The H. Beam Piper Megapack

by H. Beam Piper

  She was staring at him wide-eyed. No doubt horrified at his cold-blooded attitude toward what was really a shocking and senseless crime.

  “Yes, of course; the man’s dead. So’s Julius Caesar, but we’ve gotten over being shocked at his murder.”

  He would have to talk about it in Modern History IV, he supposed; explain why Khalid’s death was necessary to the policies of the Eastern Axis, and what the consequences would be. How it would hasten the complete dissolution of the old U. N., already weakened by the crisis over the Eastern demands for the demilitarization and internationalization of the United States Lunar Base, and necessitate the formation of the Terran Federation, and how it would lead, eventually, to the Thirty Days’ War. No, he couldn’t talk about that; that was on the wrong side of the knife-edge. Have to be careful about the knife-edge; too easy to cut himself on it.

  * * * *

  Nobody in Modern History IV was seated when he entered the room; they were all crowded between the door and his desk. He stood blinking, wondering why they were giving him an ovation, and why Kendrick and Dacre were so abjectly apologetic. Great heavens, did it take the murder of the greatest Moslem since Saladin to convince people that he wasn’t crazy?

  Before the period was over, Whitburn’s secretary entered with a note in the college president’s hand and over his signature; requesting Chalmers to come to his office immediately and without delay. Just like that; expected him to walk right out of his class. He was protesting as he entered the president’s office. Whitburn cut him off short.

  “Doctor Chalmers,”—Whitburn had risen behind his desk as the door opened—“I certainly hope that you can realize that there was nothing but the most purely coincidental connection between the event featured in this morning’s newspapers and your performance, a month ago, in Modern History Four,” he began.

  “I realize nothing of the sort. The death of Khalid ib’n Hussein is a fact of history, unalterably set in its proper place in time-sequence. It was a fact of history a month ago no less than today.”

  “So that’s going to be your attitude; that your wild utterances of a month ago have now been vindicated as fulfilled prophesies? And I suppose you intend to exploit this—this coincidence—to the utmost. The involvement of Blanley College in a mess of sensational publicity means nothing to you, I presume.”

  “I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You mean to tell me that you didn’t give this story to the local newspaper, the Valley Times?” Whitburn demanded.

  “I did not. I haven’t mentioned the subject to anybody connected with the Times, or anybody else, for that matter. Except my attorney, a month ago, when you were threatening to repudiate the contract you signed with me.”

  “I suppose I’m expected to take your word for that?”

  “Yes, you are. Unless you care to call me a liar in so many words.” He moved a step closer. Lloyd Whitburn outweighed him by fifty pounds, but most of the difference was fat. Whitburn must have realized that, too.

  “No, no; if you say you haven’t talked about it to the Valley Times, that’s enough,” he said hastily. “But somebody did. A reporter was here not twenty minutes ago; he refused to say who had given him the story, but he wanted to question me about it.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I refused to make any statement whatever. I also called Colonel Tighlman, the owner of the paper, and asked him, very reasonably, to suppress the story. I thought that my own position and the importance of Blanley College to this town entitled me to that much consideration.” Whitburn’s face became almost purple. “He…he laughed at me!”

  “Newspaper people don’t like to be told to kill stories. Not even by college presidents. That’s only made things worse. Personally, I don’t relish the prospect of having this publicized, any more than you do. I can assure you that I shall be most guarded if any of the Times reporters talk to me about it, and if I have time to get back to my class before the end of the period, I shall ask them, as a personal favor, not to discuss the matter outside.”

  Whitburn didn’t take the hint. Instead, he paced back and forth, storming about the reporter, the newspaper owner, whoever had given the story to the paper, and finally Chalmers himself. He was livid with rage.

  “You certainly can’t imagine that when you made those remarks in class you actually possessed any knowledge of a thing that was still a month in the future,” he spluttered. “Why, it’s ridiculous! Utterly preposterous!”

  “Unusual, I’ll admit. But the fact remains that I did. I should, of course, have been more careful, and not confused future with past events. The students didn’t understand.…”

  Whitburn half-turned, stopping short.

  “My God, man! You are crazy!” he cried, horrified.

  The period-bell was ringing as he left Whitburn’s office; that meant that the twenty-three students were scattering over the campus, talking like mad. He shrugged. Keeping them quiet about a thing like this wouldn’t have been possible in any case. When he entered his office, Stanly Weill was waiting for him. The lawyer drew him out into the hallway quickly.

  “For God’s sake, have you been talking to the papers?” he demanded. “After what I told you.…”

  “No, but somebody has.” He told about the call to Whitburn’s office, and the latter’s behavior. Weill cursed the college president bitterly.

  “Any time you want to get a story in the Valley Times, just order Frank Tighlman not to print it. Well, if you haven’t talked, don’t.”

  “Suppose somebody asks me?”

  “A reporter, no comment. Anybody else, none of his damn business. And above all, don’t let anybody finagle you into making any claims about knowing the future. I thought we had this under control; now that it’s out in the open, what that fool Whitburn’ll do is anybody’s guess.”

  Leonard Fitch met him as he entered the Faculty Club, sizzling with excitement.

  “Ed, this has done it!” he began, jubilantly. “This is one nobody can laugh off. It’s direct proof of precognition, and because of the prominence of the event, everybody will hear about it. And it simply can’t be dismissed as coincidence.…”

  “Whitburn’s trying to do that.”

  “Whitburn’s a fool if he is,” another man said calmly. Turning, he saw that the speaker was Tom Smith, one of the math professors. “I figured the odds against that being chance. There are a lot of variables that might affect it one way or another, but ten to the fifteenth power is what I get for a sort of median figure.”

  “Did you give that story to the Valley Times?” he asked Fitch, suspicion rising and dragging anger up after it.

  “Of course, I did,” Fitch said. “I’ll admit, I had to go behind your back and have some of my postgrads get statements from the boys in your history class, but you wouldn’t talk about it yourself.…”

  Tom Smith was standing beside him. He was twenty years younger than Chalmers, he was an amateur boxer, and he had good reflexes. He caught Chalmers’ arm as it was traveling back for an uppercut, and held it.

  “Take it easy, Ed; you don’t want to start a slugfest in here. This is the Faculty Club; remember?”

  “I won’t, Tom; it wouldn’t prove anything if I did.” He turned to Fitch. “I won’t talk about sending your students to pump mine, but at least you could have told me before you gave that story out.”

  “I don’t know what you’re sore about,” Fitch defended himself. “I believed in you when everybody else thought you were crazy, and if I hadn’t collected signed and dated statements from your boys, there’d have been no substantiation. It happens that extrasensory perception means as much to me as history does to you. I’ve believed in it ever since I read about Rhine’s work, when I was a kid. I worked in ESP for a long time. Then I had a chance to get a full professorship by coming here, and after I did, I found that I couldn’t go on with it, because Whitburn’s president here, and he’s a stupid old bigot with
an air-locked mind.…”

  “Yes.” His anger died down as Fitch spoke. “I’m glad Tom stopped me from making an ass of myself. I can see your side of it.” Maybe that was the curse of the professional intellectual, an ability to see everybody’s side of everything. He thought for a moment. “What else did you do, beside hand this story to the Valley Times? I’d better hear all about it.”

  “I phoned the secretary of the American Institute of Psionics and Parapsychology, as soon as I saw this morning’s paper. With the time-difference to the East Coast, I got him just as he reached his office. He advised me to give the thing the widest possible publicity; he thought that would advance the recognition and study of parapsychology. A case like this can’t be ignored; it will demand serious study.…”

  “Well, you got your publicity, all right. I’m up to my neck in it.”

  There was an uproar outside. The doorman was saying, firmly:

  “This is the Faculty Club, gentlemen; it’s for members only. I don’t care if you gentlemen are the press, you simply cannot come in here.”

  “We’re all up to our necks in it,” Smith said. “Leonard, I don’t care what your motives were, you ought to have considered the effect on the rest of us first.”

  “This place will be a madhouse,” Handley complained. “How we’re going to get any of these students to keep their minds on their work.…”

  “I tell you, I don’t know a confounded thing about it,” Max Pottgeiter’s voice rose petulantly at the door. “Are you trying to tell me that Professor Chalmers murdered some Arab? Ridiculous!”

  * * * *

  He ate hastily and without enjoyment, and slipped through the kitchen and out the back door, cutting between two frat-houses and circling back to Prescott Hall. On the way, he paused momentarily and chuckled. The reporters, unable to storm the Faculty Club, had gone off in chase of other game and had cornered Lloyd Whitburn in front of Administration Center. They had a jeep with a sound-camera mounted on it, and were trying to get something for telecast. After gesticulating angrily, Whitburn broke away from them and dashed up the steps and into the building. A campus policeman stopped those who tried to follow.

  His only afternoon class was American History III. He got through it somehow, though the class wasn’t able to concentrate on the Reconstruction and the first election of Grover Cleveland. The halls were free of reporters, at least, and when it was over he hurried to the Library, going to the faculty reading-room in the rear, where he could smoke. There was nobody there but old Max Pottgeiter, smoking a cigar, his head bent over a book. The Medieval History professor looked up.

  “Oh, hello, Chalmers. What the deuce is going on around here? Has everybody gone suddenly crazy?” he asked.

  “Well, they seem to think I have,” he said bitterly.

  “They do? Stupid of them. What’s all this about some Arab being shot? I didn’t know there were any Arabs around here.”

  “Not here. At Basra.” He told Pottgeiter what had happened.

  “Well! I’m sorry to hear about that,” the old man said. “I have a friend at Southern California, Bellingham, who knew Khalid very well. Was in the Middle East doing some research on the Byzantine Empire; Khalid was most helpful. Bellingham was quite impressed by him; said he was a wonderful man, and a fine scholar. Why would anybody want to kill a man like that?”

  He explained in general terms. Pottgeiter nodded understandingly: assassination was a familiar feature of the medieval political landscape, too. Chalmers went on to elaborate. It was a relief to talk to somebody like Pottgeiter, who wasn’t bothered by the present moment, but simply boycotted it. Eventually, the period-bell rang. Pottgeiter looked at his watch, as from conditioned reflex, and then rose, saying that he had a class and excusing himself. He would have carried his cigar with him if Chalmers hadn’t taken it away from him.

  After Pottgeiter had gone Chalmers opened a book—he didn’t notice what it was—and sat staring unseeing at the pages. So the moving knife-edge had come down on the end of Khalid ib’n Hussein’s life; what were the events in the next segment of time, and the segments to follow? There would be bloody fighting all over the Middle East—with consternation, he remembered that he had been talking about that to Pottgeiter. The Turkish army would move in and try to restore order. There would be more trouble in northern Iran, the Indian Communists would invade Eastern Pakistan, and then the general war, so long dreaded, would come. How far in the future that was he could not “remember,” nor how the nuclear-weapons stalemate that had so far prevented it would be broken. He knew that today, and for years before, nobody had dared start an all-out atomic war. Wars, now, were marginal skirmishes, like the one in Indonesia, or the steady underground conflict of subversion and sabotage that had come to be called the Subwar. And with the United States already in possession of a powerful Lunar base.… He wished he could “remember” how events between the murder of Khalid and the Thirty Day’s War had been spaced chronologically. Something of that had come to him, after the incident in Modern History IV, and he had driven it from his consciousness.

  * * * *

  He didn’t dare go home where the reporters would be sure to find him. He simply left the college, at the end of the school-day, and walked without conscious direction until darkness gathered. This morning, when he had seen the paper, he had said, and had actually believed, that the news of the murder in Basra would put an end to the trouble that had started a month ago in the Modern History class. It hadn’t: the trouble, it seemed, was only beginning. And with the newspapers, and Whitburn, and Fitch, it could go on forever.…

  It was fully dark, now; his shadow fell ahead of him on the sidewalk, lengthening as he passed under and beyond a street-light, vanishing as he entered the stronger light of the one ahead. The windows of a cheap cafe reminded him that he was hungry, and he entered, going to a table and ordering something absently. There was a television screen over the combination bar and lunch-counter. Some kind of a comedy programme, at which an invisible studio-audience was laughing immoderately and without apparent cause. The roughly dressed customers along the counter didn’t seem to see any more humor in it than he did. Then his food arrived on the table and he began to eat without really tasting it.

  After a while, an alteration in the noises from the television penetrated his consciousness; a news-program had come on, and he raised his head. The screen showed a square in an Eastern city; the voice was saying:

  “…Basra, where Khalid ib’n Hussein was assassinated early this morning—early afternoon, local time. This is the scene of the crime; the body of the murderer has been removed, but you can still see the stones with which he was pelted to death by the mob.…”

  A close-up of the square, still littered with torn-up paving-stones. A Caliphate army officer, displaying the weapon—it was an old M3, all right; Chalmers had used one of those things, himself, thirty years before, and he and his contemporaries had called it a “grease-gun.” There were some recent pictures of Khalid, including one taken as he left the plane on his return from Ankara. He watched, absorbed; it was all exactly as he had “remembered” a month ago. It gratified him to see that his future “memories” were reliable in detail as well as generality.

  “But the most amazing part of the story comes, not from Basra, but from Blanley College, in California,” the commentator was saying, “where, it is revealed, the murder of Khalid was foretold, with uncanny accuracy, a month ago, by a history professor, Doctor Edward Chalmers.…”

  There was a picture of himself, in hat and overcoat, perfectly motionless, as though a brief moving glimpse were being prolonged. A glance at the background told him when and where it had been taken—a year and a half ago, at a convention at Harvard. These telecast people must save up every inch of old news-film they ever took. There were views of Blanley campus, and interviews with some of the Modern History IV boys, including Dacre and Kendrick. That was one of the things they’d been doing with that jeep-mounted sou
nd-camera, this afternoon, then. The boys, some brashly, some embarrassedly, were substantiating the fact that he had, a month ago, described yesterday’s event in detail. There was an interview with Leonard Fitch; the psychology professor was trying to explain the phenomenon of precognition in layman’s terms, and making heavy going of it. And there was the mobbing of Whitburn in front of Administration Center. The college president was shouting denials of every question asked him, and as he turned and fled, the guffaws of the reporters were plainly audible.

  An argument broke out along the counter.

  “I don’t believe it! How could anybody know all that about something before it happened?”

  “Well, you heard that-there professor, what was his name. An’ you heard all them boys.…”

  “Ah, college-boys; they’ll do anything for a joke!”

  “After refusing to be interviewed for telecast, the president of Blanley College finally consented to hold a press conference in his office, from which telecast cameras were barred. He denied the whole story categorically and stated that the boys in Professor Chalmers’ class had concocted the whole thing as a hoax.…”

  “There! See what I told you!”

  “…stating that Professor Chalmers is mentally unsound, and that he has been trying for years to oust him from his position on the Blanley faculty but has been unable to do so because of the provisions of the Faculty Tenure Act of 1963. Most of his remarks were in the nature of a polemic against this law, generally regarded as the college professors’ bill of rights. It is to be stated here that other members of the Blanley faculty have unconditionally confirmed the fact that Doctor Chalmers did make the statements attributed to him a month ago, long before the death of Khalid ib’n Hussein.…”

  “Yah! How about that, now? How’ya gonna get around that?”

  Beckoning the waitress, he paid his check and hurried out. Before he reached the door, he heard a voice, almost stuttering with excitement: