain why everyone has the same symptom?”

  The little man stared.

  “Everyone!” he reiterated.

  Benton nodded.

  “Seems to be a world-wide condition. Four hours ago everyone lost the ability to remember anything beyond August 10th, 1939.” He glanced at the scientist curiously. “Didn’t you know?”

  “No!” exploded Dr. Balstine. Relief had stolen into his face. “I thought it was just myself. I’ve been alone all that time, worrying myself sick. Come in and tell me about it.”

  Excitement replaced the nervousness he had first betrayed.

  Seated in the parlor, Benton explained what he knew. The scientist listened attentively, his eyes deeply thoughtful.

  “It’s all a crazy mystery,” concluded the reporter. “It’s hard to understand how a year of memory can be wiped out in every mind on earth.”

  “Biologically, it’s impossible,” stated the scientist. He paced the floor, frowning heavily. “The answer must be from an objective viewpoint. That is, that something outside of our minds produced the effect. Obviously, we lived through that period from August 10th, 1939, to August 10th, 1940. Life went on as it always had. We ate, slept, worked. I was looking over my notes before, trying to jog my memory, and saw that all had gone as it should, up till today.”

  His tones became eager. “In fact, I noticed that just a year ago, on July 11th, I obtained experimental proof of my time-field. I was going to announce it the following week!”

  “Couldn’t that have some tie-up?” asked Benton slowly. “I mean the time angle. After all, it’s a period of time that was so strangely eliminated from our memories.”

  The scientist stopped stock still. His bright little eyes seemed to pierce through and through the reporter.

  “Maybe you’re right!” he whispered. “How much do you know about my time theory?”

  “Very little,” admitted Benton apologetically. He drew out a notebook and a stub of pencil, expectantly.

  “Then listen.” The scientist thought a moment before resuming. “The classical conception of Time is that it is a sort of fourth dimension along which all events slide. My theory of Time is that it is a field of force, like the gravity field around Earth, or a magnetic field around a magnet. That reduces it to a measurable force, and I’ve measured it.

  “Like gravity, it is constant, unvarying. It is tremendously powerful. For instance, if you wanted to make the proverbial trip into the past or future, escaping the field”—he smiled—“you would need the energy given by the atomic disintegration of tons of matter. Just as, to escape gravity, you would have to burn tons of rocket fuel.”

  Benton nodded slowly, seeing the point.

  “We can skip that. But can you dovetail your theory in any way with this mass amnesia?” he queried.

  THE scientist paced up and down silently for a while.

  “I think I can,” he spoke presently. “Going into the past and future are fantastic speculation, but there’s another angle to the phenomenon of Time. Have you ever heard of ‘physiological Time’ ?”

  Benton shook his head.

  “In brief, it’s an independent time-sense that humans, and possibly all living creatures have. That is, despite clocks, we often feel Time slowed or speeded. To a soon-to-be father, pacing in a hospital, Time seems to drag endlessly. Or to anyone waiting for something to happen. On the other hand, Time often seems to fly, especially when we’re enjoying ourselves. An hour to the former seems like years, because his mind is stimulated, abnormally active.

  An hour to the latter seems like a minute, because he is calm and untroubled. And this is due, I believe, to the existence of secondary Time-fields in our brains. When these conflict with the stable Time-field of the universe, we’re out of tune, temporarily.”

  Benton was frowning thoughtfully.

  “I don’t see—” he began, but the scientist interrupted.

  “I’m just trying to show how easy it is for our physiological Time-sense and the standard Time-field of the universe to be out of phase. The Time-field can’t be changed, as I stated. But something could easily affect our own mind-clocks, throwing them so far off normal that we are out of tune with the Time-field by a full year!”

  “But what?” demanded Benton. “It’s never happened before.”

  Dr. Balstine made a gesture signifying he had no answer.

  “There is a first time for everything,” he said tritely. “I’ve explained as much as I can.” His bright eyes became reflective. “I’m going to try to find out just what did it. Something has twisted our Time-sense, short-circuited it, from today back to August 10th of last year. And with it, all memory. It’s the most amazing phenomenon of nature in the annals of science!”

  Benton wet his lips and decided it was time to bring out his secret thought.

  “Of nature?” he repeated. “Could it in any way have been brought about by a human agency!”

  The scientist laughed and gasped at the same time.

  “You might as well look for a human agency behind an earthquake, young man,” he scoffed. “I think I know more about Time than any man living today, yet I wouldn’t have the least idea how to produce this phenomenon. No, that’s too incredible to even think about.” Dr. Balstine’s tones were so final that Benton closed his notebook and made his departure, discouraged.

  He could write up the physiological Time-sense theory as a scoop for the Times-Star however. That is, he wondered dryly, if anybody cared. The reading public might be too preoccupied with its dilemma to care about pretty scientific speeches. Then he suddenly remembered that he had been fired, anyway, so what did it matter?

  BENTON had trouble getting back to his hotel.

  No taxis were in sight. He took a street-car crowded with dazed, unhappy creatures, only to have it eventually stop behind a long line of stalled cars. The city’s transportation system, depending on timed schedules that motor-men had forgotten, was rapidly becoming paralyzed. It could be no different in all the other large cities of earth.

  He began walking.

  He noticed that most shops had closed. People were in no mood to shop. The problem faced them all of reorganizing lives that had suddenly stopped, and begun again, twelve months later—on the verge of the unknown.

  A couple passed, and by the strange way they looked at the baby the man carried, Benton surmised the addition to their family was a complete surprise to them.

  It was a mad world, one in which shock piled on shock, to each individual. With an unconscious sense of humor, a street beggar was whining. “I can’t remember when I’ve eaten last, mister—”

  Benton gave him a quarter.

  He luckily snared a taxi for part of the way, paying an exorbitant price to the avaricious driver, and arrived at the Times-Star office thankfully.

  He strode into Woodley’s office and displayed his notebook.

  “Scoop for the Times-Star,” he announced blandly. “All about our physiological Time-sense, by Dr. Paul Balstine.”

  The editor looked up quizzically.

  “I thought I fired you!”

  “Well?”

  “All right, get to work, you long-legged baboon,” growled Woodley. “Did you give up on your master-mind theory?”

  “Not exactly,” shrugged Benton. “I’m going to keep my eyes peeled for further leads.”

  He rolled up his sleeves and began working.

  A sense of duty had prompted him to swallow his pride and come back. He couldn’t let the Times-Star down now, when it needed him. He w
orked till four in the morning, along with most of the loyal staff, trying to put out a coherent edition. It would hit the stands at nine in the morning. Woodley had applied sheer genius in filling out the space not occupied by the usual advertisements and spot-news of citywide conditions. He had had his rewrite men go through the files and give a resume of the past year’s happenings.

  Helping in this, Benton felt as though he were reviewing some period in the far past, like in Roman times. Or as though some highly imaginative author had written a parody of his times. Especially the crime-wave.

  The more he thought of it, the more he was convinced that it was too much of a coincidence to be followed by the year of amnesia.

  At four A.M., dog weary, Benton dragged himself to his hotel room. He couldn’t remember when he had slept last, but it felt like a week. He had probably slaved on the Washington assignment. His last waking thought was of Alicia Deane, and whether she would continue to hold a grudge because of that quarrel of a year ago. Sometimes women were funny creatures.

  He was awakened at nine by a phone call.

  Woodley, back at his desk, wanted him over, with a busy day ahead for all. Growling that he’d be right over, Benton shaved and dressed. He felt peculiar, rather light-headed. Had yesterday been a bad dream? His thoughts flew back, but stopped abruptly with the “awakening” aboard the liner. Beyond that, his memory was still an aching, uncanny blank.

  Momentarily rebellious, he strove to bring back some of that missing year of remembrance. He thought till he perspired. He tried to vision himself boarding the airliner, at Washington, but couldn’t. What had he done the day before? Interviewed a Congressman, perhaps, or taken notes at the Conference, or played poker with some of the boys?

  But nothing struck a responsive chord within his straining mind. And all the days before that, 365 of them, were equally empty, non-existent.

  All over the world, people must be getting up and trying to remember, hoping the phenomenon had gone. Millions of people must be finding their lives and affairs so tangled that it would take them weeks to get straightened out. Two billion people without an iota of consciousness of the past year! What a shambles the world would be for a while!

  At a restaurant, Benton ordered ham and eggs, but was told he couldn’t have eggs. Somebody had forgotten to deliver them that morning. At the office a red-eyed Woodley set him to work rewriting what reports the news-agencies had been able to glean.

  In general, the world’s affairs had ground to a virtual halt. Business was stagnant, factories closed. Wall Street was in a panic. The suicide rate had increased. Ships at sea were heading for the nearest ports. In diplomatic circles, pandemonium reigned, with countries unaware of their present relationships.

  Benton grinned as he read of the usual troop movements in Europe becoming so tangled that they were all withdrawn.

  It wasn’t holocaust, in the sense that world-wide earthquakes or war would have been. It was simply a quiet breaking down of civilization’s daily intricacies. But the effects were far-reaching and troublous.

  Already the bigger cities were faced with the looming problem of food shortage, with train and truck schedules badly disturbed. Emergency measures would probably be required.

  Benton was most concerned, however, with the continuing crime-wave. Systematic looting was going on in all big cities. The criminal element was filling its pockets, while law enforcement agencies lay befuddled. Some of the biggest banks and vaults were victims, in daring daylight raids. Civilization would find itself considerably poorer, when order had been again instituted. And there would be little hope of tracking down the criminals, in the confusion.

  There must be a master-mind behind this, Benton told himself for the hundredth time, no matter how melodramatic it sounded.

  CHAPTER IV

  The Hat with a Metal Band

  BENTON started as someone touched his elbow. It was Woodley, looking rather thoughtful.

  “I just noticed,” he said, “in looking over your Washington report, that you’d had a hot tip that the big-shot behind the crime wave was in Chicago! It seems the whole thing was organized by some one—”

  “Who?” yelled Benton, instantly alert.

  Woodley shook his head. “You didn’t get that. Just an underworld grapevine rumor that headquarters for the crime-wave were in Chicago—”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” interrupted Benton. “There is a master-mind behind this, who organized the crime-wave and the mass amnesia!”

  “Don’t try to tie up the two things,” barked Woodley skeptically. “All I see in this—”

  “Is your nose!”

  They glared at each other. But Benton’s glare suddenly changed to a stare, as he looked past the editor’s head, through the open windows of the office.

  “Look!” he cried. “The bank across the street is being raided!”

  They ran to the window and stared down at the street scene.

  A big powerful car stood at the curb, motor running. Two masked men armed with guns were on the sidewalk, on guard. The few pedestrians in that block were scurrying away like rabbits. A traffic policeman a block away was running up, tugging at his gun.

  Benton took the scene in at a glance, and then dashed away, flying down the steps three at a time. He had no foolish notions of being a hero and stopping their bold robbery. He had no gun in the first place. But he did have a vague plan of following them, in a press car, and seeing where the trail led—for a possible scoop.

  He arrived in the building’s foyer just in time to see the final act.

  Three masked men ran out of the bank, lugging sacks that bulged. The policeman running up began firing. It was foolish bravery. A return salvo from the bandits stopped him in his tracks, and he fell. But his last shot stretched one of the bandits on the sidewalk. His companions dragged him into the car and they roared away.

  Another successful coup! Benton cursed to realize it had happened too quickly for him to follow.

  He ran toward the bank, then, to see what the situation was inside. As he passed the hat lying on the sidewalk, that had fallen from the wounded bandit’s head, he kicked at it with feeling.

  He stopped in surprise.

  He had hurt his toe in the act, and the hat had barely slid along a few feet, without losing shape. Benton picked it up and found it strangely heavy. Mystified, he pressed his fingers along the headband and felt a strip of metal.

  A crowd began pressing up now, jabbering excitedly. Benton stepped away, with the hat. He wanted to try something. In the lobby of his own building, he put the hat on, taking off his own battered fedora.

  As the bandit’s hat slipped over his skull, he felt a queer shock. There was a moment of dizziness. Then, instantly, memory flooded back—all of it! The blank period in his mind vanished. He remembered everything from August 10th, 1939, to this day of August 11, 1940!

  The hat, with its peculiar metal lining, somehow neutralized the amnesia!

  HE took the hat off again, experimentally. There was a slight dizziness, a faint hum that seemed to leap into his brain, and again twelve months of his past life were a blank! He could remember nothing of it. Staring at the hat, he could only remember that he had remembered the blank period!

  Benton leaped up the stairs, faster than he had come down.

  Without a word, he jammed the hat down on Woodley’s head, and watched him. Woodley’s face showed annoyance, surprise, and finally his lower jaw sagged as though it had unhinged.

  “Why—why I can remember everything now!” he stammered. “Benton, you’ve got something here!”

  “I’ll say I have,” the reporter agreed. He leaned his tall body forward tensely. “This practically proves my contention, that the brain behind the crime-wave is the brain behind the amnesia! Somehow, he caused the amnesia. He distributed these hat-shields to his organization, so they would be in full command of themselves, while the rest of the world was in a fog. And this master-mind is somewhere in this city!”
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  “We’ve got to find him!” Woodley exclaimed. “Great scoop for the Times-Star. The world in the clutches of a fiend, a cold-blooded ringleader of crime, a Machiavelli—”

  “You can call him names later, in the paper,” interrupted Benton. “The thing is to find him. It still isn’t easy. First, I’m going to show this hat to Dr. Balstine. Maybe he has some idea—” The phone rang and Woodley handed the instrument to the reporter. “For you, Benton.”

  Alicia’s voice greeted him, sending an answering throb through his veins.

  “Larry? I want to see you. Can you come right over?”

  “Sorry, Alicia,” he returned, his mind filled with the revelation of the hat. “No time now. I’ll see you when I can.”

  It gave him a thrill that she had called. Her voice had sounded forgiving and sweet. She was probably sorry for holding him off before, and wanted to make up. He’d turn her down for the time being, that was the way to handle her.

  “But Larry, I—”

  “No buts,” he broke in, feeling he had this situation, at least, well in band. “I’ll explain later.”

  He hung up, snatched the hat off Woodley’s head and strode away. At the door he turned.

  “Make a note, chief,” he grinned. “You gave me a raise three months ago. Tomorrow’s payday.”

  DRIVING a fast press car, Benton set a reckless pace for Dr. Balstine’s home. He wore the shielding hat and reviewed the past year of his life, in his thoughts. Funny how much seemed crowded into it, when revealed all of a sudden like this. One thing stood out, however. Alicia Deane. The trivial quarrel had meant nothing, of course. They had seen more of each other after that. He grinned. She had even—

  Benton snapped himself alert, nearly running into another car at the rate of sixty miles an hour. No time to think of those things now.

  Arriving at the house, he slammed on the brakes, ran up the steps, and rang the bell impatiently.