by Anthology
Or not so brief, if one dated it as starting with Jonathan Swift, rather than with H.G. Wells. Swift had written of the two moons of Mars and their unusual orbital characteristics years before telescopes had proved their existence. And so today there was a tendency in the textbooks to include him.
II
It took the computers at the Library of Congress only a short while to scan the brittle, yellowed volumes, article by article, and to select the sole contribution dealing with deprivation of mass and restoration as the modus operandi of interstellar space travel. Einstein’s formula that as an object increased its velocity its mass increased proportionally had been so fully accepted, so completely unquestioned, that no one in the twentieth century had paid any attention to the particular article, which had been put in print in August of 1955 in a pre-cog journal called If.
In Fermeti’s office, Tozzo sat beside his superior as the two of them pored over the photographic reproduction of the journal. The article was titled Night Flight, and it ran only a few thousand words. Both men read it avidly, neither speaking until they had finished.
“Well?” Fermeti said, when they had come to the end.
Tozzo said, “No doubt of it. That’s our Project, all right. A lot is garbled; for instance he calls the Emigration Bureau ‘Outward, Incorporated,’ and believes it to be a private commercial firm.” He referred to the text. “It’s really uncanny, though. You’re obviously this character, Edmond Fletcher; the names are similar but still a little off, as is everything else. And I’m Alison Torelli.” He shook his head admiringly. “Those pre-cogs . . . having a mental image of the future that was always askew and yet in the main—”
“In the main correct,” Fermeti finished. “Yes, I agree. This Night Flight article definitely deals with us and the Bureau’s Project . . . herein called Waterspider, because it has to be done in one great leap. Good lord, that would have been a perfect name, had we thought of it. Maybe we can still call it that.”
Tozzo said slowly, “But the pre-cog who wrote Night Flight . . . in no place does he actually give the formula for mass-restoration or even for mass-deprivation. He just simply says that ‘we have it.’ ” Taking the reproduction of the journal, he read aloud from the article:
Difficulty in restoring mass to the ship and its passengers at the termination of the flight had proved a stumbling block for Torelli and his team of researchers and yet they had at last proved successful. After the fateful implosion of the Sea Scout, the initial ship to—
“And that’s all,” Tozzo said. “So what good does it do us? Yes, this pre-cog experienced our present situation a hundred years ago—but he left out the technical details.”
There was silence.
At last Fermeti said thoughtfully, “That doesn’t mean he didn’t know the technical data. We know today that the others in his guild were very often trained scientists.” He examined the biographical report. “Yes, while not actually using his pre-cog ability he worked as a chicken-fat analyst for the University of California.”
“Do you still intend to use the time-dredge to bring him up to the present?”
Fermeti nodded. “I only wish the dredge worked both ways. If it could be used with the future, not the past, we could avoid having to jeopardize the safety of this pre-cog—” He glanced down at the article. “This Poul Anderson.”
Chilled, Tozzo said, “What hazard is there?”
“We may not be able to return him to his own time. Or—” Fermeti paused. “We might lose part of him along the way, wind up with only half of him. The dredge has bisected many objects before.”
“And this man isn’t a convict at Nachbaren Slager,” Tozzo said. “So you don’t have that rationale to fall back on.”
Fermeti said suddenly, “We’ll do it properly. We’ll reduce the jeopardy by sending a team of men back to that time, back to 1954. They can apprehend this Poul Anderson and see that all of him gets into the time-dredge, not merely the top half or the left side.”
So it had been decided. The Department of Archaeology’s time-dredge would go back to the world of 1954 and pick up the pre-cog Poul Anderson; there was nothing further to discuss.
Research conducted by the U.S. Department of Archaeology showed that in September of 1954 Poul Anderson had been living in Berkeley, California, on Grove Street. In that month he had attended a top-level meeting of pre-cogs from all over the United States at the Sir Francis Drake Hotel in San Francisco. It was probable that there, in that meeting, basic policy for the next year had been worked out, with Anderson, and other experts, participating.
“It’s really very simple,” Fermeti explained to Tozzo and Gilly. “A pair of men will go back. They will be provided with forged identification showing them to be part of the nation-wide pre-cog organization . . . squares of cellophane-enclosed paper which are pinned to the coat lapel. Naturally, they will be wearing twentieth century garments. They will locate Poul Anderson, single him out and draw him off to one side.”
“And tell him what?” Tozzo said skeptically.
“That they represent an unlicensed amateur pre-cog organization in Battlecreek, Michigan, and that they have constructed an amusing vehicle built to resemble a time-travel dredge of the future. They will ask Mr. Anderson, who was actually quite famous in his time, to pose by their humbug dredge, and then they will ask for a shot of him within. Our research shows that, according to his contemporaries, Anderson was mild and easy-going, and also that at these yearly top-strategy assemblies he often became convivial enough to enter into the mood of optimism generated by his fellow pre-cogs.”
Tozzo said, “You mean he sniffed what they called ‘airplane dope’? He was a ‘glue-sniffer’?”
With a faint smile, Fermeti said, “Hardly. That was a mania among adolescents and did not become widespread in fact until a decade later. No, I am speaking about imbibing alcohol.”
“I see,” Tozzo said, nodding.
Fermeti continued, “In the area of difficulties, we must cope with the fact that at this top-secret session, Anderson brought along his wife Karen, dressed as a Maid of Venus in gleaming breast-cups, short skirt and helmet, and that he also brought their new-born daughter Astrid. Anderson himself did not wear any disguise for purposes of concealing his identity. He had no anxieties, being a quite stable person, as were most twentieth century pre-cogs.
“However, during the discussion periods between formal sessions, the pre-cogs, minus their wives, circulating about, playing poker and arguing, some of them it is said stoning one another—”
“Stoning?”
“Or, as it was put, becoming stoned. In any case, they gathered in small groups in the antechambers of the hotel, and it is at such an occasion that we expect to nab him. In the general hubbub his disappearance would not be noted. We would expect to return him to that exact time, or at least no more than a few hours later or earlier . . . preferably not earlier because two Poul Andersons at the meeting might prove awkward.”
Tozzo, impressed, said, “Sounds foolproof.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Fermeti said tartly, “because you will be one of the team sent.”
Pleased, Tozzo said, “Then I had better get started learning the details of life in the mid twentieth century.” He picked up another issue of If. This one, May of 1971, had interested him as soon as he had seen it. Of course, this issue would not be known yet to the people of 1954 . . . but eventually they would see it. And once having seen it they would never forget it . . .
Ray Bradbury’s first textbook to be serialized, he realized as he examined the journal. The Fisher of Men, it was called, and in it the great Los Angeles pre-cog had anticipated the ghastly Gutmanist political revolution which was to sweep the inner planets. Bradbury had warned against Gutman, but the warning had gone—of course—unheeded. Now Gutman was dead and the fanatical supporters had dwindled to the status of random terrorists. But had the world listened to Bradbury—
“Why the frown?” Fe
rmeti asked him. “Don’t you want to go?”
“Yes,” Tozzo said thoughtfully. “But it’s a terrible responsibility. These are no ordinary men.”
“That is certainly the truth,” Fermeti said, nodding.
III
Twenty-four hours later, Aaron Tozzo stood surveying himself in his mid twentieth century clothing and wondering if Anderson would be deceived, if he actually could be duped into entering the dredge.
The costume certainly was perfection itself. Tozzo had even been equipped with the customary waist-length beard and handlebar mustache so popular circa 1950 in the United States. And he wore a wig.
Wigs, as everyone knew, had at that time swept the United States as the fashion note par excellence; men and women had both worn huge powdered perukes of bright colors, reds and greens and blues and of course dignified grays. It was one of the most amusing occurrences of the twentieth century.
Tozzo’s wig, a bright red, pleased him. Authentic, it had come from the Los Angeles Museum of Cultural History, and the curator had vouched for it being a man’s, not a woman’s. So the fewest possible chances of detection were being taken. Little risk existed that they would be detected as members of another, future culture entirely.
And yet, Tozzo was still uneasy.
However, the plan had been arranged; now it was time to go. With Gilly, the other member selected, Tozzo entered the time-dredge and seated himself at the controls. The Department of Archaeology had provided a full instruction manual, which lay open before him. As soon as Gilly had locked the hatch, Tozzo took the bull by the horns (a twentieth century expression) and started up the dredge.
Dials registered. They were spinning backward into time, back to 1954 and the San Francisco Pre-Cog Congress.
Beside him, Gilly practiced mid twentieth century phrases from a reference volume. “Diz muz be da blace . . .” Gilly cleared his throat. “Kilroy was here,” he murmured. “Wha’ hoppen? Like man, let’s cut out; this ball’s a drag.” He shook his head. “I can’t grasp the exact sense of these phrases,” he apologized to Tozzo. “Twenty-three skidoo.”
Now a red light glowed; the dredge was about to conclude its journey. A moment later its turbines halted.
They had come to rest on the sidewalk outside the Sir Francis Drake Hotel in downtown San Francisco.
On all sides, people in quaint archaic costumes dragged along on foot. And, Tozzo saw, there were no monorails; all the visible traffic was surface-bound. What a congestion, he thought, as he watched the automobiles and buses moving inch by inch along the packed streets. An official in blue waved traffic ahead as best he could, but the entire enterprise, Tozzo could see, was an abysmal failure.
“Time for phase two,” Gilly said. But he, too, was gaping at the stalled surface vehicles. “Good grief,” he said, “look at the incredibly short skirts of the women; why, the knees are virtually exposed. Why don’t the women die of whisk virus?”
“I don’t know,” Tozzo said, “but I do know we’ve got to get into the Sir Francis Drake Hotel.”
Carefully, they opened the port of the time-dredge and stepped out. And then Tozzo realized something. There had been an error. Already.
The men of this decade were clean-shaven.
“Gilly,” he said rapidly, “we’ve got to shed our beards and mustaches.” In an instant he had pulled Gilly’s off, leaving his bare face exposed. But the wig; that was correct. All the men visible wore head-dress of some type; Tozzo saw few if any bald men. The women, too, had luxurious wigs . . . or were they wigs? Could they perhaps be natural hair?
In any case, both he and Gilly now would pass. Into the Sir Francis Drake, he said to himself, leading Gilly along.
They darted lithely across the sidewalk—it was amazing how slowly the people of this time-period walked—and into the inexpressibly old-fashioned lobby of the hotel. Like a museum, Tozzo thought as he glanced about him. I wish we could linger . . . but they could not.
“How’s our identification?” Gilly said nervously. “Is it passing inspection?” The business with the facehair had upset him.
On each of their lapels they carried the expertly made false identification. It worked. Presently they found themselves ascending by a lift, or rather elevator, to the correct floor.
The elevator let them off in a crowded foyer. Men, all clean-shaven, with wigs or natural hair, stood in small clusters everywhere, laughing and talking. And a number of attractive women, some of them in garments called leotards, which were skin-tight, loitered about smilingly. Even though the styles of the times required their breasts to be covered, they were a sight to see.
Sotto voce, Gilly said, “I am stunned. In this room are some of the—”
“I know,” Tozzo murmured. Their Project could wait, at least a little while. Here was an unbelievably golden opportunity to see these pre-cogs, actually to talk to them and listen to them . . .
Here came a tall, handsome man in a dark suit that sparkled with tiny specks of some unnatural material, some variety of synthetic. The man wore glasses and his hair, everything about him, had a tanned, dark look. The name on his identification . . . Tozzo peered.
The tall, good-looking man was A. E. van Vogt.
“Say,” another individual, perhaps a pre-cog enthusiast, was saying to van Vogt, stopping him. “I read both versions of your World of Null A and I still didn’t quite get that about it being him; you know, at the end. Could you explain that part to me? And also when they started into the tree and then just—” van Vogt halted. A soft smile appeared on his face and he said. “Well, I’ll tell you a secret. I start out with a plot and then the plot sort of folds up. So then I have to have another plot to finish the rest of the story.”
Going over to listen, Tozzo felt something magnetic about van Vogt. He was so tall, so spiritual. Yes, Tozzo said to himself; that was the word, a healing spirituality. There was a quality of innate goodness which emanated from him.
All at once van Vogt said, “There goes a man with my pants.” And without a further word to the enthusiast, stalked off and disappeared into the crowd.
Tozzo’s head swam. To actually have seen and heard A. E. van Vogt—
“Look,” Gilly was saying, plucking at his sleeve. “That enormous, genial-looking man seated over there; that’s Howard Browne, who edited the pre-cog journal Amazing at this time-period.”
“I have to catch a plane,” Howard Browne was saying to anyone who would listen to him. He glanced about him in a worried anxiety, despite his almost physical geniality.
“I wonder,” Gilly said, “if Doctor Asimov is here.”
We can ask, Tozzo decided. He made his way over to one of the young women wearing a blonde wig and green leotards. “WHERE IS DOCTOR ASIMOV?” he asked clearly in the argot of the times.
“Who’s to know?” the girl said.
“Is he here, miss?”
“Naw,” the girl said.
Gilly again plucked at Tozzo’s sleeve. “We must find Poul Anderson, remember? Enjoyable as it is to talk to this girl—”
“I’m inquiring about Asimov,” Tozzo said brusquely. After all, Isaac Asimov had been the founder of the entire twenty-first century positronic robot industry. How could he not be here?
A burly outdoorish man strode by them, and Tozzo saw that this was Jack Vance. Vance, he decided, looked more like a big game hunter than anything else . . . we must beware of him, Tozzo decided. If we got into any altercation Vance could take care of us easily.
He noticed now that Gilly was talking to the blonde-wigged girl in the green leotards. “MURRAY LEINSTER?” Gilly was asking. “The man whose paper on parallel time is still at the very forefront of theoretical studies; isn’t he—”
“I dunno,” the girl said, in a bored tone of voice.
A group had gathered about a figure opposite them; the central person whom everybody was listening to was saying, “. . . all right, if like Howard Browne you prefer air travel, fine. But I say it’s risk
y. I don’t fly. In fact even riding in a car is dangerous. I generally lie down in the back.” The man wore a short-cropped wig and a bow tie; he had a round, pleasant face but his eyes were intense.
It was Ray Bradbury, and Tozzo started toward him at once.
“Stop!” Gilly whispered angrily. “Remember what we came for.”
And, past Bradbury, seated at the bar, Tozzo saw an older, care-weathered man in a brown suit wearing small glasses and sipping a drink. He recognized the man from drawings in early Gernsback publications; it was the fabulously unique pre-cog from the New Mexico region, Jack Williamson.
“I thought Legion of Time was the finest novel-length science-fiction work I ever read,” an individual, evidently another pre-cog enthusiast, was saying to Jack Williamson, and Williamson was nodding in pleasure.
“That was originally going to be a short story,” Williamson said. “But it grew. Yes, I like that one, too.”
Meanwhile Gilly had wandered on, into an adjoining room. He found, at a table, two women and a man in deep conversation. One of the women, dark-haired and handsome, with bare shoulders, was—according to her identification plate—Evelyn Paige. The taller woman he discovered was the renowned Margaret St. Clair, and Gilly at once said:
“Mrs. St. Clair, your article entitled The Scarlet Hexapodin the September 1959 was one of the finest—” And then he broke off.
Because Margaret St. Clair had not written that yet. Knew in fact nothing about it. Flushing with nervousness, Gilly backed away.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “Excuse me; I became confused.”
Raising an eyebrow, Margaret St. Clair said, “In the September 1959 issue, you say? What are you, a man from the future?”
“Droll,” Evelyn Paige said, “but let’s continue.” She gave Gilly a hard stare from her black eyes. “Now Bob, as I understand what you’re saying—” She addressed the man opposite her, and Gilly saw now to his delight that the dire-looking cadaverous individual was none other than Robert Bloch.