by Anthology
So you find a place where They will have to hunt a long time, hoping They will get tired of hunting before They find you.
You choose the twentieth century. It is a natural choice—it is your speciality. You know it as if you had been born of it, instead of the State. You have lived in it, for years, adding up the durations of all your missions. You were assigned to it as a child of the State. You studied its languages and customs along with your own. You protected the fulcrums from the tampering of enemies of the State. You lectured on it to classes of Leaders, Unrestricted. You perverted it for the history books of the masses. It was your second home.
Slowly, its freedoms began to counteract the poisons of your lifelong indoctrination. Slowly, you began to think for yourself, to compare, to dread your return to the State. Suddenly the balance was broken. You planned your escape.
It is not the best era for concealment. Regimentation has begun. Identity must be certified. Papers must be filed, here and there. And, because it is your speciality, They will search it hardest and longest.
Against that, you weigh your knowledge and your desires. Of the two, perhaps your desires are the heaviest. Technology and art are sufficiently developed to provide you with conveniences and entertainment. Freedom is playing its last great role on the stage of decision. The State lurks in the wings. You must be in the audience.
You settle in a large city, in the free half of the world. Strangers are common in large cities. You establish an identity. You get a job as a clerk in a bank, doing sums on a machine that you could do more quickly in your head. It is monotonous and uninspiring, but you do not mind, because you are fully, really free, for the first time in your life. The only shadow on your freedom is the knowledge that you are hunted. They are hunting you, up and down the ages of the world. It is a small price to pay.
You live in your room for a few months, but you know that this is only temporary. Single, friendless men are obvious misfits. You must complete the camouflage. You look constantly for a girl. Your task is difficult, not only because you are a stranger, but because there are strategic requirements to be met, psychological problems to be overcome.
Finally, by accident, you meet again the girl from the government office. She is friendly, but not over-curious—pretty but not beautiful. She is modest. She might marry a bank clerk. Her name is Lynn.
You find that your fears were wasted. Physical contact is not distasteful. Lynn’s necessary modesty makes her difficult to arouse, but, at last, you are successful. She consents. You are married. You have been frugal. You can afford a down payment on a house.
After a difficult few days, Lynn seems happy. You are happy. Biological mating is not repulsive. On the contrary, you begin to see that the State method of compulsory exogenesis is part of a complex pattern of breaking all ties except those which bind the citizen to the State.
. . . Child of the State, you think, born from a bottle, reared in a crèche, you have travelled a long strange road, but the destination is in sight.
As soon as possible, you tell Lynn you want a son.
You relax, just a little. So far, you have not made a mistake. In a few months your camouflage will be complete . . .
These are the things you do not do—you do not let your knowledge of the future lead you into any of the simple traps. You have traced others, through seemingly minute political, economic or social perturbations. You are an ordinary citizen of the twentieth-century United States. You act like an ordinary citizen, a timid one.
You do not bet on horse races, boxing matches, football games or elections, even though you know who will win. You do not invent miraculous little gadgets. You do not plagiarise remembered fiction or poetry under a pseudonym. You do not write anonymous letters to statesmen, politicians or newspapers. Your only source of income is your job. You do not lust for money, power or fame. Your only desire is to stay alive and be free.
You do not seem strange, foreign or different. You dress like your neighbours. You speak as they speak. You are pleasant, without inviting close friendships. You laugh at your neighbours’ jokes. You echo their opinions on fishing, golf and baseball, on prices and the weather, on the President, foreign policy and the cold war. You do not have opinions of your own.
You do not own a car, a gun or a dog. Immediately after every snow, you shovel your walks carefully. You do not have parties or play your television set loud or sing in the bathtub. You are the last one on or off the subway—if a train is crowded, you wait for the next one. You wait scrupulously for stop lights—only when the street is clear, do you cross.
You do not take chances. You do not walk beside buildings under construction. You do not get into arguments. You do not enter saloons. You do not drink. You do nothing which might bring you into contact with the police.
You do not let your guard down for an instant, not with anyone, not even with Lynn. You do not hint, even by the twitch of an eyebrow, that you are smarter than you seem, that you know more than you should, that you could change the course of history. You are an average clerk, with an average education and average opinions, living in an average house with an average family. No one could be more average.
You do not confide in anyone.
You read the papers and see the fulcrums passing, one by one, fulcrums which lead surely to the State you have fled—but you do not lift a finger to interfere. You are not afraid that your existence is dependent upon that of the State, for you are firmly fixed in the twentieth century. But you know that there are hidden agents around each fulcrum. On some occasions, you were there yourself. The paradox does not disturb you—it is only superficial. You might be successful, but you do not take the chance.
You do not visit a plastic surgeon or a tattoo artist. You are never undressed in front of anyone, not even Lynn, when the light is on. You dress and undress behind a locked bathroom door.
No one ever sees the indelible imprint just under your armpit—TA: 1-4537-A. Lynn’s modesty takes a similar form, and she sees nothing strange in your actions.
Always alert, eternally watchful, you do not wonder if what you have is worth what you must pay for it. You know—it is worth it.
And this is what happens to you—one afternoon at work, while you are idly tapping away at the keys of a tabulator, an envelope is dropped in front of you. You glance over your shoulder. Weasel-faced Colbert, the department supervisor, is standing there, frowning at you. You are not supposed to receive mail at the bank. You shrug helplessly at him, and he moves away, muttering soundlessly.
It is a plain envelope with no return address. For some reason, a tremor, quickly stilled, runs down your arm as you pick it up. Your face, however, is only curious. You tear open the end of the envelope calmly and shake out the letter. You open it. It is typewritten. There is no signature. It says—
TA.1-4537-A:
You are known. Prepare yourself for return.
Do not try to escape in any way;
or the punishment awaiting you will be even greater.
You snort. ‘I’ll be damned!’ you say. You will indeed.
Someone is breathing in your ear. You glance to your left at Julie Friedman, who is reading the letter over your shoulder. Her dark, pretty face is alive with interest. You shrug at her, puzzled.
‘Isn’t that funny?’ she says.
On your right, Ted Hamm looks up, preoccupied. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Some practical joker,’ you say, and toss the letter to him.
While he reads it, you look around. Colbert is watching, glowering at you. You shrug again and get back to work, but your back is cold, from the nape of your neck to the base of your spine.
But you play your part. You must always play it, as you have decided, clear to the end. You are surprised that you are so calm. It has come, and you are not frightened.
Perhaps, it is because you know that They are not certain. The letter was a mistake. It told you that They were suspicious, and it told you that They weren
’t certain. Their mistake. You will not jump or run. You will not prove Their suspicions. They do not dare make a mistake. The State is intolerant of mistakes, and the fabric of time is fragile. You, if you are innocent, might be a fulcrum. The limitations on time agents are sharply defined.
You have thought of Them as They, but there is only one. You know that. Agents do not work together—they would be too busy watching one another. And it is unlikely that the agent who suspects you has reported to his superiors. Reporting is a difficult task, at best, and it is not wise to report the possibility of success when there remains a chance of failure. Failure is the State’s major crime.
One person remains between you and safety—and he has made a mistake. You know he is watching. If you can get rid of him, it is probable that you will never be bothered again. But, first, you must pick him out. You must make absolutely sure.
Your fingers punch the keys automatically. Three persons were close when you received the letter—Colbert, Julie, Ted. The chances are great that the agent is one of those three. A casual glance could not have pierced your disguise. It had to be someone in frequent contact. You have no friends. Colbert, Julie,’ Ted . . .
Colbert—sour, friendless, always snooping. You have known many like him in the service of the State. But he is middle-aged, and he has spent years with the bank. It is an argument for his innocence, but not a complete one. The State does not balance effort against results. The State would sacrifice twenty loyal agents to get back one stray, and a properly indoctrinated agent would think nothing of putting the welfare of the State above his desires, his distastes, his life.
Julie—the State has women agents. You have heard of them, although you have never met any. Julie does not look like the sexless women of the State you have known, but they would be worthless as agents. From the first, you could not fathom Julie. Sometimes she was friendly, sometimes cold and distant. You had considered Julie as a possible mate—but it would have aroused too much interest in the office. Everyone would have been too friendly. Thinking about it, you shudder. Perhaps, you were that close to proposing to an agent.
Ted—after a moment’s consideration, you discard him. He is too frank, too ingenious. He has shown you pictures of his wife and three children, newspaper photographs of himself on the gridiron. Automatically, you checked up on those. It could not be Ted. The wife and the children were positive proof.
The afternoon ends. You pick up the letter and go home. As you come up the front walk, you notice the houses of your neighbours, almost identical to yours, one on each side. Your neighbours, close but not too close. You dismiss them, the Millers on the north, the Brents on the south. Both are young couples like you and Lynn. Possibly the State might assign two agents to work together, but never a man and a woman. Not living in the same house—not with children.
You show Lynn the letter as a curiosity. She reads it and laughs and throws it aside. You sit down to dinner. You think.
‘You aren’t eating, dear,’ Lynn says.
‘Oh,’ you say. ‘I must have been thinking.’
You eat. You try to act natural, but your mind will not rest. Colbert or Julie—Julie or Colbert.
After dinner, you sit and pretend to read. You think of every other person you know, but none of them fit. They have to be in a place where they can watch you. Colbert or Julie—Julie or Colbert.
The evening drags on. Lynn yawns and rises, stretching. She is getting quite round in the belly.
‘I get sleepy early these days,’ she says pleasantly.
She goes into the bedroom to get ready. By unspoken agreement, you wait until she is in bed.
A little later, you follow, undressing in the bathroom and putting on your pyjamas. When you enter the bedroom, it is dark. You can barely make out Lynn’s pale face against the blackness of her hair, spread fan-like on the pillow. You slip into bed.
‘Good night,’ Lynn says drowsily.
‘Good night,’ you say.
Soon you know, by her steady breathing, that she is asleep. But you cannot sleep. Your life hangs on a slender thread of recognition.
Colbert or Julie—Julie or Colbert! Around and around they spin, the two faces, the weasel and the minx, blurring as they go faster and faster . . .
You jerk yourself awake. You cannot afford to sleep, not yet.
You hope that it is Colbert. You have never killed a woman. You do not think you would like it. And yet, Colbert is old for the role.
You will not use your carefully tutored powers. With an agent nearby, it would be almost certainly fatal. But there is always the identification under the armpit. If you can trick one of them into giving you a glimpse.
Colbert? Impossible! But you might be able to seduce Julie, or, perhaps, you need not go that far. If she is the agent . . . If not, then it is Colbert. Colbert or Julie—Julie or Colbert. One of the two is the stranger.
Now that you have decided on a course of action, you feel easier. You can sleep. You rise on one elbow and gently pull back a blind to look at your watch. It is midnight. The moonlight streams in brilliantly. It falls gently across Lynn’s face.
You look at her. You have become quite fond of Lynn. Of all the things that you would miss, if you were caught and returned, you feel that you might miss Lynn most.
She has one white arm thrown up above her head. Her face is peaceful. Her body is working, even now, to build you the child that will provide the perfect camouflage. They would never suspect a man with a child.
You bend a little closer. The short sleeve of her thin nightgown has slipped down over her shoulder, leaving her arm bare.
Her armpit is smooth. But, just a little lower—is it shadow? No—it is a letter, and another letter, then a number. You decipher them—TA: 1- . . .
Your breath whistles out of you. You look quickly at her face. Her eyes are open, staring into yours, wide and blue, deep with an awful knowledge.
‘TOM!’ you say hoarsely, and realise that you have given yourself away. But it doesn’t matter. You have found the agent, and now it is between you two.
‘Me,’ Lynn says.
You get up. You slip on a robe and go into the living-room and sit down. You feel cold inside. You have been fond of Lynn.
In a moment, she follows, slipping her arms into a robe. She ties it high, above the swelling. You watch, scornfully.
‘No sacrifice is too great,’ you say heavily. You want to hurt her, as she has hurt you.
Her eyes flash. ‘Not for the State.’
‘How did you find me?’
She laughs, derisively. ‘The great agent! So clever—so stupid! You had to have clothes and money. You had to return to the period of your last mission. All that was necessary was to get a job in the social security office, here, where it is easy to hide, and check the records. But I didn’t even have to do that. You came walking into my arms.’
Papers! You shake your head. They are what you had feared from the start. ‘But you were not sure. You couldn’t be sure.’
‘No.’
‘Ah, the sacrifice!’ you say. ‘It must have been torment to endure my love-making—all for the State.’
Her eyes are fiery. ‘Yes.’ But her voice falters. ‘That is what kept me uncertain. I knew—and yet . . .’
‘Ah!’ you say.
Her face reddens to match her eyes. ‘Not what you think, animal. It seemed impossible that one born of the State, raised by the State, could turn beast so easily.’
‘And I never suspected,’ you say. ‘You are a consummate actress.’ You enjoy the look on her face, as she tries to decide whether you are being sarcastic. ‘You could not act, of course, before you were sure.’
‘Naturally,’ she says. ‘But now I am sure. I thought that you might remove my doubt by destroying the letter, but it is better this way. Enough of idle talk. You are coming with me.’
You laugh, but laughter fades as she pulls a gun out of her robe pocket. It shoots solid pellets, but it is deadl
y enough. ‘Incredible,’ you say. She looks as if she enjoys the expression on your face. ‘I might have choked you to death in bed,’ you say, ‘but I couldn’t. Now, perhaps, you can shoot me. You had better. I am not going back.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she says grimly. ‘I’ll shoot.’
‘Shoot now, then. Because if you don’t, I am going to leave this era. Goodbye, my dear.’
‘Don’t be a fool!’ she says. ‘I will follow you wherever you go. You have no chance now. You will only make it harder on yourself.’
You smile. You start to laugh. ‘My dear,’ you say, chuckling, ‘you have forgotten one of the cardinal rules of time travel. You can take nothing with you from this era.’
‘Well,’ she says defiantly, but her expression is puzzled.
‘Lynn, my dear,’ you say gently. ‘You have something which is always with you now, which will be with you for a number of months yet.’
She looks down, startled. The gun drops from her hand. You scoop it up.
‘Goodbye, again,’ you say. But it is difficult to leave. Here, you have had rare moments of happiness. Memories clutch at you, hold you back. Where else will you be as happy?
Slowly Lynn’s expression changes. Now it is her turn to laugh. ‘Go ahead,’ she taunts. ‘Leave. Go ahead and try!’
You stiffen. You try. You concentrate upon the time stream with your sharpened time sense. You sweat. But you cannot vary your temporal position by one fraction of a second.
‘The great TA: 1-4537-A! They said that you were the most skilful, the cleverest, agent ever to work for the State. But you, also, can forget things. Remember, dear, the other cardinal rule of time travel. You, too, can leave nothing behind.’ She sits down complacently smoothing her robe over her lap.