The 27th Golden Age of Science Fiction

by Stanley G. Weinbaum

  “Dismantle it! Why?”

  “It has served its purpose. It has given birth to an idea far more important than itself. I shall need the space it occupies.”

  “But what is the idea, if it’s not too presumptuous of me to ask?”

  “It is not too presumptuous. You and the world which awaits it so eagerly may both know, but you hear it from the lips of the author. It is nothing less than the autobiography of van Manderpootz!” He paused impressively.

  I gaped. “Your autobiography?”

  “Yes. The world, though perhaps unaware, is crying for it. I shall detail my life, my work. I shall reveal myself as the man responsible for the three years’ duration of the Pacific War of 2004.”

  “You?”

  “None other. Had I not been a loyal Netherlands subject at that time, and therefore neutral, the forces of Asia would have been crushed in three months instead of three years. The subjunctivisor tells me so; I would have invented a calculator to forecast the chances of every engagement; van Manderpootz would have removed the hit or miss element in the conduct of war.” He frowned solemnly. “There is my idea. The autobiography of van Manderpootz. What do you think of it?”

  I recovered my thoughts. “It’s—uh—it’s colossal!” I said vehemently. “I’ll buy a copy myself. Several copies. I’ll send ’em to my friends.”

  “I,” said van Manderpootz expansively, “shall autograph your copy for you. It will be priceless. I shall write in some fitting phrase, perhaps something like Magnificus sed non superbus. ‘Great but not proud!’ That well described van Manderpootz, who despite his greatness is simple, modest, and unassuming. Don’t you agree?”

  “Perfectly! A very apt description of you. But—couldn’t I see your subjunctivisor before it’s dismantled to make way for the greater work?”

  “Ah! You wish to find out something?”

  “Yes, professor. Do you remember the Baikal disaster of a week or two ago? I was to have taken that liner to Moscow. I just missed it.” I related the circumstances.

  “Humph!” he grunted. “You wish to discover what would have happened had you caught it, eh? Well, I see several possibilities. Among the world of ‘if’ is the one that would have been real if you had been on time, the one that depended on the vessel waiting for your actual arrival, and the one that hung on your arriving within the five minutes they actually waited. In which are you interested?”

  “Oh—the last one.” That seemed the likeliest. After all, it was too much to expect that Dixon Wells could ever be on time, and as to the second possibility—well, they hadn’t waited for me, and that in a way removed the weight of responsibility.

  “Come on,” rumbled van Manderpootz. I followed him across to the Physics Building and into his littered laboratory. The device still stood on the table and I took my place before it, staring at the screen of the Horsten psychomat. The clouds wavered and shifted as I sought to impress my memories on their suggestive shapes, to read into them some picture of that vanished morning.

  Then I had it. I made out the vista from the Staten Bridge, and was speeding across the giant span toward the airport. I waved a signal to van Manderpootz, the thing clicked, and the subjunctivisor was on.

  The grassless clay of the field appeared. It is a curious thing about the psychomat that you see only through the eyes of your image on the screen. It lends a strange reality to the working of the toy; I suppose a sort of self-hypnosis is partly responsible.

  I was rushing over the ground toward the glittering, silver-winged projectile that was the Baikal. A glowering officer waved me on, and I dashed up the slant of the gangplank and into the ship; the port dropped and I heard a long “Whew!” of relief.

  “Sit down!” barked the officer, gesturing toward an unoccupied seat. I fell into it; the ship quivered under the thrust of the catapult, grated harshly into motion, and then was flung bodily into the air. The blasts roared instantly, then settled to a more muffled throbbing, and I watched Staten Island drop down and slide back beneath me. The giant rocket was under way.

  “Whew!” I breathed again. “Made it!” I caught an amused glance from my right. I was in an aisle seat; there was no one to my left, so I turned to the eyes that had flashed, glanced, and froze staring.

  It was a girl. Perhaps she wasn’t actually as lovely as she looked to me; after all, I was seeing her through the half-visionary screen of a psychomat. I’ve told myself since that she couldn’t have been as pretty as she seemed, that it was due to my own imagination filling in the details. I don’t know; I remember only that I stared at curiously lovely silver-blue eyes and velvety brown hair, and a small amused mouth, and an impudent nose. I kept staring until she flushed.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I—was startled.”

  There’s a friendly atmosphere aboard a trans-oceanic rocket. The passengers are forced into a crowded intimacy for anywhere from seven to twelve hours, and there isn’t much room for moving about. Generally, one strikes up an acquaintance with his neighbors; introductions aren’t at all necessary, and the custom is simply to speak to anybody you choose—something like an all-day trip on the railroad trains of the last century, I suppose. You make friends for the duration of the journey, and then, nine times out of ten, you never hear of your traveling companions again.

  The girl smiled. “Are you the individual responsible for the delay in starting?”

  I admitted it. “I seem to be chronically late. Even watches lose time as soon as I wear them.”

  She laughed. “Your responsibilities can’t be very heavy.”

  Well, they weren’t of course, though it’s surprising how many clubs, caddies, and chorus girls have depended on me at various times for appreciable portions of their incomes. But somehow I didn’t feel like mentioning those things to the silvery-eyed girl.

  We talked. Her name, it developed, was Joanna Caldwell, and she was going as far as Paris. She was an artist, or hoped to be one day, and of course there is no place in the world that can supply both training and inspiration like Paris. So it was there she was bound for a year of study, and despite her demurely humorous lips and laughing eyes, I could see that the business was of vast importance to her. I gathered that she had worked hard for the year in Paris, had scraped and saved for three years as fashion illustrator for some woman’s magazine, though she couldn’t have been many months over twenty-one. Her painting meant a great deal to her, and I could understand it. I’d felt that way about polo once.

  So you see, we were sympathetic spirits from the beginning. I knew that she liked me, and it was obvious that she didn’t connect Dixon Wells with the N.J. Wells Corporation. And as for me—well, after that first glance into her cool silver eyes, I simply didn’t care to look anywhere else. The hours seemed to drip away like minutes while I watched her.

  You know how those things go. Suddenly I was calling her Joanna and she was calling me Dick, and it seemed as if we’d been doing just that all our lives. I’d decided to stop over in Paris on my way back from Moscow, and I’d secured her promise to let me see her. She was different, I tell you; she was nothing like the calculating Whimsy White, and still less like the dancing, simpering, giddy youngsters one meets around at social affairs. She was just Joanna, cool and humorous, yet sympathetic and serious, and as pretty as a Majolica figurine.

  We could scarcely realize it when the steward passed along to take orders for luncheon. Four hours out? It seemed like forty minutes. And we had a pleasant feeling of intimacy in the discovery that both of us liked lobster salad and detested oysters. It was another bond; I told her whimsically that it was an omen, nor did she object to considering it so.

  Afterwards we walked along the narrow aisle to the glassed-in observation room up forward. It was almost too crowded for entry, but we didn’t mind that at all, as it forced us to sit very close together. We stayed long after both of us had beg
un to notice the stuffiness of the air.

  It was just after we had returned to our seats that the catastrophe occurred. There was no warning save a sudden lurch, the result, I suppose, of the pilot’s futile last-minute attempt to swerve—just that and then a grinding crash and a terrible sensation of spinning, and after that a chorus of shrieks that were like the sounds of battle.

  It was battle. Five hundred people were picking themselves up from the floor, were trampling each other, milling around, being cast helplessly down as the great rocket-plane, its left wing but a broken stub, circled downward toward the Atlantic.

  The shouts of officers sounded and a loudspeaker blared. “Be calm,” it kept repeating, and then, “There has been a collision. We have contacted a surface ship. There is no danger— There is no danger—”

  I struggled up from the debris of shattered seats. Joanna was gone; just as I found her crumpled between the rows, the ship struck the water with a jar that set everything crashing again. The speaker blared, “Put on the cork belts under the seats. The life-belts are under the seats.”

  I dragged a belt loose and snapped it around Joanna, then donned one myself. The crowd was surging forward now, and the tail end of the ship began to drop. There was water behind us, sloshing in the darkness as the lights went out. An officer came sliding by, stooped, and fastened a belt about an unconscious woman ahead of us. “You all right?” he yelled, and passed on without waiting for an answer.

  The speaker must have been cut on to a battery circuit. “And get as far away as possible,” it ordered suddenly. “Jump from the forward port and get as far away as possible. A ship is standing by. You will be picked up. Jump from the—”. It went dead again.

  I got Joanna untangled from the wreckage. She was pale; her silvery eyes were closed. I started dragging her slowly and painfully toward the forward port, and the slant of the floor increased until it was like the slide of a ski-jump. The officer passed again. “Can you handle her?” he asked, and again dashed away.

  I was getting there. The crowd around the port looked smaller, or was it simply huddling closer? Then suddenly, a wail of fear and despair went up, and there was a roar of water. The observation room walls had given. I saw the green surge of waves, and a billowing deluge rushed down upon us. I had been late again.

  That was all. I raised shocked and frightened eyes from the subjunctivisor to face van Manderpootz, who was scribbling on the edge of the table.

  “Well?” he asked.

  I shuddered. “Horrible!” I murmured. “We—I guess we wouldn’t have been among the survivors.”

  “We, eh? We?” His eyes twinkled.

  I did not enlighten him. I thanked him, bade him good-night, and went dolorously home.

  * * * *

  Even my father noticed something queer about me. The day I got to the office only five minutes late, he called me in for some anxious questioning as to my health. I couldn’t tell him anything, of course. How could I explain that I’d been late once too often, and had fallen in love with a girl two weeks after she was dead?

  The thought drove me nearly crazy. Joanna! Joanna with her silvery eyes now lay somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic. I went around half dazed, scarcely speaking. One night I actually lacked the energy to go home and sat smoking in my father’s big overstuffed chair in his private office until I finally dozed off. The next morning, when old N.J. entered and found me there before him, he turned pale as paper, staggered, and gasped, “My heart!” It took a lot of explaining to convince him that I wasn’t early at the office but just very late going home.

  At last I felt that I couldn’t stand it. I had to do something—anything at all. I thought finally of the subjunctivisor. I could see—yes, I could see what would have transpired if the ship hadn’t been wrecked! I could trace out that weird, unreal romance hidden somewhere in the worlds of “if”. I could, perhaps, wring a somber, vicarious joy from the things that might have been. I could see Joanna once more!

  It was late afternoon when I rushed over to van Manderpootz’s quarters. He wasn’t there; I encountered him finally in the hall of the Physics Building.

  “Dick!” he exclaimed. “Are you sick?”

  “Sick? No. Not physically. Professor. I’ve got to use your subjunctivisor again. I’ve got to!”

  “Eh? Oh—that toy. You’re too late, Dick. I’ve dismantled it. I have a better use for the space.”

  I gave a miserable groan and was tempted to damn the autobiography of the great van Manderpootz. A gleam of sympathy showed in his eyes, and he took my arm, dragging me into the little office adjoining his laboratory.

  “Tell me,” he commanded.

  I did. I guess I made the tragedy plain enough, for his heavy brows knit in a frown of pity. “Not even van Manderpootz can bring back the dead,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, Dick. Take your mind from the affair. Even were my subjunctivisor available, I wouldn’t permit you to use it. That would be but to turn the knife in the wound.” He paused. “Find something else to occupy your mind. Do as van Manderpootz does. Find forgetfulness in work.”

  “Yes,” I responded dully. “But who’d want to read my autobiography? That’s all right for you.”

  “Autobiography? Oh! I remember. No, I have abandoned that. History itself will record the life and works of van Manderpootz. Now I am engaged in a far grander project.”

  “Indeed?” I was utterly, gloomily disinterested.

  “Yes. Gogli has been here, Gogli the sculptor. He is to make a bust of me. What better legacy can I leave to the world than a bust of van Manderpootz, sculptured from life? Perhaps I shall present it to the city, perhaps to the university. I would have given it to the Royal Society if they had been a little more receptive, if they—if—if!” The last in a shout.

  “Huh?”

  “If!” cried van Manderpootz. “What you saw in the subjunctivisor was what would have happened if you had caught the ship!”

  “I know that.”

  “But something quite different might really have happened! Don’t you see? She—she— Where are those old newspapers?”

  He was pawing through a pile of them. He flourished one finally. “Here! Here are the survivors!”

  Like letters of flame, Joanna Caldwell’s name leaped out at me. There was even a little paragraph about it, as I saw once my reeling brain permitted me to read:

  “At least a score of survivors owe their lives to the bravery of twenty-eight-year-old Navigator Orris Hope, who patrolled both aisles during the panic, lacing life-belts on the injured and helpless, and carrying many to the port. He remained on the sinking liner until the last, finally fighting his way to the surface through the broken walls of the observation room. Among those who owe their lives to the young officer are: Patrick Owensby, New York City; Mrs. Campbell Warren, Boston; Miss Joanna Caldwell, New York City—”

  I suppose my shout of joy was heard over in the Administration Building, blocks away. I didn’t care; if van Manderpootz hadn’t been armored in stubby whiskers, I’d have kissed him. Perhaps I did anyway; I can’t be sure of my actions during those chaotic minutes in the professor’s tiny office.

  At last I calmed. “I can look her up!” I gloated. “She must have landed with the other survivors, and they were all on that British tramp freighter the Osgood, that docked here last week. She must be in New York—and if she’s gone over to Paris, I’ll find out and follow her!”

  Well, it’s a queer ending. She was in New York, but—you see, Dixon Wells had, so to speak, known Joanna Caldwell by means of the professor’s subjunctivisor, but Joanna had never known Dixon Wells. What the ending might have been if—if— But it wasn’t; she had married Orris Hope, the young officer who had rescued her. I was late again.

  THE POINT OF VIEW

  Originally published in Wonder Stories, Jan./Feb. 1936.

  “I am too modest!
” snapped the great Haskel van Manderpootz, pacing irritably about the limited area of his private laboratory, glaring at me the while. “That is the trouble. I undervalue my own achievements, and thereby permit petty imitators like Corveille to influence the committee and win the Morell prize.”

  “But,” I said soothingly, “you’ve won the Morell physics award half a dozen times, professor. They can’t very well give it to you every year.”

  “Why not, since it is plain that I deserve it?” bristled the professor. “Understand, Dixon, that I do not regret my modesty, even though it permits conceited fools like Corveille, who have infinitely less reason than I for conceit, to win awards that mean nothing save prizes for successful bragging. Bah! To grant an award for research along such obvious lines that I neglected to mention them, thinking that even a Morell judge would appreciate their obviousness! Research on the psychon, eh! Who discovered the psychon? Who but van Manderpootz?”

  “Wasn’t that what you got last year’s award for?” I asked consolingly. “And after all, isn’t this modesty, this lack of jealousy on your part, a symbol of greatness of character?”

  “True—true!” said the great van Manderpootz, mollified. “Had such an affront been committed against a lesser man than myself, he would doubtless have entered a bitter complaint against the judges. But not I. Anyway, I know from experience that it wouldn’t do any good. And besides, despite his greatness, van Manderpootz is as modest and shrinking as a violet.” At this point he paused, and his broad red face tried to look violet-like.

  I suppressed a smile. I knew the eccentric genius of old, from the days when I had been Dixon Wells, undergraduate student of engineering, and had taken a course in Newer Physics (that is, in Relativity) under the famous professor. For some unguessable reason, he had taken a fancy to me, and as a result, I had been involved in several of his experiments since graduation. There was the affair of the subjunctivisor, for instance, and also that of the idealizator; in the first of these episodes I had suffered the indignity of falling in love with a girl two weeks after she was apparently dead, and in the second, the equal or greater indignity of falling in love with a girl who didn’t exist, never had existed, and never would exist—in other words, with an ideal. Perhaps I’m a little susceptible to feminine charms, or rather, perhaps I used to be, for since the disaster of the idealizator, I have grimly relegated such follies to the past, much to the disgust of various ’vision entertainers, singers, dancers, and the like.