by Anthology
Hoskins said, “It’s our dinosaur. We’ve had it for months. I don’t know when we’ll be able to let go of it.”
“Dinosaur?”
“Did you expect a giant?”
She dimpled. “One does, I suppose. I know some of them are small.”
“A small one is all we aimed for, believe me. Generally, it’s under investigation, but this seems to be an open hour. Some interesting things have been discovered. For instance, it is not entirely cold-blooded. It has an imperfect method of maintaining-internal temperatures higher than that of its environment. Unfortunately, it’s a male. Ever since we brought it in we’ve been trying to get a fix on another that may be female, but we’ve had no luck yet.”
“Why female?”
He looked at her quizzically. “So that we might have a fighting chance to obtain fertile eggs, and baby dinosaurs.”
“Of course.”
He led her to the trilobite section. “That’s Professor Dwayne of Washington University,” he said. “He’s a nuclear chemist. If I recall correctly, he’s taking an isotope ratio on the oxygen of the water.”
“Why?”
“It’s primeval water; at least half a billion years old. The isotope ratio gives the temperature of the ocean at that time. He himself happens to ignore the trilobites, but others are chiefly concerned in dissecting them. They’re the lucky ones because all they need are scalpels and microscopes. Dwayne has to set up a mass spectrograph each time he conducts an experiment.”
“Why’s that? Can’t he—”
“No, he can’t. He can’t take anything out of the room as far as can be helped.” There were samples of primordial plant life too and chunks of rock formations. Those were the vegetable and mineral. And every specimen had its investigator. It was like a museum; a museum brought to life and serving as a superactive center of research.
“And you have to supervise all of this, Dr. Hoskins?”
“Only indirectly, Miss Fellowes. I have subordinates, thank heaven. My own interest is entirely in the theoretical aspects of the matter: the nature of Time, the technique of mesonic intertemporal detection and so on. I would exchange all this for a method of detecting objects closer in Time than ten thousand years ago. If we could get into historical times—”
He was interrupted by a commotion at one of the distant booths, a thin voice raised querulously. He frowned, muttered hastily, “Excuse me,” and hastened off.
Miss Fellowes followed as best she could without actually running.
An elderly man, thinly-bearded and red-faced, was saying, “I had vital aspects of my investigations to complete. Don’t you understand that?”
A uniformed technician with the interwoven SI monogram (for Stasis, Inc.) on his lab coat, said, “Dr. Hoskins, it was arranged with Professor Ademewski at the beginning that the specimen could only remain here two weeks.”
“I did not know then how long my investigations would take. I’m not a prophet,” said Ademewski heatedly.
Dr. Hoskins said, “You understand, Professor, we have limited space; we must keep specimens rotating. That piece of chalcopyrite must go back; there are men waiting for the next specimen.”
“Why can’t I have it for myself, then? Let me take it out of there.”
“You know you can’t have it.”
“A piece of chalcopyrite; a miserable five-kilogram piece? Why not?”
“We can’t afford the energy expense!” said Hoskins brusquely. “You know that.” The technician interrupted. “The point is, Dr. Hoskins, that he tried to remove the rock against the rules and I almost punctured Stasis while he was in there, not knowing he was in there.” There was a short silence and Dr. Hoskins turned on the investigator with a cold formality. “Is that so, Professor?”
Professor Ademewski coughed. “I saw no harm—”
Hoskins reached up to a hand-pull dangling just within reach, outside the specimen room in question. He pulled it.
Miss Fellowes, who had been peering in, looking at the totally undistinguished sample of rock that occasioned the dispute, drew in her breath sharply as its existence flickered out. The room was empty. Hoskins said, “Professor, your permit to investigate matters in Stasis will be permanently voided. I am sorry.”
“But wait—”
“I am sorry. You have violated one of the stringent rules.”
“I will appeal to the International Association—”
“Appeal away. In a case like this, you will find I can’t be overruled.” He turned away deliberately, leaving the professor still protesting and said to Miss Fellowes (his face still white with anger), “Would you care to have lunch with me, Miss Fellowes?” He took her into the small administration alcove of the cafeteria. He greeted others and introduced Miss Fellowes with complete ease, although she herself felt painfully self-conscious. What must they think, she thought, and tried desperately to appear businesslike. She said, “Do you have that kind of trouble often, Dr. Hoskins? I mean like that you just had with the professor?” She took her fork in hand and began eating.
“No,” said Hoskins forcefully. “That was the first time. Of course I’m always having to argue men out of removing specimens but this is the first time one actually tried to do it.”
“I remember you once talked about the energy it would consume.”
“That’s right. Of course, we’ve tried to take it into account. Accidents will happen and so we’ve got special power sources designed to stand the drain of accidental removal from Stasis, but that doesn’t mean we want to see a year’s supply of energy gone in half a second—or can afford to without having our plans of expansion delayed for years.—Besides, imagine the professor’s being in the room while Stasis was about to be punctured.”
“What would have happened to him if it had been?”
“Well, we’ve experimented with inanimate objects and with mice and they’ve disappeared. Presumably they’ve traveled back in time; carried along, so to speak, by the pull of the object simultaneously snapping back into its natural time. For that reason, we have to anchor objects within Stasis that we don’t want to move and that’s a complicated procedure. The professor would not have been anchored and he would have gone back to the Pliocene at the moment when we abstracted the rock—plus, of course, the two weeks it had remained here in the present.”
“How dreadful it would have been.”
“Not on account of the professor, I assure you. If he were fool enough to do what he did, it would serve him right. But imagine the effect it would have on the public if the fact came out. All people would need is to become aware of the dangers involved and funds could be choked off like that.” He snapped his fingers and played moodily with his food.
Miss Fellowes said, “Couldn’t you get him back? The way you got the rock in the first place?”
“No, because once an object is returned, the original fix is lost unless we deliberately plan to retain it and there was no reason to do that in this case. There never is. Finding the professor again would mean relocating a specific fix and that would be like dropping a line into the oceanic abyss for the purpose of dredging up a particular fish.—My God, when I think of the precautions we take to prevent accidents, it makes me mad. We have every individual Stasis unit set up with its own puncturing device—we have to, since each unit has its separate fix and must be collapsible independently. The point is, though, none of the puncturing devices is ever activated until the last minute. And then we deliberately make activation impossible except by the pull of a rope carefully led outside the Stasis. The pull is a gross mechanical motion that requires a strong effort, not something that is likely to be done accidentally.” Miss Fellowes said, “But doesn’t it—change history to move something in and out of Time?” Hoskins shrugged. “Theoretically, yes; actually, except in unusual cases, no. We move objects out of Stasis all the time. Air molecules. Bacteria. Dust. About 10 percent of our energy consumption goes to make up micro-losses of that nature. But moving
even large objects in Time sets up changes that damp out. Take that chalcopyrite from the Pliocene. Because of its absence for two weeks some insect didn’t find the shelter it might have found and is killed. That could initiate a whole series of changes, but the mathematics of Stasis indicates that this is a converging series. The amount of change diminishes with time and then things are as before.”
“You mean, reality heals itself?”
“In a manner of speaking. Abstract a human from time or send one back, and you make a larger wound. If the individual is an ordinary one, that wound still heals itself. Of course, there are a great many people who write to us each day and want us to bring Abraham Lincoln into the present, or Mohammed, or Lenin. That can’t be done, of course. Even if we could find them, the change in reality in moving one of the history molders would be too great to be healed. There are ways of calculating when a change is likely to be too great and we avoid even approaching that limit.”
Miss Fellowes said, “Then, Timmie—”
“No, he presents no problem in that direction. Reality is safe. But—” He gave her a quick, sharp glance, then went on, “But never mind. Yesterday you said Timmie needed companionship.”
“Yes,” Miss Fellowes smiled her delight. “I didn’t think you paid that any attention.”
“Of course I did. I’m fond of the child. I appreciate your feelings for him and I was concerned enough to want to explain to you. Now I have; you’ve seen what we do; you’ve gotten some insight into the difficulties involved; so you know why, with the best will in the world, we can’t supply companionship for Timmie.”
“You can’t?” said Miss Fellowes, with sudden dismay.
“But I’ve just explained. We couldn’t possibly expect to find another Neanderthal his age without incredible luck, and if we could, it wouldn’t be fair to multiply risks by having another human being in Stasis.”
Miss Fellowes put down her spoon and said energetically, “But, Dr. Hoskins, that is not at all what I meant. I don’t want you to bring another Neanderthal into the present. I know that’s impossible. But it isn’t impossible to bring another child to play with Timmie.”
Hoskins stared at her in concern. “A human child?”
“Anotherchild,” said Miss Fellowes, completely hostile now. “Timmie is human.”
“I couldn’t dream of such a thing.”
“Why not? Why couldn’t you? What is wrong with the notion? You pulled that child out of Time and made him an eternal prisoner. Don’t you owe him something? Dr. Hoskins, if there is any man who, in this world, is that child’s father in every sense but the biological, it is you. Why can’t you do this little thing for him?”
Hoskins said, “His father?” He rose, somewhat unsteadily, to his feet. “Miss Fellowes, I think I’ll take you back now, if you don’t mind.”
They returned to the dollhouse in a complete silence that neither broke. It was a long time after that before she saw Hoskins again, except for an occasional glimpse in passing. She was sorry about that at times; then, at other times, when Timmie was more than usually woebegone or when he spent silent hours at the window with its prospect of little more than nothing, she thought, fiercely: Stupid man.
Timmie’s speech grew better and more precise each day. It never entirely lost a certain soft, slurriness that Miss Fellowes found rather endearing. In times of excitement, he fell back into tongue-clicking but those times were becoming fewer. He must be forgetting the days before he came into the present—except for dreams.
As he grew older, the physiologists grew less interested and the psychologists more so. Miss Fellowes was not sure that she did not like the new group even less than the first. The needles were gone; the injections and withdrawals of fluid; the special diets. But now Timmie was made to overcome barriers to reach food and water. He had to lift panels, move bars, reach for cords. And the mild electric shocks made him cry and drove Miss Fellowes to distraction.
She did not wish to appeal to Hoskins; she did not wish to have to go to him; for each time she thought of him, she thought of his face over the luncheon table that last time. Her eyes moistened and she thought: Stupid, stupid man.
And then one day Hoskins’ voice sounded unexpectedly, calling into the dollhouse, “Miss Fellowes.” She came out coldly, smoothing her nurse’s uniform, then stopped in confusion at finding herself in the presence of a pale woman, slender and of middle height. The woman’s fair hair and complexion gave her an appearance of fragility. Standing behind her and clutching at her skirt was a round-faced, large-eyed child of four.
Hoskins said, “Dear, this is Miss Fellowes, the nurse in charge of the boy. Miss Fellowes, this is my wife.”
(Was this his wife? She was not as Miss Fellowes had imagined her to be. But then, why not? A man like Hoskins would choose a weak thing to be his foil. If that was what he wanted—) She forced a matter-of-fact greeting. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hoskins. Is this your—your little boy?” (Thatwas a surprise. She had thought of Hoskins as a husband, but not as a father, except, of course—
She suddenly caught Hoskins’ grave eyes and flushed.)
Hoskins said, “Yes, this is my boy, Jerry. Say hello to Miss Fellowes, Jerry.” . (Had he stressed the word “this” just a bit? Was he saying this was his son and not—) Jerry receded a bit further into the folds of the maternal skirt and muttered his hello. Mrs. Hoskins’ eyes were searching over Miss Fellowes’ shoulders, peering into the room, looking for something. Hoskins said, “Well, let’s go in. Come, dear. There’s a trifling discomfort at the threshold, but it passes.” Miss Fellowes said, “Do you want Jerry to come in, too?”
“Of course. He is to be Timmie’s playmate. You said that Timmie needed a playmate. Or have you forgotten?”
“But—” She looked at him with a colossal, surprised wonder. “Your boy?” He said peevishly, “Well, whose boy, then? Isn’t this what you want? Come on in, dear. Come on in.” Mrs. Hoskins lifted Jerry into her arms with a distinct effort and, hesitantly, stepped over the threshold. Jerry squirmed as she did so, disliking the sensation.
Mrs. Hoskins said in a thin voice, “Is the creature here? I don’t see him.” Miss Fellowes called, “Timmie. Come out.”
Timmie peered around the edge of the door, staring up at the little boy who was visiting him. The muscles in Mrs. Hoskins’ arms tensed visibly.
She said to her husband, “Gerald, are you sure it’s safe?”
Miss Fellowes said at once, “If you mean is Timmie safe, why, of course he is. He’s a gentle little boy.”
“But he’s a sa—savage.”
(The ape-boy stories in the newspapers!) Miss Fellowes said emphatically, “He is not a savage. He is just as quiet and reasonable as you can possibly expect a five-and-a-half-year-old to be. It is very generous of you, Mrs. Hoskins, to agree to allow your boy to play with Timmie but please have no fears about it.”
Mrs. Hoskins said with mild heat, “I’m not sure that I agree.”
“We’ve had it out, dear,” said Hoskins. “Let’s not bring up the matter for new argument. Put Jerry down.”
Mrs. Hoskins did so and the boy backed against her, staring at the pair of eyes which were staring back at him from the next room.
“Come here, Timmie,” said Miss Fellowes. “Don’t be afraid.” Slowly, Timmie stepped into the room. Hoskins bent to disengage Jerry’s fingers from his mother’s skirt.
“Step back, dear. Give the children a chance.”
The youngsters faced one another. Although the younger, Jerry was nevertheless an inch taller, and in the presence of his straightness and his high-held, well-proportioned head, Timmie’s grotesqueries were suddenly almost as pronounced as they had been in the first days.
Miss Fellowes’ lips quivered.
It was the little Neanderthal who spoke first, in childish treble. “What’s your name?” And Timmie thrust his face suddenly forward as though to inspect the other’s features more closely. Startled Jerry responded with a vig
orous shove that sent Timmie tumbling. Both began crying loudly and Mrs. Hoskins snatched up her child, while Miss Fellowes, flushed with repressed anger, lifted Timmie and comforted him.
Mrs. Hoskins said, “They just instinctively don’t like one another.”
“No more instinctively,” said her husband wearily, “than any two children dislike each other. Now put Jerry down and let him get used to the situation. In fact, we had better leave. Miss Fellowes can bring Jerry to my office after a while and I’ll have him taken home.”
The two children spent the next hour very aware of each other. Jerry cried for his mother, struck out at Miss Fellowes and, finally, allowed himself to be comforted with a lollipop. Timmie sucked at another, and at the end of an hour, Miss Fellowes had them playing with the same set of blocks, though at opposite ends of the room.
She found herself almost maudlinly grateful to Hoskins when she brought Jerry to him. She searched for ways to thank him but his very formality was a rebuff. Perhaps he could not forgive her for making him feel like a cruel father. Perhaps the bringing of his own child was an attempt, after all, to prove himself both a kind father to Timmie and, also, not his father at all. Both at the same time!
So all she could say was, “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
And all he could say was, “It’s all right. Don’t mention it.”
It became a settled routine. Twice a week, Jerry was brought in for an hour’s play, later extended to two hours’ play. The children learned each other’s names and ways and played together. And yet, after the first rush of gratitude, Miss Fellowes found herself disliking Jerry. He was larger and heavier and in all things dominant, forcing Timmie into a completely secondary role. All that reconciled her to the situation was the fact that, despite difficulties, Timmie looked forward with more and more delight to the periodic appearances of his playfellow.