Chronocules

by D. G. Compton

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  that might have been between them. They were quiet now with the truth of what had been said. After a certain age (86?) a man could frankly buy. Things were simpler. ... The two men squeezed each other’s forearms and stared over each other’s shoulders. The moment’s intimacy was false, remembered from their fathers, reproduced—now that they were as old as the remembered picture—accurately even to the long-dead accents and the eyes sentimentally moist. Its poignancy made them forget, cheerfully, what they had been talking about.

  “Igor ... Igor, how goes the work, my friend?”

  “Great progress. Great. . . . You must come to see.” “At once. At once. Let us go at once”

  “And all this other?”

  Professor Kravchensky indicated the Village, the May- pie, the bobbing Villagers. Manny Littlejohn remembered, straightened his back, shed his ancestors, spoke to the O.S., David Silberstein. Who was too young to understand.

  “I’m going to the laboratory. I shan’t be long. Don’t interrupt these good people. . . . And I’m very impressed, O.S. You’re doing good work.”

  David Silberstein stared modestly at the ground, his fingers crossed against the omen of this early praise, his mind flitting anxiously ahead to the things that might conceivably go wrong. At least Professor Kravchensky, he told himself, knew what to do, something safe with lead, and wouldn’t cloud the sunniness of the Founder’s afternoon.

  Manny Littlejohn turned back to the old professor, tried his arm ancestrally around the other’s shoulders. But it didn’t work, the illusion was gone, and he took his arm away again. They walked together through the crowd, separate now, master and servant almost, across

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  Fore Street and in at the little gate leading to the laboratory. Liza Simmons followed them. When the Founder was away she tended to forget the frightening weight of his presence, the awful consequences of his dissatisfaction. She knew, now that it was too late, that she should have passed on David Silberstein’s message. If only David hadn’t been, in his own way like Daniel, concerned with ascendancies. She went slowly up the stairs into the laboratory; hoped for the best; feared the worst.

  From the edge of the crowd Roses Varco watched the little group. He knew who the Founder was, but felt neither awe nor gratitude. In him these emotions were reserved for rather more cosmic occurrences: gales, sunsets, warm feet, the sea, a spider within the bent cage of his hand. He squatted where he was, hot and excited, fondling the ears of a Village dog that, like him, was distressed and intrigued by crowds, and waiting for the Band to begin. It was a spotty dog, and it was soon to go upon a journey.

  Krancz had stationed himself at the bottom of the stairs. The interior of the laboratory was' filled with sunlight from the big end window. The Founder looked around demandingly, saw everywhere the best of everything, the best that money could buy, a consecration: on the take-out platform, subtended from its own vivid shadow, an elmwood chair. It was so very much dead matter, so very much what he had no interest in releasing into the future, that it made him afraid. Therefore angry.

  “Backtracking, Igor?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”

  “Dead-matter research. You finished it months ago.” Willing. Forcing. “Didn’t you?”

  Liza, standing in the doorway, didn’t understand. If

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  the chair experiment—now successful with accelerator filters—could be repeated, what more could the Founder expect? Even that was a risk she would have preferred not to take. But the professor was transfixed, mouse-like, by the tempter’s eye.

  “Backtracking . . . ? Yes, I suppose in a way you could call it that, Emmanuel. One needs”—apologizing, begging to be pushed further than he. would otherwise dare—“one needs to reestablish foundations sometimes, you understand.”

  “Only if the building leans, Professor.”

  No longer Igor, Kravchensky blinked, knowing what had happened to the buddy-buddy. He was on the edge of desperate courage. Or maybe of inexcusable cowardice.

  “We scientists are cautious men, Founder.” He was gathering bravery. Or fear. “Discover and confirm. Discover and confirm.... It’s the scientific method.”

  “You know, Professor,” Manny smiled, awesomely benevolent, “for a moment you had me worried. It looked as if you were still stuck with dead-matter. But two years with dead-matter is obviously ridiculous. For a man of your brilliance.”

  “Of course, Founder. Quite ridiculous.”

  The professor became untransfixed. His gaze wandered away, out through the open door to the Village Green and the uncomfortably jolly crowd. An act of moral athleticism was being devised. Liza tried to save him from it.

  “There’s that fault in the generator, Professor. Fixing it may take hours.”

  “Fault, child? What fault?” She was too late. The act was complete. He knew now that there were times when a bold step was needed, something outside the

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  plodding routine, something that would separate the man of genius from the mere conscientious worker. “You must be muddled, child. There is no fault. We can set up a new experiment, a live-matter experiment, in no time at all.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it,” said Manny Littlejohn.

  He sat down by careful stages. He beamed around, flexing his charm, about to be gallant.

  “As for the subject, Igor, I positively forbid you to use your beautiful assistant. Her youth is as bright and as warm to me as the sun itself. I refuse to give up the company of your charming Miss . . . Simpson for a single moment.”

  “Simmons,* said Liza, her coldness an unnoticed dart

  at the scuttling (scuttled?) professor. “The name is Simmons.”

  “Simmons . . . Simmons. ...” He listened to the sound, on the brink of admiring its beauty. Surprisingly, this excess proved beyond him. “I’m so sorry, Miss Simmons. You’d think the least I could do would be to get your name right.”

  They babbled. They might have babbled further. But the professor had seen something through the open door, and the bones were cast They were not the sort of bones that Roses Varco’s spotty dog was likely to appreciate.

  Professor Kravchensky was out on the balcony, calling to Roses to bring the dog up. The action slowed for a moment while Roses heard, then understood, then acted. After that, events gathered momentum. Spotty dog was strapped into a frame, weighed, then put on the take-out platform. Specific gravities were calculated and the molecular spectrum determined. Liza Simmons, who should have disassociated herself, worked quite

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  as hard as the professor, sustained by loyalty—and also by the just arrived at thought that there were times when a bold step was needed, something outside the plodding routine, something that would separate the man (or woman) of genius from the mere conscientious worker. . . . The filter composition was computer- checked, and a safety margin added—there was no harm in being careful, even though what had worked for the organic chair would certainly work for the equally organic spotty dog. Well, almost certainly. The focal lengths of the accelerators were recalculated, and also the puke frequency. And Roses Varco, who was involved via the spotty dog whether he knew it or not, lingered unnoticed in the doorway, fascinated by the demented activity.

  The clock struck seventeen and two farts, which last made Roses giggle. Since the coming of the research center his improved diet had caused a disappointing remission of his own farting. The others were too busy to notice the clock. Spotty dog began to whine, and to chew the straps that held him in his (comfortable) frame. It was Roses’ first visit to the laboratory, and there was something there that unconsciously intrigued him. Something that pulled in his memory a long rusty wire on the end of which janged a distant bell. A smell, it was. A smell that reminded hi
m of . . . of hot wireless sets, aspirin tablets, the sandpaper sides of used matchboxes, and something that might have been castor oil.

  Behind him the Village Band started up: Land of Hope and Glory, followed by Ho-ro, My Nut-Brown Maiden. And still Roses lingered. He was working on the curious smell. Wasting his time, for it reminded him of something he had decided to forget.

  Professor Kravchensky handed out ear-plugs (not to

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  Roses: Roses wasn’t really there)and started the takeout sequence. The noise drove Roses out onto the balcony, where he could smell the smell and at the same time hear occasional strains from the Village Band. Liza closed her eyes—there were sorts of failure possible that she dared not see. At the appropriate moment the accelerator whine cut out, Spotty dog flickered, still chewing his straps, and disappeared with a loud report. The take-out was immaculate.

  There was a gratified silence in the laboratory. Then— “Igor .. . Igor, you are a genius.”

  Manny Littlejohn had removed his ear-plugs, was on his feet, trembling before the miracle. He had forced, .without truly daring to hope. Failure would have been acceptable, something he could use in his gentle, inimitable way as a garotte. But now—

  “What more can I say, Igor? You are a genius.” The absentminded farting of Roses, listening to the music out on the balcony, went unnoticed. “This is the day I have dreamed of. Prayed for. You should ha-ve told me, old friend. You should have told me.”

  Professor Kravchensky maintained a wise silence. Personal dignity—and the presence of Liza Simmons who knew the truth—made dissembling impossible. At the same time, strict honesty got a man nowhere. Technical expertise, a change of subject, would cover all.

  “The dog’s state of chronomic unity should last three minutes,” he said, leaning lightly on the computer console. “But this is not easy to control precisely. Once in chronomic unity, aging does not occur. Obviously, for the chronocules have no erosive effect. Thus chemical changes also do not occur, for they arise out of chronoc- ular pressure. Thus the only timing mechanisms possible'are electro-chronomic. I have found, interestingly,

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  that electricity has existence both outside and inside

  the chronos. Not the most stable of forces, unfortunately, but we do what we can....”

  Liza saw that the Founder was beginning to resent his own lack of comprehension.

  “What the professor means,” she said quickly, “is that the dog may return to this dimension a little late or a little early. It’s very hard to be exact about reentry.”

  She didn’t think it necessary to mention the artifacts that had disappeared altogether. Or the others that had returned somewhat changed. . . . Roses Varco peered in through the open door.

  “Here . . . here, what you done with thacky li*l dog?"

  The two men ignored him. Roses was the background, part of the set. Liza thought he deserved better.

  “He’ll be back in a couple of minutes, Roses. You mustn’t worry.”

  “What I want to know is, what you done with him?”

  “What,” said the Founder, taking command with a coldness that was wasted, “what is your job here?”

  “Job?”

  “Are you concerned with what happens in this laboratory?”

  “Job? I got no job.”

  “Exactly.”

  Unannihilated, though a lesser or a greater man

  would have been, Roses advanced a few steps into the contained sunlight.

  “All I want to know is what you done with thacky hi dog.”

  David Silberstein appeared on the balcony, averting the Founder’s crisis. He came cheerfully, in expectation of a safe little experiment with lead. Down on the Green the Village Band had started playing the Floral Dance:

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  Trumpet, trombone, big bass drum (hop),

  Comet and euphonium (hop),

  AU together in the Flor-al Dance...

  “How’s everything going?” said David Silberstein.

  “Very well,” said Manny Littlejohn. “Very well indeed. You are so British, O.C. You never warned me that I would witness a miracle.”

  David was pleased. There seemed little reason for such extravagant words, but he didn’t complain. When the Founder smiled, the whole world smiled.

  “I’m glad you’re so pleased, sir. Perhaps we here in the Village get a little blase over the professor’s achievements.” He heard himself sounding patronizing. He patronized too easily. “After all,” he said, “it’s a considerable task, even the transmission of something as structurally simple as—”

  It was Roses, one-track as ever, who saved him.

  “What I want to know,” he said, “is what they done with thacky lil spotty dog.”

  And then, just as the increasing tensions of misunderstanding and irritation were about to hurt somebody, the question was answered. Even if in a manner not immediately recognizable.

  With an exploding gust of air, nearly a minute by the computer master clock before anything was due to happen (and three quarters of an hour after the departure of the last train that day from Melbourne to Mum- blejug) the take-out platform became occupied again.

  The explosion died quickly in the enclosed, non- resonant air. People moved closer to the platform, fascinated, not willing to believe what they saw, not yet certain if it was horrible or not. A second’s further examination left nobody, except perhaps Roses, in any doubt It was. Horrible.

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  “What is it?* said David Silberstein.

  It was an understandable question. On the take-out platform stood a neat little wooden frame, such as one might attach a small animal to for purposes of experimentation. Between the legs of the frame, possibly slipped from the straps that might have retained it, was a curious heap of brown and white spitted fur. If it was like anything, it was like a tiny skin hearthrug with the legs scrumpled. Odd, but not horrible. Not horrible until it became evident that the heap had eyes, and was alive.

  “That’s a pity," said Igor Kravchensky. “The bone structure does not seem to have survived reentry. The problems are so complex, you see. . . .”

  He found nothing more to say. With imagination the heap now became identifiable. Naturally, on a head with no skull inside a dog’s ears would be bound to collapse and the eardrums be pressed out by the bulk of the uncontained brain. Natural also was the jumble of teeth in the boneless jaw. And the growing mush of excreta from the unsupported bowels and bladder. The utter motionlessness also was natural, in spite, of the life remaining in the eyes—without bones to resist, the tiniest muscular contraction would be painful. Possibly very painful indeed....

  Trumpet, trombone, big bass drum ( hop),

  Cornet and euphonium (hop),.,

  Liza walked away, knowing what had to be done— at once, oh please, at once—and not wanting to do it. David Silberstein moved closer, as to a road accident, exonerated by his still lingering incomprehension (had somebody in the last few minutes actually said something about a dog?). Professor Kravchensky took a pen-

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  oil and gently prodded the fur heap, wishing—in a spirit of scientific inquiry—to discover if there really was no bone at all. And Manny Littlejohn, seeing himself perhaps in a like state one day, turned his head and was mildly sick into a large handkerchief. He was an old man, and should not be subjected to such disturbances.

  Predictably, it was Roses Varco who broke up the tableau vivant. Suddenly connecting the heap of fur with the spotty dog he had brought up into the laboratory, he strode forward, elbowing the others aside, and, before anybody could stop him, picked the heap up. It screamed piercingly and died. Without a rib cage, the muscular contraction necessary for the scream crushed lungs in on heart so that it burst. Roses hadn’t known the dog, an
d preferred cats anyway. Nevertheless, with filth on his hands, and undirected hatred, and although the band was playing his favorite tune, Roses wept.

  Manny Littlejohn was better at suffering suffering. He retired to a corner of the laboratory and by wrist radio contacted his train to find out what was being achieved in his absence. After this he went out of the laboratory without a word, down the steps to continue his tcur of inspection. Doing his duty, gratefully, David Silberstein followed.

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  “I’m Mrs. Lampton. Good afternoon. I’m grateful to you for finding time to see me so promptly.”

  David Silberstein looked up from his desk. “Ah yes— the famous Mrs. Lampton, mother-of-four.”

  “If you’re going to sneer, Mr. Silberstein, then—”

  “I’m sincerely sorry.” He wasn’t. “I thought I detected a sneer in the first thing you said to me, and I’m afraid I responded aggressively. Whiph was foolish of me.

  “This is going to be an unusual conversation, Mr. Silberstein.”

  “I hope so. If you’ve visited other research establishments you’ll be very familiar with the standard PR approach. I don’t intend to insult you with it.”

  Not the standard PR approach, but a PR approach all the same. He’d seen Mrs. Lampton on TV: she seemed to believe that the truth was more readily arrived at in an atmosphere of frayed tempers. In ira veritas. . . . (He coined the tag and was delighted. It compensated him for never having been to a university.) In his dealings with Mrs. Lampton, therefore, he would hope to irritate and flatter in roughly equal parts, and thus achieve the necessary smokescreen.

  “As for the mother-of-four label,” he said, “I don’t expect that’s your fault. The newspapers love labels.”

  “I’m not exactly ashamed of having four children, Mr. Silberstein.”

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  “Of course not.” It was a help, her having no sense of humor. “I just thought you might not like being so widely known for what you are rather than who.”

  “You’re a strange man, Mr. Silberstein.”

  “Why strange? Because I try to deal with you as a more than usually intelligent person?”