Astounding Science Fiction Stories Vol 1

by Anthology

  "No," I said. "That would be just the same as telling you what's going to happen. Besides, I don't want to know."

  We just sat around the house for the rest of that evening. After Marge had gone to bed, I went down to the basement and smashed both our Bilbo Grundy Time Projectors into little pieces. I'd seen the hopelessness and despair in people who had learned just how and when they would die. Smashing the things wouldn't change the future--I realized that--but I didn't want Marge obeying the impulse to find out. Or myself, for that matter.

  * * * * *

  Shortly after that, the quarreling started in earnest. Marge wouldn't let up on the business of dying, and as well as being scared, I was also sick of hearing about our short and questionable future. Marge was furious with me for destroying her Projector and blamed me constantly for making her suffer by preventing her from looking into the future.

  "Now we won't know what's going to happen until it's too late!" she shrieked at me.

  "That's right!" I yelled back. "And that's just the way I want it! What's the use of knowing and worrying in advance if there's no way of doing anything about it?"

  Then, one night, we had the identical fight that we had watched two years earlier, on our first time trip. Marge, as usual, was crying hysterically about not having long to live and I was shouting at her about wishing herself into the grave. She seemed to have forgotten that I was going to go, too, and had taken all the suffering on her own shoulders.

  When I was hollering and stamping about the room, I had a funny, eerie feeling as I suddenly remembered that my younger unmarried self had watched--or was watching--the same scene.

  I just stopped doing anything for a moment and stared around the room. Naturally I saw nothing, because there was nothing to see, and I remembered how quickly my younger self had fled when I had looked up like that. Ashamed, I tried to soothe Marge, but she was too far gone to be comforted.

  I was glad to get out of the house every day and spend a few hours at the office. I must admit that I was scared to be with Marge because it looked as though we were going to go together and I felt safer away from her. I know it's nothing to be proud of, but it helped ease the tension, for Marge as well as myself.

  One day, Mr. Atkins stopped in at my office and sat down to talk. There was nothing unusual about this; he often visited me for a chat, even though he wasn't so friendly with the other employees.

  We talked for a while about the usual things, department business and some of the staff members.

  Then Mr. Atkins turned the conversation away from business matters. "Do you have one of those newfangled Time Projector things, Gerald?" he asked. Mr. Atkins was getting on in years and called everything introduced in the last thirty years "newfangled."

  "No," I said. "I did have one, but I stopped using it soon after I got it."

  "Didn't you like it?"

  I shrugged. "It wasn't that. I just preferred to find out for myself what would happen to me." I didn't want to tell him the true story or my other troubles.

  Mr. Atkins sat back in his chair and sighed. "Ah, yes. I don't suppose you remember too much about the old days, not after the last two years we've been through. People had problems in those days and they used to have to solve them for themselves. People don't have to make decisions any more, you know. Do you think you could still make a decision, Gerald?"

  * * * * *

  I got a little excited and found it difficult to stop fidgeting and stay quietly seated. I began to suspect that he was leading up to something important. It could have been the transfer to another branch or an out-of-town assignment which would explain our disappearance in the future.

  "I still try to make plans and direct my own future whenever I can," I stalled.

  "It's difficult, I know," Mr. Atkins went on, "especially when all the news is about something that's going to happen a day or a week or a year from now. It's not so bad for an old man like me, but it must be tough on you young fellows. Too bad this Bilbo--uh--"

  "Grundy," I said. "Bilbo Grundy." Mr. Atkins knew the name as well as I did, but it was one of his little tricks to pretend he was getting old and forgetful, although he really wasn't. It used to be a good business tactic before the Grundy Projector came out. It wasn't any more--not with people being able to see outcomes of dealings--but he couldn't get rid of the habit.

  "It's too bad he had to invent that fool time gadget," he went on. "I suppose your wife uses it all the time. They seem to be very popular with women."

  "Marge gave it up a short time ago," I lied. "She got bored with it."

  Mr. Atkins nodded thoughtfully. "Wouldn't it be nice to live in an age again when none of us knew what was going to happen? When life had lots of surprises--both good and bad? When you could get up in the morning and not be sure what was going to happen before night? Would you like that, Gerald?"

  I didn't know what to say. He was off on that wandering-mind routine and I didn't know for sure whether he was really rambling or not.

  "I think I'd like it, Mr. Atkins," I said. "As long as everyone else was in the same boat."

  "Would you like it?" He was suddenly looking at me with the shrewd, out-of-the-corner-of-the-eye expression he had when he was handling some wealthy client's intricate income tax problems.

  "I mean it," I told him. "I'm tired of living among people who know my business two years ahead of time."

  "I can get you to a world like that," he said quietly.

  I didn't say anything in reply. Who could?

  "I have some friends," he went on, "who make a practice of helping people like yourself to better things."

  "What do you mean by 'better things'?" I asked warily.

  "I'm talking about time travel, Gerald. The real thing--not the Bilbo Grundy toy, but real physical time travel. These friends have gone a lot further than Grundy did with his invention and they perform the service of transporting people to a better age."

  "You mean the future?"

  "The past!" said Mr. Atkins. "The chances are the future will be even worse. I'm talking about the middle of the last century, around the nineteen-fifties or thereabouts."

  I began to laugh. "The nineteen-fifties! What would I do to earn a living in those days?"

  * * * * *

  He gave me a thin smile. "I guess that would be your first unsolved problem. After all, you said you wanted problems and the chance to make plans and try to make them come true."

  "But why pick me?" I wanted to know.

  "I like you, Gerald," he said. "I would like to see you have a decent chance. And don't flatter yourself--you wouldn't be the first one to go. You'd be in good company."

  I just sat staring vacantly at him.

  "I guess you could say this is your first big decision in two years," he added. "There's no hurry. You can think it over for a while."

  I asked questions--lots of them--but I didn't get too many answers. Mr. Atkins explained that naturally the affair was hush-hush. After the way the Grundy Projector had been thrust so irresponsibly upon us, no one wanted any further complications. But there were some answers I could piece together both from what I already knew and the hints he dropped.

  I'd been in on conferences and listened to Mr. Atkins try to figure out ways of expanding, building up our business. Each time, he'd been stymied by the Grundy Projector. If he'd bull some idea through, his competitors would see exactly how it worked out. If he didn't, they'd know that, too. And I had heard him rant when the accountants--using the Grundy Projectors, of course--would make up their inventory, sales, profit-and-loss and tax statements two years or more in advance.

  That was actually what galled him. Mr. Atkins was used to making plans, calculating risks and gains, taking his chances. With the Grundy Projectors in existence, nobody could do that any more. I gathered from what he told me that there was a syndicate of men like himself backing the inventor of a genuine time machine. They didn't condemn the Grundy invention on any moral or religious or even selfish
grounds. They just resented very bitterly the same thing that annoyed me--the sense of repetition.

  As Mr. Atkins put it, "It's no different than reading a story and then having to relive the whole thing, anticipating each action and bit of dialogue. And that's precisely what this is. Only it's our lives, not fiction. We didn't like it, Gerald. We didn't like it at all! But we did something about the problem instead of merely complaining."

  Let me say right now that I thought the solution they came up with was nonsensical and I kept searching, all the time we talked, for ways of politely turning down the offer. Escaping to to the past was a ridiculous answer. But it was just the kind of notion that would appeal to an old-fashioned character like Mr. Atkins.

  I didn't tell him so, of course. I thanked him for his consideration and shook hands and felt relieved when he finally left.

  * * * * *

  My mind was made up by then. I'd back out, quit if I had to, rather than take refuge in the past to evade the future.

  It wasn't until I got out of the office that I realized there was no big decision to make; it was already made for me. Either I was going to die or I was going into the past--and I wasn't going to die if I could help it. But neither did I intend going into the past if I could really help that!

  When Marge realized that I wasn't merely trying to take her mind off the fatal day, she pounced on me and hugged me as though I myself had invented the time machine just to save her life!

  "It's wonderful, darling!" she cried. "You were right all along! Oh, how can you forgive me for making things so unbearable for you?"

  "About this idea of going into the past--" I said.

  "What's the difference when we go to," she cut in, "as long as we don't have to die?"

  "But I figured on telling Mr. Atkins at the last minute that all I want is a transfer--"

  "What's the sense of guessing?" she asked excitedly. "All we have to do is borrow a couple of Projectors and see!"

  I began to feel myself being squeezed into a one-way trap. I put my foot down--but where it landed was in a Grundy Projector from the people next door--and where it figuratively emerged was eleven days later, when I couldn't shut my non-physical eyes to the way the whole situation would turn out.

  Marge and I, with half a dozen others, were getting into a helicar. I followed them out to a house in the country. We handed in all the money we had saved and in return were given old-style clothes, ancient-looking money and a small amount of luggage. Then we all stepped into what looked like an oversized version of a Grundy Projector and vanished.

  Fight? Argue? Scheme?

  I didn't have a chance.

  * * * * *

  It was 1956 when we arrived in old New York. We were met by others who had pioneered the way before us and they looked after our group until we learned the ropes.

  There was nothing easy about getting used to the era. I wished often that I could get back to my own time, Grundy Projector or no Grundy Projector. Still, Marge didn't complain; she was prepared to endure anything just because she thought her life had been saved. Occasionally, bothered by my blunders in adjusting to this past century, I'd start to reason with her, explain that her life hadn't been in danger at all. But then, luckily, I would realize that convincing her would leave an angry, dissatisfied wife on my hands and I always managed to stop in time.

  I got a job working as a night janitor in a bank and studied accounting in the daytime until I was able to get a steady job. We've been here a few years now and I guess you could say we're pretty well assimilated. We have a house and two small sons and I'm doing well at my job. We still see some of our friends from the 21st century and they've also managed to make the change successfully.

  We get together now and then, and talk over old times, and laugh at some things and get nostalgic over other things. Now that there aren't any Grundy Projectors around, we've started feeling once more that our fates are in our own hands.

  Rog Owens has an interesting viewpoint. He said one night, "It wasn't the future that was fixed; it was the Grundy Projectors that fixed the future! Whatever people saw would happen, they just let happen ... or even worked to make it happen. No matter what it was, including their own deaths. Hell, how's that any different than voodoo?"

  That was pretty much how each of us had felt, only we hadn't figured it out so clearly. But Rog Owens has a special reason for thinking particularly hard about the problem. Mr. Atkins and his syndicate hadn't send us back for purely altruistic reasons; they learned that Rog's daughter Ann would marry a fellow (not one of us) named Jack Grundy and that they'd have a son named Bilbo, who would invent the Grundy Projector. Our assignment was to keep that from happening.

  Well, we couldn't prevent the marriage, but we could--and did--make sure their son would have a good, plain American name. It's William Grundy.

  But today my younger boy told me their kindergarten teacher calls William "Billy Boy."

  And one little girl can't pronounce it. She calls him Bilbo.

  * * *

  Contents

  SAY "HELLO" FOR ME

  by Frank W. Coggins

  Twenty years is a long time to live in anticipation. At least, Professor Pettibone thought so--until the twenty years were up.

  This was to be the day, but of course Professor Pettibone had no way of knowing it. He arose, as he had been doing for the previous twenty years, donned the tattered remnants of his space suit, and went out into the open. He stood erect, bronzed, magnificent, faced distant Earth, and recited:

  "Good morning, bright sunshine, We're glad you are here. You make the world happy, And bring us good cheer."

  It was something he had heard as a child and, isolated here on Mars, he had remembered it and used it to keep from losing his power of speech.

  The ritual finished, he walked to the edge of the nearest canal, and gathered a bushel or so of dried Martian moss. He returned and began polishing the shiny exterior of the wrecked space ship. It had to really glitter if it was to be an effective beacon in guiding the rescue ship.

  Professor Pettibone knew--had known for years--that a ship would come. It was just a matter of time, and as the years slipped by, his faith diminished not a whit.

  With his task half completed, he glanced up at the sun and quickened the polishing. It was a long walk to the place the berry bushes grew, and if he arrived too late, the sun would have dried out the night's crop of fragile berries and he would wait until the morrow for nourishment.

  But on this day, he was fated to arrive at the bush area not at all, because an alien sound from above again drew the Professor's eyes from his work, and he knew that the day had arrived.

  The ship was three times as large as any he had ever visualized, and its futuristic design told him, sharply, how far he had fallen behind in his dreaming. He smiled and said, quite calmly, "I daresay I am about to be rescued."

  And he experienced a thrill as the great ship set down and two men emerged therefrom. A thrill tinged with a guilt-sense, because emotional experiences were rare in an isolated life and seemed somehow indecent.

  The two men held weapons. They advanced upon Professor Pettibone, looked up into his face, reflected a certain wary hostility. That the hostility was tinged with instinctive respect, even awe, made it no less potent.

  One of them asked, "Fella--man came in ship--sky boat--long time ago. Him dead? Where?" Appropriate gestures accompanied the words.

  Professor Pettibone smiled down at the little men and bowed. "You are of course referring to me. I came in the ship. I am Professor Pettibone. It was nice of you to hunt me up."

  The eyes of the two Terran spacemen met and locked in startled inquiry. One of them voiced the reaction of both when he said, "What the hell--"

  "You no doubt are curious as to the fate of the other members of the expedition. They were killed, all save Fletcher, who lasted a week." Professor Pettibone waved a hand. "There--in the graveyard."

  But their eyes remained on the
only survivor of that ill-fated first expedition. It was hard to accept him as the man they sought, but, faced with undeniable similarity between what they expected and what they had found, the two spacemen had no alternative.

  "I hope your food supply is ample--and varied," Professor Pettibone said.

  This seemed to bring them out of their bemusement. "Of course, Professor. Would you care to come aboard?"

  The other made a try at congenial levity. "You must be pretty hungry after twenty years."

  "Really--has it been that long? I tried to keep track at first...."

  "We can blast off anytime you say. You're probably pretty anxious to get back."

  "Indeed, I am. The changes, in twenty years--must be breathtaking. I wonder if they'll remember me?"

  A short time later, the Professor said, "It's amazing. A ship of this size handled by only two men." Then he sat down to a repast laid out by one of the awed spacemen.

  But, after nibbling a bit of this, a forkful of that, he found that satisfaction lay in the anticipation more so than in the eating.

  "We'll look around and see what we can find in the way of clothing for you, Professor," one of the spacemen said. Then the man's bemusement returned. His eyes traveled over the magnificent physique before him. The perfect giant of a man; the great, Apollo-like head with the calm, clear eyes; the expression of complete contentment and serenity.

  The space man said, "Professor--to what do you attribute the changes in your body. What is there about this planet--?"

  "I really don't know." Professor Pettibone looked down his torso with an impersonal eye. "I think the greenish skin pigmentation is a result of mineral-heavy vapors that occur during certain seasons. The growth. As to my body--I really don't know."

  But the two spacemen, though they didn't refer to it--were not concerned with the body so much as the aura of completeness, the radiation of contentment which came from somewhere within.