by Anthology
You go right until you find a big sign built into the rubbery surface of the walk: Miuzi:m *v Syens. There’s an arrow pointing and you turn left. Ahead of you, two blocks on, you can see a pink building, with faint aqua trimming, bigger than most of the others. They are building lower than they used to, apparently. Twenty floors up seems about the maximum. You head for it, and find the sidewalk is marked with the information that it is the museum.
You go up the steps, but you see that it seems to be closed. You hesitate for a moment, then. You’re beginning to think the whole affair is complete nonsense, and you should get back to the time machine and go home. But then a guard comes to the gate. Except for the short legs in his suit and the friendly grin on his face, he looks like any other guard.
What’s more, he speaks pretty clearly. Everyone says things in a sort of drawl, with softer vowels and slurred consonants, but it’s rather pleasant.
“Help you, sir? Oh, of course. You must be playing in ‘Atoms and Axioms.’ The museum’s closed, but I’ll be glad to let you study whatever you need for realism in your role. Nice show. I saw it twice.”
“Thanks,” you mutter, wondering what kind of civilization can produce guards as polite as that. “I—I’m told I should investigate your display of atomic generators.” He beams at that. “Of course.” The gate is swung to behind you, but obviously he isn’t locking it. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be a lock. “Must be a new part. You go down that corridor, up one flight of stairs and left. Finest display in all the known worlds. We’ve got the original of the first thirteen models. Professor Jonas was using them to check his latest theory of how they work. Too bad he could not explain the principle, either. Someone will, some day, though. Lord, the genius of that twentieth century inventor! It’s quite a hobby with me, sir. I’ve read everything I could get on the period. Oh—congratulations on your pronunciation. Sounds just like some of our oldest tapes.”
You get away from him, finally, after some polite thanks. The building seems deserted and you wander up the stairs. There’s a room on your right filled with something that proclaims itself the first truly plastic diamond former, and you go up to it. As you come near, it goes through a crazy wiggle inside, stops turning out a continual row of what seem to be bearings, and slips something the size of a penny toward you.
“Souvenir,” it announces in a well-modulated voice. “This is a typical gem of the twentieth century, properly cut to 58 facets, known technically as a Jaegger diamond, and approximately twenty carats in size. You can have it made into a ring on the third floor during morning hours for one-tenth credit. If you have more than one child, press the red button for the number of stones you desire.”
You put it in your pocket, gulping a little, and get back to the corridor. You turn left and go past a big room in which models of spaceships—from the original thing that looks like a V-2, and is labeled first Lunar rocket, to a ten-foot globe, complete with miniature manikins—are sailing about in some kind of orbits. Then there is one labeled Wep:nz, filled with everything from a crossbow to a tiny rod four inches long and half the thickness of a pencil, marked Fynal Hand Arm. Beyond is the end of the corridor, and a big place that bears a sign, Mad:lz *v At ami c Pau:r Sorsez.
By that time, you’re almost convinced. And you’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what you can do. The story I’m telling has been sinking in, but you aren’t completely willing to accept it.
You notice that the models are all mounted on tables and that they’re a lot smaller than you thought. They seem to be in chronological order, and the latest one, marked 2147—Sines Dyn*pat:, is about the size of a desk telephone. The earlier ones are larger, of course, clumsier, but with variations, probably depending on the power output. A big sign on the ceiling gives a lot of dope on atomic generators, explaining that this is the first invention which leaped full blown into basically final form.
You study it, but it mentions casually the inventor, without giving his name. Either they don’t know it, or they take it for granted that everyone does, which seems more probable. They call attention to the fact that they have the original model of the first atomic generator built, complete with design drawings, original manuscript on operation, and full patent application.
They state that it has all major refinements, operating on any fuel, producing electricity at any desired voltage up to five million, any chosen cyclic rate from direct current to one thousand megacycles, and any amperage up to one thousand, its maximum power output being fifty kilowatts, limited by the current-carrying capacity of the outputs. They also mention that the operating principle is still being investigated, and that only such refinements as better alloys and the addition of magnetric and nucleatric current outlets have been added since the original.
So you go to the end and look over the thing. It’s simply a square box with a huge plug on each side, and a set of vernier controls on top, plus a little hole marked, in old-style spelling, Drop BBs or wire here. Apparently that’s the way it’s fueled. It’s about one foot on each side.
“Nice,” the guard says over your shoulder. “It finally wore out one of the cathogrids and we had to replace that, but otherwise it’s exactly as the great inventor made it. And it still operates as well as ever. Like to have me tell you about it?”
“Not particularly,” you begin, and then realize bad manners might be conspicuous here. While you’re searching for an answer, the guard pulls something out of his pocket and stares at it.
“Fine, fine. The mayor of Altasecarba—Centaurian, you know—is arriving, but I’ll be back in about ten minutes. He wants to examine some of the weapons for a monograph on Centaurian primitives compared to nineteenth century man. You’ll pardon me?”
You pardon him pretty eagerly and he wanders off happily. You go up to the head of the line, to that Rinks Dynapattuh, or whatever it transliterates to. That’s small and you can carry it. But the darned thing is absolutely fixed. You can’t see any bolts, but you can’t budge it, either.
You work down the line. It’d be foolish to take the early model if you can get one with: built-in magnetic current terminals—Ehrenhaft or some other principle?—and nuclear binding-force energy terminals. But they’re all held down by the same whatcha-maycallem effect.
And, finally, you’re right back beside the original first model. It’s probably bolted down, too, but you try it tentatively and you find it moves. There’s a little sign under it, indicating you shouldn’t touch it, since the gravostatic plate is being renewed.
Well, you won’t be able to change the time cycle by doing anything I haven’t told you, but a working model such as that is a handy thing. You lift it; it only weighs about fifty pounds! Naturally, it can be carried.
You expect a warning bell, but nothing happens. As a matter of fact, if you’d stop drinking so much of that scotch and staring at the time machine out there now, you’d hear what I’m saying and know what will happen to you. But of course, just as I did, you’re going to miss a lot of what I say from now on, and have to find out for yourself. But maybe some of it helps. I’ve tried to remember how much I remembered, after he told me, but I can’t be sure. So I’ll keep on talking. I probably can’t help it, anyhow. Pre-set, you might say.
Well, you stagger down the corridor, looking out for the guard, but all seems clear. Then you hear his voice from the weapons room. You bend down and try to scurry past, but you know you’re in full view. Nothing happens, though.
You stumble down the stairs, feeling all the futuristic rays in the world on your back, and still nothing happens. Ahead of you, the gate is closed. You reach it and it opens obligingly by itself. You breathe a quick sigh of relief and start out onto the street.
Then there’s a yell behind you. You don’t wait. You put one leg in front of the other and you begin racing down the walk, ducking past people, who stare at you with expressions you haven’t time to see. There’s another yell behind you.
Something goes over your head
and drops on the sidewalk just in front of your feet, with a sudden ringing sound. You don’t wait to find out about that, either. Somebody reaches out a hand to catch you and you dart past.
The street is pretty clear now and you jolt along, with your arms seeming to come out of the sockets, and that atomic generator getting heavier at every step.
Out of nowhere, something in a blue uniform about six feet tall and on the beefy side appears—and the badge hasn’t changed much. The cop catches your arm and you know you’re not going to get away, so you stop.
“You can’t exert yourself that hard in this heat, fellow,” the cop says. “There are laws against that, without a yellow sticker. Here, let me grab you a taxi.”
Reaction sets in a bit and your knees begin to buckle, but you shake your head and come up for air.
“I—I left my money home,” you begin.
The cop nods. “Oh, that explains it. Fine, I won’t have to give you an appearance schedule. But you should have come to me.” He reaches out and taps a pedestrian lightly on the shoulder. “Sir, an emergency request. Would you help this gentleman?”
The pedestrian grins, looks at his watch, and nods. “How far?”
You did notice the name of the building from which you came and you mutter it. The stranger nods again, reaches out and picks up the other side of the generator, blowing a little whistle the cop hands him. Pedestrians begin to move aside, and you and the stranger jog down the street at a trot, with a nice clear path, while the cop stands beaming at you both.
That way, it isn’t so bad. And you begin to see why I decided I might like to stay in the future. But all the same, the organized cooperation here doesn’t look too good. The guard can get the same and be there before you.
And he is. He stands just inside the door of the building as you reach it. The stranger lifts an eyebrow and goes off at once when you nod at him, not waiting for thanks. And the guard comes up, holding some dinkus in his hand, about the size of a big folding camera and not too dissimilar in other ways. He snaps it open and you get set to duck.
“You forgot the prints, monograph, and patent applications,” he says. “They go with the generator—we don’t like to have them separated. A good thing I knew the production office of ‘Atoms and Axioms’ was in this building. Just let us know when you’re finished with the model and we’ll pick it up.”
You swallow several sets of tonsils you had removed years before, and take the bundle of papers he hands you out of the little case. He pumps you for some more information, which you give him at random. It seems to satisfy your amiable guard friend. He finally smiles in satisfaction and heads back to the museum.
You still don’t believe it, but you pick up the atomic generator and the information sheets, and you head down toward the service elevator. There is no button on it. In fact, there’s no door there.
You start looking for other doors or corridors, but you know this is right. The signs along the halls are the same as they were.
Then there’s a sort of cough and something dilates in the wall. It forms a perfect door and the elevator stands there waiting. You get in, gulping out something about going all the way down, and then wonder how a machine geared for voice operation can make anything of that. What the deuce would that lowest basement be called? But the elevator has closed and is moving downward in a hurry. It coughs again and you’re at the original level. You get out—and realize you don’t have a light.
You’ll never know what you stumbled over, but, somehow, you move back in the direction of the time machine, bumping against boxes, staggering here and there, and trying to find the right place by sheer feel. Then a shred of dim light appears; it’s the weak light in the time machine.
You’ve located it.
You put the atomic generator in the luggage space, throw the papers down beside it, and climb into the cockpit, sweating and mumbling. You reach forward toward the green button and hesitate. There’s a red one beside it and you finally decide on that.
Suddenly, there’s a confused yell from the direction of the elevator and a beam of light strikes against your eyes, with a shout punctuating it. Your finger touches the red button.
You’ll never know what the shouting was about—whether they finally doped out the fact that they’d been robbed, or whether they were trying to help you. You don’t care which it is. The field springs up around you and the next button you touch—the one on the board that hasn’t been used so far—sends you off into nothingness. There is no beam of light, you can’t hear a thing, and you’re safe.
It isn’t much of a trip back. You sit there smoking and letting your nerves settle back to normal. You notice a third set of buttons, with some pencil marks over them—“Press these to return to yourself 30 years”—and you begin waiting for the air to get stale. It doesn’t because there is only one of you this time.
Instead, everything flashes off, and you’re sitting in the machine in your own back yard.
You’ll figure out the cycle in more details later. You get into the machine in front of your house, go to the future in the sub-basement, land in your back yard, and then hop back thirty years to pick up yourself, landing in front of your house. Just that. But right then, you don’t care. You jump out and start pulling out that atomic generator and taking it inside.
It isn’t hard to disassemble, but you don’t learn a thing; just some plates of metal, some spiral coils, and a few odds and ends—all things that can be made easily enough, all obviously of common metals. But when you put it together again, about an hour later, you notice something.
Everything in it is brand-new and there’s one set of copper wires missing! It won’t work. You put some #12 house wire in, exactly like the set on the other side, drop in some iron filings, and try it again.
And with the controls set at 120 volts, 60 cycles and 15 amperes, you get just that. You don’t need the power company any more. And you feel a little happier when you realize that the luggage space wasn’t insulated from time effects by a field, so the motor has moved backward in time, somehow, and is back to its original youth—minus the replaced wires the guard mentioned—which probably wore out because of the makeshift job you’ve just done.
But you begin getting more of a jolt when you find that the papers are all in your own writing, that your name is down as the inventor, and that the date of the patent application is 1951.
It will begin to soak in, then. You pick up an atomic generator in the future and bring it back to the past—your present—so that it can be put in the museum with you as the inventor so you can steal it to be the inventor. And you do it in a time machine which you bring back to yourself to take yourself into the future to return to take back to yourself . . .
Who invented what? And who built which?
Before long, your riches from the generator are piling in. Little kids from school are coming around to stare at the man who changed history and made atomic power so common that no nation could hope to be anything but a democracy and a peaceful one—after some of the worst times in history for a few years. Your name eventually becomes as common as Ampere, or Faraday, or any other spelled without a capital letter.
But you’re thinking of the puzzle. You can’t find any answer.
One day you come across an old poem—something about some folks calling it evolution and others calling it God. You go out, make a few provisions for the future, and come back to climb into the time machine that’s waiting in the building you had put around it. Then you’ll be knocking on your own door, thirty years back—or right now, from your view—and telling your younger self all these things I’m telling you.
But now . . .
Well, the drinks are finished. You’re woozy enough to go along with me without protest, and I want to find out just why those people up there came looking for you and shouting, before the time machine left.
Let’s go.
ANNIVERSARY PROJECT
Joe Haldeman
His nam
e is Three-phasing and he is bald and wrinkled, slightly over one meter tall, large-eyed, toothless and all bones and skin, sagging pale skin shot through with traceries of delicate blue and red. He is considered very beautiful but most of his beauty is in his hands and is due to his extreme youth. He is over two hundred years old and is learning how to talk. He has become reasonably fluent in sixty-three languages, all dead ones, and has only ten to go.
The book he is reading is a facsimile of an early edition of Goethe’s Faust. The nervous angular Fraktur letters goose-step across pages of paper-thin platinum.
The Faust had been printed electrolytically and, with several thousand similarly worthwhile books, sealed in an argon-filled chamber and carefully lost, in 2012, A.D.; a very wealthy man’s legacy to the distant future.
In 2012 A.D., Polaris had been the pole star. Men eventually got to Polaris and built a small city on a frosty planet there. By that time, they weren’t dating by prophets’ births any more, but it would have been around 4900 A.D. The pole star by then, because of precession of the equinoxes, was a dim thing once called Gamma Cephei. The celestial pole kept reeling around, past Deneb and Vega and through barren patches of sky around Hercules and Draco; a patient clock but not the slowest one of use, and when it came back to the region of Polaris, then 26,000 years had passed and men had come back from the stars, to stay, and the book-filled chamber had shifted 130 meters on the floor of the Pacific, had rolled onto a shallow trench, and eventually was buried in an underwater landslide.
The thirty-seventh time this slow clock ticked, men had moved the Pacific, not because they had to, and had found the chamber, opened it up, identified the books and carefully sealed them up again. Some things by then were more important to men than the accumulation of knowledge: in half of one more circle of the poles would come the millionth anniversary of the written word. They could wait a few millennia.