by Anthology
‘You are intelligent enough to realise what is happening, even if you cannot understand how it is done. Your time scale has been altered: a minute in the outer world would be a year in this room.’
Again she opened the handbag, and this time brought forth what appeared to be a bracelet of some silvery metal, with a series of dials and switches moulded into it.
‘You can call this a personal generator,’ she said. ‘With it strapped about your arm, you are invincible. You can come and go without hindrance—you can steal everything on that list and bring it to me before one of the guards in the Museum has blinked an eyelid. When you have finished, you can be miles away before you switch off the field and step back into the normal world.
‘Now listen carefully, and do exactly what I say. The field has a radius of about seven feet, so you must keep at least that distance from any other person. Secondly, you must not switch it off again until you have completed your task and I have given you your payment. This is most important. Now, the plan I have worked out is this . . .’
No criminal in the history of the world had ever possessed such power. It was intoxicating—yet Ashton wondered if he would ever get used to it. He had ceased to worry about explanations, at least until the job was done and he had collected his reward. Then, perhaps, he would get away from England and enjoy a well-earned retirement.
His visitor had left a few minutes ahead of him, but when he stepped out onto the street the scene was completely unchanged. Though he had prepared for it, the sensation was still unnerving. Ashton felt an impulse to hurry, as if this condition couldn’t possibly last and he had to get the job done before the gadget ran out of juice. But that, he had been assured, was impossible.
In the High Street he slowed down to look at the frozen traffic, the paralysed pedestrians. He was careful, as he had been warned, not to approach so close to anyone that they came within his field. How ridiculous people looked when one saw them like this, robbed of such grace as movement could give, their mouths half open in foolish grimaces!
Having to seek assistance went against the grain, but some parts of the job were too big for him to handle by himself. Besides, he could pay liberally and never notice it. The main difficulty, Ashton realised, would be to find someone who was intelligent enough not to be scared—or so stupid that he would take everything for granted. He decided to try the first possibility.
Tony Marchetti’s place was down a side street so close to the police station that one felt it was really carrying camouflage too far. As he walked past the entrance, Ashton caught a glimpse of the duty sergeant at his desk and resisted a temptation to go inside to combine a little pleasure with business. But that sort of thing could wait until later.
The door of Tony’s opened in his face as he approached. It was such a natural occurrence in a world where nothing was normal that it was a moment before Ashton realised its implications. Had his generator failed? He glanced hastily down the street and was reassured by the frozen tableau behind him.
‘Well, if it isn’t Bob Ashton!’ said a familiar voice. ‘Fancy meeting you as early in the morning as this. That’s an odd bracelet you’re wearing. I thought I had the only one.’
‘Hello, Aram,’ replied Ashton. ‘It looks as if there’s a lot going on that neither of us knows about. Have you signed up Tony, or is he still free?’
‘Sorry. We’ve a little job which will keep him busy for a while.’
‘Don’t tell me. It’s at the National Gallery or the Tate.’
Aram Albenkian fingered his neat goatee. ‘Who told you that?’ he asked.
‘No one. But, after all, you are the crookedest art dealer in the trade, and I’m beginning to guess what’s going on. Did a tall, very good-looking brunette give you that bracelet and a shopping list?’
‘I don’t see why I should tell you, but the answer’s no. It was a man.’
Ashton felt a momentary surprise. Then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘I might have guessed that there would be more than one of them. I’d like to know who’s behind it.’
‘Have you any theories?’ said Albenkian guardedly.
Ashton decided that it would be worth risking some loss of information to test the other’s reactions. ‘It’s obvious they’re not interested in money—they have all they want and can get more with this gadget. The woman who saw me said she was a collector. I took it as a joke, but I see now that she meant it seriously.’
‘Why do we come into the picture? What’s to stop them doing the whole job themselves?’ Albenkian asked.
‘Maybe they’re frightened. Or perhaps they want our—er—specialised knowledge. Some of the items on my list are rather well cased in. My theory is that they’re agents for a mad millionaire.’
It didn’t hold water, and Ashton knew it. But he wanted to see which leaks Albenkian would try to plug.
‘My dear Ashton,’ said the other impatiently, holding up his wrist. ‘How do you explain this little thing? I know nothing about science, but even I can tell that it’s beyond the wildest dreams of our technologies. There’s only one conclusion to be drawn from that.’
‘Go on.’
‘These people are from—somewhere else. Our world is being systematically looted of its treasures. You know all this stuff you read about rockets and spaceships? Well, someone else has done it first.’
Ashton didn’t laugh. The theory was no more fantastic than the facts.
‘Whoever they are,’ he said, ‘they seem to know their way around pretty well. I wonder how many teams they’ve got? Perhaps the Louvre and the Prado are being reconnoitred at this very minute. The world is going to have a shock before the day’s out.’
They parted amicably enough, neither confiding any details of real importance about his business. For a fleeting moment Ashton thought of trying to buy over Tony, but there was no point in antagonising Albenkian. Steve Regan would have to do. That meant walking about a mile, since of course any form of transport was impossible. He would die of old age before a bus completed the journey. Ashton was not clear what would happen if he attempted to drive a car when the field was operating, and he had been warned not to try any experiments.
It astonished Ashton that even such a nearly certified moron as Steve could take the accelerator so calmly; there was something to be said, after all, for the comic strips which were probably his only reading. After a few words of grossly simplified explanation, Steve buckled on the spare wristlet which, rather to Ashton’s surprise, his visitor had handed over without comment. Then they set out on their long walk to the Museum.
Ashton, or his client, had thought of everything. They stopped once at a park bench to rest and enjoy some sandwiches and regain their breath. When at last they reached the Museum, neither felt any the worse for the unaccustomed exercise.
They walked together through the gates of the Museum—unable, despite logic, to avoid speaking in whispers—and up the wide stone steps into the entrance hall. Ashton knew his way perfectly. With whimsical humour he displayed his Reading Room ticket as they walked, at a respectful distance, past the statuesque attendants. It occurred to him that the occupants of the great chamber, for the most part, looked just the same as they normally did, even without the benefit of the accelerator.
It was a straightforward but tedious job collecting the books that had been listed. They had been chosen, it seemed, for their beauty as works of art as much as for their literary content. The selection had been done by someone who knew his job. Had they done it themselves, Ashton wondered, or had they bribed other experts as they were bribing him? He wondered if he would ever glimpse the full ramifications of their plot.
There was a considerable amount of panel-smashing to be done, but Ashton was careful not to damage any books, even the unwanted ones. Whenever he had collected enough volumes to make a comfortable load, Steve carried them out into the courtyard and dumped them on the paving stones until a small pyramid had accumulated.
It would not matter
if they were left for short periods outside the field of the accelerator. No one would notice their momentary flicker of existence in the normal world.
They were in the library for two hours of their time, and paused for another snack before passing to the next job. On the way Ashton stopped for a little private business. There was a tinkle of glass as the tiny case, standing in solitary splendour, yielded up its treasure: then the manuscript of Alice was safely tucked into Ashton’s pocket.
Among the antiquities, he was not quite so much at home. There were a few examples to be taken from every gallery, and sometimes it was hard to see the reasons for the choice. It was as if—and again he remembered Albenkian’s words—these works of art had been selected by someone with totally alien standards. This time, with a few exceptions, they had obviously not been guided by the experts.
For the second time in history the case of the Portland Vase was shattered. In five seconds, thought Ashton, the alarms would be going all over the Museum and the whole building would be in an uproar. And in five seconds he could be miles away. It was an intoxicating thought, and as he worked swiftly to complete his contract he began to regret the price he had asked. Even now, it was not too late.
He felt the quiet satisfaction of the good workman as he watched Steve carry the great silver tray of the Mildenhall Treasure out into the courtyard and place it beside the now impressive pile. ‘That’s the lot,’ he said. ‘I’ll settle up at my place this evening. Now let’s get this gadget off you.’
They walked out into High Holborn and chose a secluded side street that had no pedestrians near it. Ashton unfastened the peculiar buckle and stepped back from his cohort, watching him freeze into immobility as he did so. Steve was vulnerable again, moving once more with all the other men in the stream of time. But before the alarm had gone out he would have lost himself in the London crowds.
When he re-entered the Museum yard, the treasure had already gone. Standing where it had been was his visitor of—how long ago? She was still poised and graceful, but, Ashton thought, looking a little tired. He approached until their fields merged and they were no longer separated by an impassable gulf of silence. ‘I hope you’re satisfied,’ he said. ‘How did you move the stuff so quickly?’
She touched the bracelet around her own wrist and gave a wan smile. ‘We have many other powers beside this.’
‘Then why did you need my help?’
‘There were technical reasons. It was necessary to remove the objects we required from the presence of other matter. In this way, we could gather only what we needed and not waste our limited—what shall I call them?—transporting facilities. Now may I have the bracelet back?’
Ashton slowly handed over the one he was carrying, but made no effort to unfasten his own. There might be danger in what he was doing, but he intended to retreat at the first sign of it.
‘I’m prepared to reduce my fee,’ he said. ‘In fact I’ll waive all payment—in exchange for this.’ He touched his wrist, where the intricate metal band gleamed in the sunlight.
She was watching him with an expression as fathomless as the Gioconda smile. (Had that, Ashton wondered, gone to join the treasure he had gathered? How much had they taken from the Louvre?)
‘I would not call that reducing your fee. All the money in the world could not purchase one of those bracelets.’
‘Or the things I have given you.’
‘You are greedy, Mr. Ashton. You know that with an accelerator the entire world would be yours.’
‘What of that? Do you have any further interest in our planet, now you have taken what you need?’
There was a pause. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled. ‘So you have guessed I do not belong to your world.’
‘Yes. And I know that you have other agents besides myself. Do you come from Mars, or won’t you tell me?’
‘I am quite willing to tell you. But you may not thank me if I do.’
Ashton looked at her warily. What did she mean by that? Unconscious of his action, he put his wrist behind his back, protecting the bracelet.
‘No, I am not from Mars, or any planet of which you have ever heard. You would not understand what I am. Yet I will tell you this. I am from the Future.’
‘The Future! That’s ridiculous!’
‘Indeed? I should be interested to know why.’
‘If that sort of thing were possible, our past history would be full of time travelers. Besides, it would involve a reductio ad absurdum. Going into the past could change the present and produce all sorts of paradoxes.’
‘Those are good points, though not perhaps as original as you suppose. But they only refute the possibility of time travel in general, not in the very special case which concerns us now.’
‘What is peculiar about it?’ he asked.
‘On very rare occasions, and by the release of an enormous amount of energy, it is possible to produce a—singularity—in time. During the fraction of a second when that singularity occurs, the past becomes accessible to the future, though only in a restricted way. We can send our minds back to you, but not our bodies.’
‘You mean,’ said Ashton, ‘that you are borrowing the body I see?’
‘Oh, I have paid for it, as I am paying you. The owner has agreed to the terms. We are very conscientious in these matters.’
Ashton was thinking swiftly. If this story was true, it gave him a definite advantage.
‘You mean,’ he continued, ‘that you have no direct control over matter, and must work through human agents?’
‘Yes. Even those bracelets were made here, under our mental control.’
She was explaining too much too readily, revealing all her weaknesses. A warning signal was flashing in the back of Ashton’s mind, but he had committed himself too deeply to retreat.
‘Then it seems to me,’ he said slowly, ‘that you cannot force me to hand this bracelet back.’
‘That is perfectly true.’
‘That’s all I want to know.’
She was smiling at him now, and there was something in that smile that chilled him to the marrow.
‘We are not vindictive or unkind, Mr. Ashton,’ she said quietly. ‘What I am going to do now appeals to my sense of justice. You have asked for that bracelet; you can keep it. Now I shall tell you just how useful it will be.’
For a moment Ashton had a wild impulse to hand back the accelerator. She must have guessed his thoughts.
‘No, it’s too late. I insist that you keep it. And I can reassure you on one point. It won’t wear out. It will last you’—again that enigmatic smile—‘the rest of your life.
‘Do you mind if we go for a walk, Mr. Ashton? I have done my work here, and would like to have a last glimpse of your world before I leave it forever.’
She turned toward the iron gates, and did not wait for a reply. Consumed by curiosity, Ashton followed.
They walked in silence until they were standing among the frozen traffic of Tottenham Court Road. For a while she stood staring at the busy yet motionless crowds; then she sighed.
‘I cannot help feeling sorry for them, and for you. I wonder what you would have made of yourselves.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Just now, Mr. Ashton, you implied that the future cannot reach back into the past, because that would alter history. A shrewd remark, but, I am afraid, irrelevant. You see, your world has no more history to alter.’
She pointed across the road, and Ashton turned swiftly on his heels. There was nothing there except a newsboy crouching over his pile of papers. A placard formed an impossible curve in the breeze that was blowing through this motionless world. Ashton read the crudely lettered words with difficulty:
SUPER-BOMB TEST TODAY
The voice in his ears seemed to come from a very long way off.
‘I told you that time travel, even in this restricted form, requires an enormous release of energy—far more than a single bomb can liberate, Mr. Ashton. But that bomb is
only a trigger—’
She pointed to the solid ground beneath their feet. ‘Do you know anything about your own planet? Probably not; your race has learned so little. But even your scientists have discovered that, two thousand miles down, the Earth has a dense, liquid core. That core is made of compressed matter, and it can exist in either of two stable states. Given a certain stimulus, it can change from one of those states to another, just as a seesaw can tip over at the touch of a finger. But that change, Mr. Ashton, will liberate as much energy as all the earthquakes since the beginning of your world. The oceans and continents will fly into space; the sun will have a second asteroid belt.
‘That cataclysm will send its echoes down the ages, and will open up to us a fraction of a second in your time. During that instant, we are trying to save what we can of your world’s treasures. It is all that we can do; even if your motives were purely selfish and completely dishonest, you have done your race a service you never intended.
‘And now I must return to our ship, where it waits by the ruins of Earth almost a hundred thousand years from now. You can keep the bracelet.’
The withdrawal was instantaneous. The woman suddenly froze and became one with the other statues in the silent street. He was alone.
Alone! Ashton held the gleaming bracelet before his eyes, hypnotised by its intricate workmanship and by the powers it concealed. He had made a bargain, and he must keep it. He could live out the full span of his life—at the cost of an isolation no other man had ever known. If he switched off the field, the last seconds of history would tick inexorably away.
Seconds? Indeed, there was less time than that. For he knew that the bomb must already have exploded.
He sat down on the edge of the pavement and began to think. There was no need to panic; he must take things calmly, without hysteria. After all, he had plenty of time.