Through the Eye of Time

by Trevor Hoyle

  ‘Please don’t do that. It goes right through me.’

  ‘What?’ Léon said, startled.

  ‘Whatever it is you do with your fingers.’

  Léon looked down at his empty hands, frowning.

  ‘Come along, we’re wasting time.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Léon said. He suddenly remembered: ‘Miss Ritblat in Psycho-Med has been trying to reach you.’ He faltered. ‘I’m sorry, I should have told you before.’

  Pouline deGrenier never liked speaking to Karla Ritblat, head of the Psycho-Med Faculty, though she had little choice in the matter. The other woman was rigid to the point of being cyberthetic, straight-backed and thin-lipped with a helmet of silver hair: it was Pouline deGrenier thirty years hence – or how she feared she might become if some man didn’t come along and claim her. She had her career sure enough, and it was fulfilling, but the essential core of her life seemed to be dribbling inconsequentially away. She felt herself to be in shadow, on the edge of a bright light, never at the true centre of things.

  ‘I think we’re making progress.’ Karla Ritblat said when they had made contact. Neither woman bothered with the viewing panel. ‘The cultures are responding to cobalt-7 radiation: we’ve only tried it in short low-intensity bursts for fear of causing damage to the DNA structure. But the results so far are promising.’

  ‘How soon will you know if the cultures are able to accept neurochemical data?’

  ‘We mustn’t run before we can walk,’ said Karla Ritblat. A gentle admonishment from the headmistress to the pupil teacher. Pouline felt herself flushing. She breathed evenly and said:

  ‘I shall require a time-scale projection for the next three months to co-ordinate your efforts with ours. The Subject Profile is almost completed.’

  ‘You’ll need a lot of information to fill one hundred billion neuron cells.’

  ‘I think we have enough,’ Pouline deGrenier responded crisply. ‘Everything now depends on the tissue cultures, if and when they’re available.’ That was one in the eye for Karla Ritblat.

  She broke contact to forestall any further allusive comment and became aware that someone was standing at the door to the office. She took in several confused impressions all at once: slender height, the peculiar rake of the shoulders, a lean gaunt face heavily creased near the nostrils and mouth, white hair cropped short. It was the mythographer Queghan, whom she knew by reputation but had never spoken to or seen at such close quarters.

  Her body chemistry was upset: part fear, part fascination.

  ‘I passed your assistant on the way in. He said it would be all right. If you’re busy—’

  ‘No. Of course. Come in. Sit down.’ (Why, Pouline wondered, was she speaking so idiotically, like somebody with a wooden jaw?)

  She was thankful when he sat down; his height had been forbidding. He introduced himself, adding that he worked as a mythographer on Level 17. She was thinking furiously what possible reason he could have for coming to see her, and at the same time taking in his strange appearance. She noticed his hands in particular and saw that the nails were pale elongated ovals, almost transparent. She thought, An odd fish.

  He began: ‘I don’t know too much about the RECONPAN project beyond a potted briefing from the cyberthetic system, but yesterday rather a curious thing happened. Your Section and mine were juxtaposed at a certain world point.’

  ‘How interesting,’ Pouline said tamely. ‘At least it would be if I knew what that meant.’

  ‘Forgive me, I have this nasty habit of using jargon. I meant there was a coincidence involving our two Sections; some information which went astray.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Pouline said, none too kindly. ‘So you were the one. There was indeed a mix-up on the information retrieval circuit – either that or somebody had been tampering with the cyberthetic system.’ There was a veiled accusation there somewhere.

  ‘Possibly.’ He hadn’t spotted the inference or else had chosen to ignore it.

  ‘What else could it be?’

  Queghan held up his hand and ticked the points off on his long fingers. ‘One: the system reported no malfunction within the past twenty-four hours. Two: neither of us received the information we had requested. Three: on the same day you asked for information on Theodor Morell there was a keyboard error and up came Morell’s name on the print-out. The odds against that happening by accident are several billion to one. I haven’t computed the exact ratio.’

  Pouline shook her head, slightly baffled. ‘All that went wrong, surely, is that I received your information and you received mine. Isn’t that what happened?’

  ‘No, it isn’t. I never asked for the information you received. By mistake I punched in the word “quack” instead of “quark”, a one-letter substitution, and the system came up with the nearest approximation to “a charming quack”. But then you received information on the decay rate of quarks which, it so happened, I hadn’t asked for.’

  By now Pouline was totally lost. She nodded slowly, trying to make sense of it and thinking what a strange colour Queghan’s eyes were, neither brown nor blue or—

  ‘And there could be another mystery.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘What became of your information? I’m assuming you asked for details of Morell. But you didn’t receive them and neither did I.’

  ‘I asked for biographical details to build up a Subject Profile, that’s true. But if there wasn’t an interchange of information how would you know that? Did the Director mention it?’

  Queghan smiled suddenly and quite charmingly: it came as a surprise that his austere face was capable of such mercurial change. ‘It was the only illogical explanation.’

  ‘Do you base all your assumptions on illogical premises?’ she asked. It annoyed her that he seemed to be enjoying a private joke at her expense.

  ‘I thrive on them,’ he said, still smiling.

  ‘It doesn’t get us very far.’

  Queghan conceded the truth of this. ‘If we could discover what happened to the Morell biography it might give us a clue.’

  ‘I don’t have time to indulge in detective stories.’

  ‘Or perhaps it was deliberately suppressed.’

  It was Pouline’s turn to smile, though it was more cynical than amused. ‘By the cyberthetic system?’

  ‘That had occurred to me as a possibility. But as you know the system is self-programmed to prevent incorrect or misleading information coming into circulation. I don’t think the system is at fault.’

  It wasn’t, Pouline realized, only his physical appearance which disturbed her. There was something else. She realized with a swift disquieting shock what it was: he was able to see into her mind. It was as though she was naked in front of him, an affront to the senses that made a cold creeping sickness reach up and envelop her, the taste of iron in her mouth. With an effort of will she said:

  ‘I fail to see the point of this. Some information has gone astray. It isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last.’

  ‘Aren’t you curious? And what about the information you received – that wasn’t even requested?’

  ‘I can’t explain it.’

  ‘Neither can I and it worries me. Or I should say that I can think of an explanation but I don’t understand it.’ He laced his fingers together and sat staring at her. Pouline shifted uncomfortably; it was hateful to be scrutinized like this.

  Queghan said presently, ‘Supposing there is a connection between the RECONPAN project and my investigation of quark and anti-quark particles.’

  ‘Not possible,’ Pouline said shortly.

  ‘There is a theory,’ he went on, ‘that alongside our own universe, existing side by side with it, there is a universe made up of anti-quarks. An anti-quark universe. It could be here with us now, at this moment in time, occupying the same spatio-temporal co-ordinate – the only difference being that its basic subatomic constituents are anti-quarks existing in minus time.’

  ‘Then we should be able
to detect it,’ Pouline deGrenier said, ever the pragmatic hardliner.

  ‘Perhaps we can. We can’t detect it with our scientific instruments because they can only operate in our own universe. But imagine for a moment that in place of eyes and ears human beings were equipped with X-ray and infra-red sensory equipment. We should see a different kind of universe altogether. The sea and sky would no longer be blue. Solid objects would appear to be transparent. We should be able to hear the stars. We can only picture the universe as it appears to our own limited senses.’

  ‘I know all this,’ Pouline deGrenier said icily. ‘I did a two-year postgraduate course in electromagnetic wave theory.’

  ‘Then you should have no difficulty grasping the concept of an anti-quark universe existing alongside our own.’

  ‘We have no proof that it does.’

  ‘We have no proof that it doesn’t.’

  ‘Very well. Let’s say I accept the possibility of what you say. Where does it take us?’

  ‘To the consideration of another possibility: that some unspecified agency has engineered all this.’

  ‘Engineered?’

  ‘The clues have been laid – unless, that is, we’re too blind to see them. Something is operating in a stratum of spacetime which normally would be invisible to our senses. Deliberately or accidentally, I don’t know which, it has made its presence known to us.’

  Pouline gazed at him. Her features had hardened into a frown. She said, ‘What has any of this to do with RECONPAN? Or with Morell? It’s sheer nonsense. The project is solely concerned with neurochemical reconstruction of brain cells, with the simulation of the Subject’s brain.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Queghan said. ‘And we shouldn’t forget the Subject you’ve chosen for experimental trials.’

  Pouline looked into those peculiar eyes of his, transfixed by his gaze, and the silence hung in the air between them.

  3

  The Diaries of Dr Morell

  Berlin, July 1938

  The trees looked lovely this morning as I walked along the Wilhelmstrasse on my way to the Chancellery. The city gardeners perform an excellent service in keeping the place neat and trim and shipshape. It was a pleasure to be abroad and on such a fine morning.

  A tedious incident which took the edge off my good humour and benign disposition: one of the guards, presumably new on the duty roster, stood in my way and asked to see my papers. He obviously didn’t know who I was and remained obdurate when I informed him that I was a member of the Sanctum.

  ‘Papers,’ he insisted, barring my way.

  I repeated my name, laying emphasis on the Doktor, and added that I was Leibarzt to the Führer. He looked rather startled at this, but the buffoon had been given strict instructions and was determined to carry them out to the letter.

  When I had presented my papers he went rigidly to attention, his eyes frozen and dead like those of a statue. I told him that if he ever stopped me again, for any reason whatsoever, it would be the worse for him. I think we parted in mutual understanding.

  The days pass hectically but none the less pleasantly. There is much activity all around – political activity I refer to – which imbues the whole place with a sense of urgency and purpose. Three new departments have been set up in the past month and there are clerks scurrying everywhere carrying files and memoranda and bits of paper. I enjoy the comings and goings precisely because I am detached from them, an observer rather than a participant – though it is difficult at times not to become involved. However, I follow my own course, quietly and without attracting attention: the time will come when moves have to be made and decisions taken. For the moment I am content to wait.

  One advantage of this detachment is the overall view it gives me of those closest to the seat of power and their assorted jockeying for favour and position. I have marked out Bormann as being one of those who will repay close attention and careful study: he is quiet, unobtrusive, but I have noticed in conference that he is ever-watchful, missing nothing with those dark shrewd eyes of his. In particular he watches Himmler, alert to his every political ploy, though it has to be said that the two of them get on well together – that is, they show all the signs of being on close, friendly terms, often dining together and patronizing the same whorehouse.

  Of the rest it is hard to choose who would win the award of Prize Idiot at the annual Chancellery ball. They posture about the place, seeking to outdo the others with the splendour of their uniforms and the size of their bodyguards. New notices go up almost every day directing one to this or that new department, the theory being, I suppose, that importance, prestige and power are in direct proportion to the volume of paperwork any one department can manufacture. The more departments, the greater the avalanche of useless confetti.

  The only member of the Sanctum I should disassociate from this observation is Reichsminister Goebbels, head of Information and Propaganda, whose visits to the Führer are businesslike and without the ostentatious foolery of motorcycle escorts and fleets of cars and stamping salutes. He is a small, slim, dark-haired man, quietly-spoken, with a lean ascetic countenance. On the numerous occasions when I have been in conference with him he has always displayed an astute intelligence, a ready grasp of essentials, and occasionally a droll sense of humour, very welcome, which completely goes over the heads of the other dolts.

  A good man to have on your side, I would have thought: loyal, a keen mind, well organized, and not one to suffer fools gladly, if at all.

  *

  My duties are not arduous but I think it wise to keep up the pretence of being fully involved and hard at work; it is easy enough to do: ordering supplies from the Clinic in the Ziegelstrasse, circulating minor queries to and fro between myself, Brandt and von Hasselbach, inspecting the medical orderlies and making sure they have enough adhesive plaster and clean bandages, supervising the Führer’s meals and rest periods. He has been liverish for the past couple of days and I managed to obtain a large consignment (six gross packs each containing 100 tablets) of that old standby remedy Dr Koester’s Antigas Pills, a compound of strychnine and belladonna. Two tablets after each meal, eight daily, seemed to do the trick. He is much settled.

  I heard from my cousin Felix yesterday about our joint scheme to manufacture the nerve tonic. Felix has taken out a lease on some premises in Budapest and is already advertising for a small labour force of women to start production later this year. It was fortuitous to come across the complete description of the tonic (including chemical formula) in an American medical journal. One minor problem, as Felix has pointed out, is that some of the ingredients are difficult to come by and rather expensive, so I have written back recommending certain cheap substitutes which are easily obtained in bulk. The effects shouldn’t be all that different; and in any case it’s difficult to tell with nerve complaints whether or not an improvement has been made.

  I spoke to Elisabeth Schroeder, one of the Führer’s private secretaries (charming creature!) and we discussed the forthcoming visit of the British Fascist leader, Gerard Mandrake, in a few weeks’ time. We both agreed that Goebbels has done a splendid job of propaganda in publicizing the meeting as one intended to promote peace and a lasting alliance between our two great nations and thus pave the way for a United Europe. The British newspapers have really gone to town on the affair, heralding it as ‘A New Era in European Solidarity’.

  The French press, I notice, are sour and generally suspicious, talking about the ‘Anglo-German Conspiracy’ and forecasting a build-up in militarization. As if we gave a fig for their opinions. Their pathetic Maginot Line has made them the laughing-stock of Europe, and the Channel won’t present much of a hazard, given the domination of British naval power.

  When I suggested to Elisabeth that we go out to dinner one evening she blushed and pressed her head into her shoulder in a manner I found wholly enchanting. These strutting Rhine Maidens bore me, I must confess, with their loud voices and red cheeks and heavy bosoms. Elisabeth is dark, p
etite, and soft-spoken. Dare I say it – almost Jewish in appearance.

  ‘I would be very pleased and most honoured,’ she said, ‘but perhaps you should know that I already have a young man. SS Sturmbannführer Heinz Mueller, a member of Himmler’s intelligence staff. It would not be … proper for me to deceive him, Herr Doktor.’

  ‘Herr Doktor?’ I chided her gently. ‘Surely you know me a little more intimately than that. After all these months. You must call me Theo.’

  Elisabeth smiled shyly. ‘I hope I have not offended you … Theo. I am most grateful, indeed flattered, that you should invite me out. It is an honour.’

  ‘Nonsense. Just because I am of high rank. You are a very pretty young woman. Beautiful, I should say. And I am not offended, not in the least. But I do not take no for an answer that easily. If your young man, your Heinz, should be posted away from Berlin – beware!’

  We laughed together at this, and I could see her narrow pointed pink tongue and her small white teeth inside her soft red mouth, and the desire and conviction grew together that I would have her. An army officer, of course, would have blundered in with both jackboots and frightened the poor creature and alerted her young man. But there are ways and ways. More than several ways, as the English say, of skinning a cat.

  I have a new concoction. Like many of my ideas it came to me in the middle of the night. I had woken with the need to relieve myself and on returning to bed had lit a cigarette, one of the special brand made to my personal requirements.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, there popped into my head an idea for vitamin tablets. He’s been babbling on for days now about supplementing soldiers’ diets and it occurred to me – why not make them into sweets? Or better still, chocolate! Vitamin chocolate in each soldier’s pack, what could be simpler, or easier to take?

  I haven’t so far mentioned this to anyone, not even the Führer, because ideas have a habit in the Chancellery of walking off and ending up on someone else’s desk. Goering’s, for example, that fat slothful beast. The idea I had for curing vertigo in trainee pilots was one day Item 9 on the conference agenda – proposed, it said, by the Reich Marshal himself! I racked my brains trying to recall who I’d discussed the idea with, but to no avail. And then I had to watch in silence as the fat pig positively swelled up with pride as he put forward ‘his’ idea and saw the raised eyebrows and approving nods.