tantaliz

by Isaac Asimov ed.

  Leigher had half his attention on the Southern Counties map, bringing a small bright dot to the north of Middlesex, cutting to the blowup again, timing a dial with one hand, sliding a knob through a gradated slot with the other, keeping an eye on the pre-selector, quick of movement, certain.

  The date-recorder slowed, slowed, rapidly — 1683 — 1682 — December — November — October — September — August — 22 — 21 — 20 — 19 —18 — 17 — 16 —. . .

  Leigher's hands flew, click, tuck, tuck, poomp, poomp. August 3rd crept over to become August 2nd. Moments hung poised. Leigher slammed over a lever. His eyes went to a thick and oddly coiled aerial at the back of the console. Its tip burst into a bright orange glow. Once. Twice.

  "Damn!" Leigher re-opened the channel, re-tuned the locator, made fresh adjustments.

  Mr. Ciano saw the date revolve—August 3rd, 4th, 5th, through to 10th. Again Leigher slammed the lever to positive.

  He watched for the orange light It came. Once.

  "Ah." Leigher relaxed. "Good." He went over his bank of buttons, cutting-out, locking-on, setting the recall on auto.

  Sssss-sook, the curved door of the transposer-chamber slid open.

  Seffan went over to take a look. There was a peculiar smell. There was no sign of Gansy. Seffan felt his skin prickle. It was queer. He shook off the feeling and went over to listen-in on some of the technical data that Mr. Ciano was gleaning from Leigher.

  Gansy got mud on his shoes. His feet were soaking wet and even his pants cuffs were soggy. Mud. He'd get it on the rest of his clothes. He swore silently to himself. He didn't like this poison-antidote business. If something went wrong . . . He didn't entirely trust Leigher.

  Four whole hours poking around—what was he supposed to do? This coat he'd got was not a very good fit. Still it was better than nothing—this place was like a freezer. He looked about him. What a great century to be in. Anything was possible here. These people would believe anything. There was a fortune to be made.

  Four hours. Not much longer. Four. Old Ciano worried him. It would have been nice not to have to show up to see him again. Dr. Leigher could have him. For keeps.

  Gansy squirmed his toes. He'd have to get back shortly.

  "You can see what straits I'm under." Leigher had mellowed somewhat, had his guests drinking coffee from assorted not-very-hygienic drinking vessels. "By the time my initial, ah, appropriations came to an end, the bulk of my work here was finished— that is to say, the installation. But lately lack of funds has been most aggravating. There is equipment I need in order to bring about refinements, and I must admit that I'm glad to see some real cash at last The other fellows that have been here seemed to think this place was a free soup kitchen. Promises, nothing but promises."

  "Who were they?" Mr. Ciano inquired. "Do you remember their names?"

  "I have a list somewhere," Leigher said. "I can't remember them all. William Clayfield, I think, and, uh, Sydney Finebaum was one. And then there was a fellow called Gatniche, and, ah, that escaped prisoner, what was his name? Felch? Or Velch?"

  "Sidney Winebaum?" Mr. Ciano was surprised. "So this is where he's been!"

  "Mr. Winebaum? Yes. I did a special routing for him, to pre-Revolution France." Leigher curled a disdainful hp. "My reward for my services was those two Louis XIV chairs over there."

  "And Willy The Chopper," Carl asked, "what happened to him?"

  "Willy The Who?"

  "Clayfield, Willy Clayfield. Where did he go?"

  "Oh, yes, him. He was the one that wanted a hiding place. Till the, ah, "heat was off, was the way he put it I think."

  "What about his roll, did he take that with him?"

  "He did have a bag with him. He was one of the few who gave me some recompense. He swore on oath that he would return in a couple of weeks and pay me the balance, but he never did."

  "Where did he go?"

  "To somewhere around 1350. He's still there."

  "Tell me," Mr. Ciano said, "I've been thinking—why do we have to wait the time here the same time that a person has there? Like Gansy, why can't you just pick him up four hours ahead and bring him straight back?"

  "I don't know," Leigher confessed. "It's one of the problems I'm working on. It would seem simple, but there is an unavoidable and inseparable relationship between the passage of subjective time for the transposer and for its user. Thus, to enjoy four hours there means to wait four hours here. This is one thing I wish to research further. Another is to obtain greater precision that I might not merely strike the correct month in the right year, but the very exact right minute upon a certain defined day. And in exactly the right place."

  Leigher's eyes began to glow. "I need a lot more autocontrols and relays. And I need fully variable wall charts of the entire world, with a delineation-enlarger capacity that any point may be brought to at least one-to-ten, with full gravitational compensation and terrain evaluation, with the known characteristics at any period."

  "The possibilities are tremendous, Mr. Ciano." Leigher for a moment had the shining vision before his eyes. He had the radiance of a dedicated fanatic. "A man could see the last stone being placed upon the pyramids, stand on the heights and see Rome burn, watch the Huns sacking and looting, see Michelangelo himself put the finishing touches to his David, see the Battle of Waterloo, see Prince Ferdinand assassinated. So many things, to be there, to see the things that made history! On the spot, authentic, no time wasted! To be there, just for the few minutes!"

  Leigher paused, his face flushed, his glasses full of eyes.

  There was an impressive silence.

  Leigher became aware that they were all looking at him in the same strange manner. His radiance faded and died, and his face reverted to its acid cast.

  Seffan sipped his dubious coffee. "Sounds like it could be a sound commercial proposition," he said.

  Ssss-sook, the chamber door closed. The orange light pulsed one-two-three. Five seconds. One-two-three—Five seconds. One-two-three—

  Leigher went to the console, busied himself verifying that the auto-recall cycle was perfect. The date began to climb: 1690— 1691-1692-93-94-

  The constant hum that had been with them again began to rise in pitch. The high whine sang inside their skulls and squinched their eyes . . . then mercifully descended the scale, like a jet engine being throttled back.

  The sound died to a low throb, a green flasher ticked. All eyes turned to the chamber door.

  Flash, flash, flash. The suspense mounted as they waited for the door to open.

  A long minute went by. A second minute started.

  "What's going on?" Mr. Ciano cried. "Why doesn't it open up?"

  "When going back into the past, arriving at a precise second is not essential," Leigher said, "but on recall it is vital to connect with the exact split second of present time. To be out of phase causes disturbance. It is something like an elevator slowing to match floor levels. Ah!" Sssss-sdok. The door opened.

  Gansy tore off his face mask. He looked relieved. He couldn't limp out of the chamber fast enough. "The antidote, give me the antidote. I'm getting dizzy."

  They gave Gansy a Louis XIV chair, and he slumped into it Dr. Leigher calmly prepared the hypodermic.

  Mr. Ciano keenly looked Gansy up and down, noting what looked like grass stains on his knees, the strange coat he was wearing, and the wide-brimmed hat with the droopy plume. Mr. Ciano himself stooped to wipe a finger along Gansy's shoes. The mud was still moist Gansy, in fact, was quite damp; his hat quite heavy with soaking. He smelt of rain—and other things.

  "You've been drinking!" Leigher accused. "You fool, if you'd got drunk, you might have passed out!"

  Gansy struggled out of the coat to offer a bare arm. "It was cold there," he groused. "You dropped me in some kind of field, and it was raining on and off. I had to walk a mile before I met anybody."

  Leigher dabbed alcohol on the presented arm, inserted the needle, emptied the syringe.

  "I hope you
're in time." Gansy sounded somewhat anxious. "I don't feel so good."

  "You're all right," Leigher said. "What else have you brought back?"

  "What else? I wasn't there long enough to get organized. What did you expect? When you got poison, you shouldn't get excited."

  Coat and hat to one side, Leigher helped Gansy remove his traveling harness. "Didn't you see anything, do anything?"

  "I didn't have time, did I?" Gansy retorted. "What was I supposed to do? It takes a day or two to settle in, find the best places, pick the best targets." He rubbed his knee. "And I caught a bench and nearly broke my leg."

  Seffan went through the pockets of the coat—lace handkerchief, copper snuff box, a battered nosegay that had lost most of its fragrance, a large iron key, a tinderbox, some beads, two crumpled letters, loose pennies and a money pouch containing ten-and-a-half guineas and some silver.

  "What's this?" Leigher tugged.

  "Go easy! It's loaded, I think." Gansy freed the shag and removed the flintlock pistol from beside the more modern version in his belt "I didn't want to take it off him, but you know how it is. I didn't want to have to shoot him just to borrow his coat for a spell. It was wet, man."

  "I'm sorry." Leigher turned to Mr. Ciano with a shrug. "That's another thing I wish to correct, to select the most climatically propitious times. My work." He held out his hands. "There is so much to do!"

  Mr. Ciano nodded. "I can see." But there was a new gleam in his eye.

  They dickered about who would go next Gansy went out to hide the car under a camouflage sheet.

  No one would take on the poison trick. It was generally agreed that a few days would have to be spent in order to reconnoiter the ground and orientate to the past surroundings.

  It was first thought that Seffan and Carl should go together. They were willing. But Mr. Ciano thought twice, and three times, and four times, and gnawed his Hp. He did not trust Seffan, and began to trust him even less. And Carl had disappointed him recently. Seffan and Moke? Moke and Carl? The more he thought about it, the less he liked the combinations.

  "Three days should be sufficient," Seffan said. "We can stake out the best prospects, get everything set for what the market will take —which should be plenty. They'll be wide open for anything. With our know-how we should be able to move in and mow the hay."

  Mr. Ciano wriggled his fingers, tapping ash. He made his decision. "Carl and I will go. You will stay and keep an eye on things here."

  "What?" Seffan was surprised. "You are going yourself?"

  "This is big," Mr. Ciano said. "I want to see for myself, firsthand. I want no foul-ups, and I want no mistakes. There seems need to establish some positive form of control at the reception end." He spat fragments of cigar. "The only way I can be sure that there is no deviation is to attend to the matter personally."

  "But, Mr. Ciano..."

  "No buts'. I will come back." He turned to the inventor/discoverer. "Dr. Leigher, you can send Carl and myself to some suitable place where we might study the conditions for a permanent rendezvous area?"

  "You anticipate a regular traffic to one particular era? Ah." Leigher raised his eyebrows. "If someone remained to provide a permanent fix, yes. The continuity-gap remains constant. I can send any number of persons to match a current past-contact on the board." He played with a pen. This is perhaps one reason why absconders invariably return their recall harness—it makes it extremely difficult to find them again."

  "Well," Mr. Ciano mashed out his cigar, "you won't see my recall-harness without me in it. So—let's get going, shall we?"

  "As you wish. I think you will find that 1640 was a very interesting year in London. Ah, two of you wish to travel together?"

  That's right, just me and Carl."

  "Good," Leigher said. That'll be another twenty thousand dollars, please. . ."

  "Carl's has got a corner missing—will it make any difference?"

  "No, it's only a casing. In here now, gentlemen."

  And stiffly back-to-back, Carl and Mr. Ciano were put in darkness as sssss-sook, the chamber door sealed.

  Primed to readiness, came the hum to shiver the nerve ends of their teeth, the closing of contacts. And at the key moment the throwing-in of the major circuits.

  Bang! like the crack of doom, and the hum dropped to a steady pulsing, and Carl and Mr. Ciano were on their way.

  One day passed, and another. And another.

  Gansy was sent to town to get some supplies, and to order a heap of special components that Leigher desired. Leigher spent most of his time shut away in his workroom fooling around with a cabinetful of complicated wiring. Seffan and Moke played cards, Gansy joining them as available from his chores.

  There was much private thinking, much silent pondering and speculation upon the whereabouts and doings of the couple who had departed. There was some temperamental disparity in the group remaining. Moke had the limited outlook of a hired gun, Seffan the devious mind of an intriguer. Gansy was now more or less a supernumerary, a small man who'd found himself a good thing but was a degree nervous of his new-found "partners." Leigher lived in a world of his own.

  Towards the end of the third day, the orange light blipped once, twice, three times. Seffan hastened to fetch Leigher, but Leigher had a relay to his workroom and was already on his way.

  Sssss-sook. Leigher went through his own planned drill.

  The drag of idle waiting was swept away, and in two minutes the tension had hearts pounding and breath hanging shallow.

  Come on, come on!

  It seemed ages before sssss-sook, the chamber door slid open. There was no one there.

  Leigher ran forward, but Seffan beat him. On the floor of the chamber was a single harness and, attached to it, a letter.

  Seffan scooped up the bundle, tore the letter free, opened it. The paper felt gritty. He read the inky scrawl: "Doc Layah, you were right. Mr. Ciano had bad luck, is at the bottom of river. Send nobody else. Don't follow me. Everything be O.K.—CM."

  Seffan was bewildered. "What. . . ? What. . . ?"

  Leigher took the letter from his hands, read.

  Seffan looked at the harness. Yes, it was Carl's all right, the recaller-button case had a chipped corner.

  "M'yah." Leigher handed the letter back. He seemed not the least perturbed. "That's the way it happens. The good old days are really good—being there, we know that the future is assured. It is known that the world will not end tomorrow, and the good things of life are plentiful."

  "Mr. Ciano at the bottom of the river." Seffan was stunned. "Carl wouldn't dare do a thing like that."

  "It may have been an accident," Leigher said. "Or perhaps he didn't want competition. Or perhaps didn't like being told which apple to pick in an overloaded orchard."

  "Yeah?" Seffan snarled. "Well he wont get—" He stopped. And truly Carl was beyond his jurisdiction.

  "If you'd like to go back to his time, I still have a fix on Mr. Ciano's recaller. Carl may have thought, erroneously, that the water would destroy its efficiency."

  "Can you bring Mr. Ciano back?"

  "Not if he had the recaller in his pocket. I can override the safety guard, but all we might get could be just a portion of his jacket, say."

  "Carl!" Seffan threw aside the harness. "Hell pay for this!"

  "While Mr. Ciano's recaller is locus operable, we can at least know where Carl is in time, if not in place."

  "Ah." Seffan smote his fist "Yes." His sense of fidelity and loyalty had been outraged. The Code had been broken. What would other Chiefs have to say about this?

  Seffan took respite to reflect. Yes, what would the Chiefs have to say about this? Would they believe him? Yes. Would they? What if they didn't? Mr. Ciano had been his boss. Seffan's mind came up with a skitter of awkward questions. Blame. Fault Carl scot-free. They wouldn't like that

  Seffan went cold. He swung on Leigher. "Look what you've done!" Could he take Moke, a spare harness, bring Carl back, alive or dead? How reliable
would Moke be? "Blast you!" This was a job for the organization. How many to send back? How trustworthy the enforcers, with no living network to keep them in line?

  Seffan stamped. He saw trouble ahead. With his patron, guide and mentor gone, his security was shattered. Questions, too many questions to answer. And Carl, at peace forevermore, laughing at them.

  Moke spoke. "Thinking of going after him?"

  "No," Seffan said. He thought of Elaine. Never satisfied, everlastingly wanting things. He'd already thought about the chances of losing her, half-seriously. No more Elaine. Or Charlotte, either. Women tired a man. A fresh start Why not? Others appeared to revel in it. If Carl could prefer it, choose it, find it so plainly desirable . . . "No," Seffan repeated, "I'm going back to a different time." It was obvious. It would be refreshing, exhilarating, a brand-new life. With his brains . . .

  "Huh? What about me?"

  "You can suit yourself."

  Seffan got the valise, came to drop it at Leigher's feet "My passage money is in there." He stooped, retrieved the bag, opened it to remove two boxes of cartridges. "I might need these." He dropped the bag again. "Doc, I want to go back someplace. Make it around," he guessed at a number, "1773."

  "Now hold it" Moke said grimly. "You ain't going nowhere. You're not leaving me here to carry the baby."

  "Oh? Well, I don't want you where I'm going. You make your own arrangements."

  "Yeah?" Moke's gun was loose in his hand. "I'm as entitled to that passage money as you are."

  Leigher, perhaps mollified by his increased income, or sensitive and fearful that a shooting match might damage his equipment, interrupted, "Please! There is no need to fight Under the circumstances I shall be willing to accommodate both of you for the single fee." He sighed. I understand the situation only too well. It is happening all the time." Leigher kicked the valise to one side. T shall do my best for you both." He sounded weary suddenly. "If you would just tell me where you would like to go. . ."