The Third Time Travel

by Philip K. Dick

Starbrook was forced to halt. It was too vast, too foreign for his mind or imagination. He was just Bill Starbrook, Chief Engineer at Bradford Electronics. It just wasn’t in the cards for him to be reading some mysterious message out of the ages, pleading with him to come to some unnamed place for the good of the race.

  He laughed shortly. Children’s Room! Someone had certainly succeeded in producing the most fantastic, incredible fairy tales of all time. Almost had him believing for a moment that he was a mutant! He’d have to tell Miss Edythe that the books were realistic if nothing else.

  He strolled out onto the porch. In the clear, cold night the stars looked near. A race had to utilize its mutants, or be outmoded in the contest for evolutionary perfection, he thought. He wondered what the ultimate product of human evolution would be. No doubt it would differ from man as man differed from the anthropoids and reptiles before him.

  His eyes on the stars, he thought, were there other spawning races out there somewhere in their infancy, who would eventually challenge man and threaten to sweep him aside in the backwash of hopeless evolutionary superiority?

  He brushed aside the maddening thought. There was one way to settle this once and for all. He could see the lights on in the house of Professor Martin, a block down the street on the other side. Martin was head of the ancient languages department at the University and sometimes they played gin rummy together.

  Starbrook heaved into his topcoat and quietly left the house with one of the volumes under his arm.

  Professor Martin was a big man with a bushy beard. He always reminded Starbrook of one of the ancient Greeks whose language he taught.

  He greeted Starbrook with a welcoming roar. “Come in, Bill! I was just hoping somebody would come in for a good game of poker or gin. My wife went home for a week and I’ve been as lonely as a hibernating bear with insomnia.”

  Starbrook entered and removed his coat. “I can’t stay. I just wanted to show you something and get your opinion on it. See what you make of this.”

  Starbrook opened the last volume that he had been reading. Its potent message leaped out to him from every character and word, but he turned his eyes carefully to Martin.

  The Professor scowled, “Where’d you get this? Certainly these characters are nothing like I’ve ever seen, and I think I’ve seen them all.”

  Starbrook sighed. “I was hoping perhaps that you could read it and tell me what it is. It’s—it’s something I just picked up in a second-hand store in town. Probably some crazy lingo, something like that Esperanto of a few years ago, only worse.”

  Professor Martin shook his head. “Possibly. Certainly it isn’t recognizable to me. Would you mind my keeping this for a while?”

  “Well—perhaps later. I’ve already promised it to another friend right away. That’s why I came over even though it’s so late.”

  “Oh, that’s quite all right! I’m glad to have some company. It’s lonely here, you know—”

  * * * *

  When Starbrook finally got out under the night sky again, the full force of the knowledge hit him like a blow.

  I’m a mutant, he thought. Walt is a mutant. If we weren’t we couldn’t read these unknown characters as if they were plain English, while Martin and others find them unintelligible. And that must mean that all the rest of it is true, too.

  And yet, there was still no meaning to it. This talk of a distant time, and a strange place of meeting for mutants out of all the ages—

  That little old librarian, Miss. Edythe, was evidently the key to the whole business. She knew the source of the books. She could tell him what it was about.

  Then abruptly he remembered something he had not thought of during the evening. Miss Perkins’ words: “We have no Children’s Department!”

  Starbrook was waiting at the outer entrance the following morning when the library building was opened by Miss Perkins herself. She recognized Starbrook and smiled bleakly. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Miss Perkins.”

  He passed on into the foyer and turned in the direction of the Children’s Room. Through the open door he could see Miss Edythe already at her desk. And that was curious, since the library had just been opened. He glanced back as Miss Perkins passed on her way into the main library office. She looked at him—and at the door of the Children’s Room as if nothing were there!

  It gave Starbrook a sudden feeling of peculiar dread. He hurried in and found numerous children sitting about the tables in the room. He wondered how they had got in there.

  “Good morning, Mr. Starbrook,” said Miss Edythe. “I was hoping we’d see you this morning. Did you get time to glance over the books I asked for an opinion on?”

  “Yes, I read them completely.”

  “That’s fine. What do you think of what you read?”

  “Miss Edythe—have you read these books? Do you know what is in them?”

  “Why, surely. I’ve read every book in here quite carefully. It’s been my life’s work.”

  “Then what is the explanation?”

  The little old lady looked at him soberly out of her bright blue eyes, then moved from the chair on which she sat before the checking desk.

  “Please come into the office,” she said.

  Starbrook followed her. She closed the door of the small room and sat down, bidding him to have a chair opposite.

  “Yours is quite the most difficult case that has ever come to my attention,” she began hesitantly. “In five hundred years there has been only one adult who appeared as suitably material for our colony. You will excuse me if I seem to oversimplify things because I am used to speaking with children—children, however, generally with an intelligence quotient of above 220, so that perhaps we can understand each other well enough after all.

  “You recall, in the second of the books I gave you, the challenge to you as a mutant—”

  “That’s what I came to ask about! The whole business is so unbelievable, but I checked on the books. They couldn’t be read by one of the University language professors.”

  “That should contribute considerably to your conviction of the truth of what you have read, then,” said Miss Edythe.

  “You mean there is actually a group of mutants somewhere who have been gathered to—to save the human race?”

  “We hardly like to speak of it so melodramatically—but that is essentially our purpose. We’re working to maintain the superiority of the human race in the face of an evolutionary lag from which we suffer. If we do not maintain that superiority it will certainly result in our eventual extinction. These are of course probabilities which have been worked out by our scientists who understand such things. Sufficient for the moment is the fact that we are gathering out the mutants of all the ages of man’s history in order to accelerate human evolution. By the proper utilization of these mutants we intend to out-evolve, outstep our competitors in the galaxy who threaten our supremacy and our existence.

  “I cannot be aware of your past concept of mutants. With the children it is easy because they learn from the beginning the true character of mutations, the fact that a small variation in the gene for some characteristic may produce an individual with changes from the norm of his race, and highly advantageous both to himself and to the race. Mutations, however, are generally of such a minor character that their possessor is unaware of the variation. This is one important fact to remember in connection with our work.

  “Unless, however, we can become aware of these valuable mutations and utilize them we are going to be left behind in the backwater of evolution much as the great apes were when man appeared.”

  Starbrook stared dumbly, trying to comprehend.

  “A group of us long ago set out to preserve the useful mutants of the race from the earliest beginnings. We have many methods of accomplishing this. This library is one of the most effective. We have devised a language, in which our books are printed, which is intelligible only to mutants. There is a certain brain characteristic which mig
ht be termed mutant-linked, which makes this possible. That is, when any kind of gene variation occurs there is also an inevitable variation of another gene at a specific locus which makes the brain receptive to a good many other stimuli, most of which you have never been aware because the stimuli have not been presented. This language is one such stimulus. Another ability your mutation gives you is that of entering the room here.”

  “Why, I just walked in!” exclaimed Starbrook.

  Miss Edythe smiled. “Yes, of course. But haven’t you wondered why no others also walk in, why it is that only the mutants enter?”

  “Why—yes, but—”

  “This inscription, ‘Children’s Room’ above the doorway appears to non-mutants as only a portion of the decorative design of the library building. You read it because it is in the mutation language. In addition, there is a complex pattern on the floor in front of the doorway, which marks a pathway for you to follow into the room. It is a path which no one would possibly chance upon, but your mutated senses follow it instinctively. To others, there is simply no doorway, no Children’s Room at all.”

  “But what is the nature of my main mutation?” Starbrook demanded.

  “That will have to be determined by proper examination. And there’s one final warning I must make. Don’t expect too much. The disappointments among us mutants are great. For example, in my own case the mutation was that of longevity. I am something over nine hundred years old—”

  “Nine hun—!”

  Miss Edythe nodded. “Yes. And combined with my particular mutation is a linked sterility factor. As I say, the disappointments among our group are great.”

  Her ancient eyes seemed suddenly to be peering down the ages, and Starbrook thought afterward that it was that moment of looking into those strong eyes that had seen so many alien centuries that did most to convince him of the truth of the entire matter. “What am I to do?” he said at last.

  “You will join us?”

  “My son, Walt, too?”

  “He has much to learn yet before we can present the entire plan to him.”

  “It’s difficult to answer your question,” said Starbrook. “I just don’t know—”

  “It’s hardly more than moving to a strange city,” said Miss Edythe, “except that your neighbors and associates will be from all ages and locales of time and space. In a way you will find it highly invigorating. Of course, there are ties that must be severed, friends, your wife—It is difficult that you are an adult!”

  Rose!

  For first time he took full cognizance of the problem this created with respect to his marriage. Subconsciously, he supposed that she would share in whatever change was involved. If leaving Rose were one condition of joining the mutants he was certain that they could well do without his contribution in the future as they had evidently done in the past.

  But what of the children? he thought suddenly. Did it mean that they were to leave—?

  There was a new cold tightness within him as he said, “Could I have the examination to determine what I’m good for, before I decide the matter?”

  “Yes, it can be arranged immediately. Please follow me.”

  They left by another door that led into a corridor which Starbrook knew was no part of the library building of Hedeman University. As they crossed it, he got a glimpse through a broad window and gasped audibly. The scene was one of green rolling hills dotted with small clusters of white buildings, a valley of serenity and life instead of the idiotic cluster of masonry that formed the cities of his own age.

  His guide allowed no time to ponder the scene. She led him through the door across the hall. Inside he found himself in the midst of a roomful of unfamiliar looking equipment. A young, professional looking man greeted him with a smile.

  “Doctor Rogers,” said Miss Edythe in introduction. “He will conduct the examination. He knows about you. Come back to my office when you are through.”

  She left then, and Rogers indicated a chair. “It’s a pleasure to have a full grown individual to talk to for a change,” he said amiably. “Sometimes those pre-adolescent brats with I.Q.s of 250 to 300 are just a little too smart for their pants. I was one of them so I should know. Now, if you’ll just lie back here on this table—”

  Starbrook struggled desperately to hold to the fragments of his mind that constituted Bill Starbrook, Chief Engineer of Bradford Electronics. That was all that was real. This world of fantastic Miss Edythe who was nine hundred years old, and the window that looked out upon a green valley where Hedeman should have been were only parts of a nightmare from which he would awake, the nightmare of being examined for possible useful mutations to aid the human race in its attempts to hurdle the laws of evolution.

  He endured the long hours of the examination by repeating this fancy over and over again. Then, at last, Doctor Rogers announced that he was through.

  Starbrook faced him across a desk. Before the doctor was a mass of records and charts, the accumulations of the tests.

  “I have here your complete chromosome map,” he said slowly.

  “What mutations do I have that I can contribute to the advancement of man’s evolution?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then Rogers looked up from the charts. “I may as well give it to you straight. The answer is: none. Absolutely none.”

  For a moment Starbrook sat stunned. During the past hours he had built up a vast mental structure on the premise that he was needed in assisting humanity reach the heights. He had fought through the battle of deciding what sacrifices it would be worth. Now—

  “None—? I don’t understand.

  “Miss Edythe told me—The mutation language—”

  “Your case is most unusual. The total of your mutations consists only of the sensory characteristics by which you were able to read our mutation language, and find your way into the Children’s Room. I don’t recall a single instance previously where this mutation was not linked with some other. It is somewhat interesting from a purely biological viewpoint, particularly in view of the fact that you are the father of Walt. Practically, however, your mutation has no value whatever.”

  Starbrook laughed then, his voice unable to disguise his disappointment and a vague shame. “So I am no use to you after all? I have nothing that is of use to my race?”

  Rogers looked at him intently. “Don’t emphasize the significance of this,” he warned. “It means nothing whatever to you as an individual. You must realize that only one out of every few hundred human beings has any detectable mutation. Only one out of many thousands of mutations is of real value to the race.

  “We are able to eliminate the children who are of no value to us without revealing what it’s all about. Your case has been obviously different.”

  “Of course,” said Starbrook. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not going to be bitter about this, I had no right to expect anything out of it. I suppose I’ve always been sort of an idealist, hoping to do something to lift men up, and all that sort of thing. I guess somewhere my subconscious must have grabbed hold of this pretty hard and seen in it a chance to realize those idealisms. But, anyway, what about my son, Walt?”

  “We must have Walt. We absolutely must. His mutations appear to be the apex of endless unknown processes of nature, culminating in potentialities that will make him one of the most valuable members of our mutants’ colony. His life will change the race for generations to come.”

  “He doesn’t know all this yet?”

  “No. Even with his high understanding it must be fed to him slowly because he is a child. But he is being educated by the books to the point where he can be given full knowledge of his potentialities and our requirements.”

  “But what of his relationship to us! I’m not yet convinced of the urgency of this crisis you’ve spoken vaguely of—not sufficiently to make me ready to allow my son to begin a new life here with perhaps infrequent contact with us.”

  “Once he comes here and begins his work,” said
Rogers incisively, “there will be no further contact with you.”

  Starbrook stared in disbelief. “You mean you expect us to give you our son as completely as if he were dead?”

  “Watch your semantic extensions,” Rogers said drily. “I doubt that anything could convince a member of this age of the urgency of our problem, but in your case I’d like to try, for several reasons.

  “Imagine, if you will, two planets on which life had simultaneous beginnings and similar forms of development. On one of these, however, the natural rate of mutant occurrence and consequent evolution is several times that of the other, so that by the time man—so called modern man—appears on one, the great apes are just beginning to appear, on the other.

  “Imagine then, the situation when the world with slower evolving life forms has advanced to the point where man appears. What of the other world and the relationship between the two in case they should make contact?

  “This is roughly the situation as it existed in the ‘normal’ time in which this superior race was discovered. We found them as far ahead of us as we are ahead of the great apes today—and incidentally there is far greater physical differentiation between them and us than between us and the apes.

  “As might be expected, they regard us as little more than we would regard the apes—rather clever apes. Our movements through space, our mechanical achievements are no more to them than the work of clever apes. Though they appear to be a moral, peaceful race they can find no basis for compassion towards us or interest in communication or trade. There is only one possible relation between us, as there has always been only one possible relation between man and the lower forms of life on earth—that possibility is exploitation.

  “Our scientists have demonstrated by means you would not be aware of that this exploitation of man by these—super-men—is inevitable. The hope of combating them and so preventing their exploitation of Earth and man is about as great as a tribe of apes would have of preventing capture by an army of hunters equipped with every scientific gadget you know, from radar to atomic bombs.

  “There is only one hope for the future of our race: That is to bring ourselves to an equal or superior level with respect to this rival race. And it must be done within the space of a very few human generations, according to our predictions. The mutant colony was founded about one generation ago as soon as the full picture of conditions became apparent. Our work indicates that we can feel confident of success, because mutations have been abundant in the development of man. Nature seems to have been generous but wasteful of them.