The Man Who Saw Tomorrow

by Jeff Sutton

  "She's only know him a month or two," he responded bitterly.

  "She works fast, Bert."

  "A full-time curator for a small, private museum? That doesn't sound reasonable," he objected.

  "From what she told me, it will be somewhat like the Metropolitan Museum of Art," Maxon explained. "As a matter of fact, Androki seems to be acquiring a corner on the world's masterpieces. I've read quite a bit about it recently."

  "Acquiring a corner on the world is what you mean," Kane answered moodily.

  "It might be better under new management, Bert."

  "I can't say that he's helping things." He forced a smile. "Every time I pick up the paper he's causing new foment. Venezuela, Ecuador, Egypt, Spain—you name it and he's creating trouble. Yet, strangely enough, plenty of people pop up to defend him."

  "He's a rugged bird to tackle," Maxon observed. "Look at what's happening to Senator Blaire since he started investigating Androki's alleged violations of the antitrust laws. Suddenly he's a pink, a Communist-lover, a left-winger and all the rest of it. But that won't stop him. He's a fighter."

  "What's he after?"

  "Androki? That's what I asked Anita. She's sold on the guy." Maxon snickered. "He's a fine, sensitive, brilliant man."

  "With a few billion bucks," Kane growled.

  "Far more than that. His wealth is growing astronomically. And that's just a minute part of what he controls." Maxon gazed at him. "Right now he's considered to be the most powerful man in the world."

  "The wealthiest, perhaps."

  "The most powerful," Maxon persisted. "The governments of a dozen nations are his pawns. Remember my prediction that he was out to control the world? Plenty of people are beginning to think the same way. The man is dangerous."

  Kane asked woodenly, "Is that what Anita sees in him, power?"

  "Power, money, status…" The psychologist shrugged. "Well, it's her own funeral."

  "I wouldn't exactly call it that." Maxon's eyes glinted shrewdly. "The gal knows what she wants and she's out to get it. Get while the gettin's good; isn't that the Great American Ethic? The old ethical standards are out the window in today's survival race, Bert. She's merely hewing to the principles of modern society."

  "My, you are cynical." Kane eyed him quizzically. "But she must wonder about him."

  "In what way?"

  "The mystery man, the man with no past. Plenty of lurid speculation is making the rounds."

  Maxon smiled. "Now you're echoing what I've been telling you for a year. As a matter of fact, she doesn't consider him much of a mystery. She says his ancestors came from Poland, farmed in northern Wisconsin for several generations. He had a hankering to see the world, has been moving around since he was a kid."

  "Did he tell her that?"

  Maxon nodded. "It explains his lack of records. He's been outside of this country more than he's been in it; he seldom remains long in one place."

  "There would still have to be passport records."

  "Not according to her. He worked as a merchant seaman at the start. When he got into the chips, he moved by private yacht. Apparently he wasn't overly concerned with the paper work. She says that he's more of an internationalist than an American."

  "Do you believe all that?"

  "Frankly, no." Maxon grinned. "I'm just telling you what he told her."

  "Does she believe it?"

  "If she does, it's because she wants to. Put in another way, why should she question her own windfall?"

  "Tell me," Kane asked, "how does a merchant seaman learn the mathematics pertaining to multidimensional space?"

  "A good question." Maxon raised his head. "Incidentally, you made quite a hit with the old boy. He's impressed."

  "So Anita once said," he answered sourly.

  "She says it's possible he might give you a grant to aid in your work."

  "To salve his conscience?"

  "He would give you the grant," Maxon returned pointedly, "not her."

  "Do I look that naive?"

  "Never look a gift horse in the mouth."

  "Not this baby."

  "I don't feel that way," Maxon replied. "Perhaps I'm an opportunist. I told her I'd be quite receptive to a grant."

  "To study Androki, I suppose."

  "That was the gist of it," he admitted. "I'm convinced that he lives in the time stream. At the mental level, we all do. We range back and forth through the ages, resurrecting the history, drama and fiction of the past—creating worlds of the future. But we are locked to our imaginations. Not that bird. He's able to project his sensors into the stream and pull in the data that gives him the actuality of the future. He's a fisherman in the Ocean of Time."

  "Did you tell her that?"

  "I did." Maxon inclined his head. "I also told her I was out to unmask him."

  "How did she react to that?"

  "She got a bang out of it. She said she'd suggest the grant."

  Kane smiled. "And if it came through?"

  "I'd be quite surprised," Maxon said.

  X

  Crack!

  Kane was reading in his apartment when the sharp sound split the air. He jerked erect in his chair, His first thought was that an automobile had backfired. At that instant a salvo of muffled explosions broke the night, sounding almost directly outside his window.

  Gunfire! He threw himself violently to the floor, jerking away from in front of the glass; realizing it was still intact, he smiled foolishly. He was starting to scramble to his feet when a second salvo sounded. He instinctively dropped lower, conscious of the fast beat of his heart.

  An engine roared to life at the curb. The harsh screech of tires sounded as a car sped away. Leaping to his feet, he started toward the window, then turned back to the door. Flinging it open, he raced downstairs.

  As he reached the porch, his first glimpse took in a figure sprawled on the lawn. A second one lay a dozen yards beyond, at the edge of the curb. Under the glow of the street lamp, it was grotesquely unmoving. He rushed to the recumbent figure nearest him and bent down, seeing a black automatic clasped rigidly in claw-like fingers.

  Conscious of porch lights flashing on along the street, he glanced frantically around for help before feeling for a heartbeat. At that instant the body under his hand convulsed.

  "Dr. Kane…"

  Startled, he scrutinized the shadowy figure closer, recognizing the man who had identified himself as a police officer a few days earlier. He felt a shock. "Lie still," he commanded tersely. "I'll call an ambulance."

  "There is no time!" The words came gaspingly. The face staring up at Kane held an urgent expression. "My name is Wygant… Clifton Wygant. I'm an agent."

  "Take it easy," Kane counseled.

  "No, listen!" Wygant,fought for breath, a stricken look on his face. A rattling came from deep within his chest and blood flecked his lips. "I came back, I came back…" A convulsion shook his body.

  "Don't try to talk," Kane commanded sharply. He became aware that someone had rushed up and was looking down at him.

  "What happened?" an agitated voice asked. Kane stared up at a middle-aged man clasping a sloppy bathrobe closed at the neck. Several other figures were converging toward him.

  "He's been shot," he explained tersely. "There's someone else by the curb."

  "He's got a gun!" The newcomer's face held a frightened look.

  "This man's a police officer," Kane snapped harshly. "Get an ambulance."

  "A cop?" The man was startled. He peered closer, • then turned and raced toward the adjacent apartment building.

  Wygant struggled to push himself up on an elbow.

  "Lie still," Kane barked. "I've sent for help."

  "Listen, listen," the wounded man gasped. A strangling sound came from his throat, followed by a gush of blood.

  "Don't try to talk," Kane snapped.

  "The Bornji…" The eyes staring up at him were stricken.

  "Bornji?" Kane stared at him, stupefied.

&nbs
p; "Bornji…" Wygant's body convulsed again. His jaws moved spasmodically as he gulped for air, the froth of blood covering his lips. His body shook violently.

  "Take it easy," Kane begged urgently. Suddenly Wygant slumped back, twitching, then lay still. Kane knew he was dead. He rose, staring down at the body, his mind a jumble of thoughts.

  Bornji! The Bornji transformations! What had the dead man to do with them? A police officer on a stake-out! He laughed harshly. That was a lie. But who was he? What had he been trying to say?

  Kane stared down at the still figure, the thoughts crowding his mind. First Cantrup, then Freyhoff, now a killing almost at his doorstep. A double killing! Somehow all those killings were related; somehow he was involved. But how?

  Why? What odd twist of fate could tie together such widely separated murders? The Bornji transformations; they formed the thread.

  A spasm shook him; he began trembling violently and fought to control it. The whole thing had a nightmarish quality that filled his mind with haunting thoughts. Somehow Cantrup's work—his work!—had become ensnared with murder.

  Conscious of the gathering crowd, he walked to where the second figure lay. The bystanders made way grudgingly. He looked down. There was no question but that the man was dead; the starkly blank eyes in the thin, dark face told him that. Blood welled from a gaping wound in the neck. Sprawled with his body half in the gutter, the dead man still clasped a short-barreled weapon that contained a long clip.

  "Some kind of automatic weapon," one of the bystanders told Kane.

  "A damned gangster," another put in. Kane didn't answer. If Wygant were a police officer, who was this man? That the whole affair was somehow linked with the Bornji transformations he had no doubt. But how could that be? The dead man at his feet appeared more like a small-time gangster. The sharp ferret face and tight-lipped mouth certainly fitted the stereotype.

  Suddenly he felt a great weariness. Maxon had warned of this possibility. Kane had laughed at the time but now, tragically, it had come to pass. Wygant, supposedly on a burglary stake-out, had been his bodyguard. The bullets that had ripped away Wygant's life had been intended for him!

  He heard the sound of a siren and straightened, peering along the street. A squad car was rushing toward him, the red light atop its roof flashing violently. What good could the police do? he thought* dully. Wygant was dead—as dead as David Cantrup and Martin Freyhoff.

  What did it all mean? .

  The man who sat across from Kane in his apartment was of average height, • lean, with dark eyes. His bushy brows, like his thick hair, held a*sprinkle of gray. His demeanor was quietly professional. Identifying himself merely as Philip Conrad, of a Government security agency, he had briefly exhibited a card. Kane placed his age at around forty.

  "I can understand your reluctance to talk about the case," Conrad said sympathetically. "Violent death is never pretty."

  "I've gone over it several times with the police," Kane objected. "They have my statement."

  "I'd prefer to get it independently from you, Dr. Kane."

  "Why?"

  "Statements sometimes get garbled in the transcription."

  "I read it before I signed it," he rebutted.

  "I would still like to hear it directly from you."

  "Why is the Government so interested?"

  "To ascertain if the case involved the breaking of any Federal laws." Conrad smiled disarmingly. "A check of this nature is quite routine, Dr. Kane, especially when it appears that the impersonation of a Government agent was involved."

  "He didn't say Government agent; he just said agent."

  "Didn't he previously identify himself as a police officer?"

  "Yes, earlier."

  "But he wasn't." Conrad smiled.

  "I read that," Kane admitted.

  "It's possible that the impersonation of a Government agent was involved," Conrad said briskly. "Now, how did he identify himself? Try to recall his exact words."

  "He said, 'My name is Wygant… Clifton Wygant.' He said he was an agent."

  "Did he display any identification?"

  "When he was dying? No, but previously—"

  "We'll get to that," Conrad interrupted. "Did he say anything else?"

  "He said, 'I came back, I came back.' He had a convulsion at that time and stopped speaking."

  "Did the words mean anything to you?"

  "Nothing whatever." Kane shook his head.

  "Did he say it as if he expected it might mean something to you?"

  "I wouldn't know. Possibly he thought it might."

  "What else did he say?"

  "Just two words: 'The Bornji.' He spoke them just before he died."

  "The Bornji? Does that mean anything to you?"

  Kane nodded reluctantly. "I believe he was referring to the Bornji transformations."

  "What are they?" Conrad asked sharply.

  "Mathematical tools that we hope might provide a bridge to the understanding of multidimensional space," Kane explained.

  "The fourth dimension?"

  "In a general sense, yes."

  "An added dimension." Conrad's lips held the shadow of a smile. "If you can't see it, hear it, taste it, smell it, or feel it, why do you suspect that such a thing might exist?"

  It was Kane's turn to smile. "That's the usual question. But is that what determines the limits of space and time— what we sense? By that reasoning, the microcosm didn't exist until we invented the microscope."

  "Is that what the Bornji transformations are, a sort of microscope into the fourth dimension?"

  "You could say that," he acceded. "I am thinking more in terms of multidimensional space."

  "Beyond the fourth dimension?"

  "It is quite possible."

  "Yes, it is. Anything is possible. You discover that quickly enough in this business."

  "The Bornji transformations aren't particularly well-known," Kane observed. "Not even as a name."

  "You're saying?" Conrad's gaze sharpened. "How would he know of them?"

  "Wygant? I can't say. Can you?"

  "No, of course not."

  "You appear to have something in mind," Conrad suggested.

  "I was just puzzled."

  Conrad studied him. "I presume you know of the work of Dr. Cantrup of Chicago and Dr. Freyhoff of Germany?"

  "Quite well." Kane felt a surprise that Conrad should know their names.

  "Did you know them personally?"

  "I met Dr. Cantrup several times, and I corresponded with him occasionally. I never had the pleasure of meeting Dr. Freyhoff, although he has visited in this country on several occasions."

  "Did you correspond with him?"

  "Unfortunately, no." Kane smiled regretfully. "But I felt I knew him through his work in the mathematical journals, and through our mutual friendship with Dr. Cantrup."

  "Did Dr. Cantrup know him personally?"

  "Yes, of course. Dr. Freyhoff visited in Chicago on the occasions I mentioned."

  "Did Dr. Cantrup personally know Vosin of Russia, Bernardi of Italy, or Tanaki of Japan?"

  Kane lifted his head, again surprised. "I can't answer that but I'm certain he must have met Dr. Bernardi of Italy. I know he made several trips there, and Dr. Bernardi has visited in this country."

  "Have you had occasion to meet any of them?"

  "Dr. Cantrup, as I've mentioned, and I met Dr. Bernardi once, several years ago."

  "Where was that?"

  "At Harvard."

  "But none of the others?"

  "No, but we keep abreast of one another's work." Kane felt a surge of irritation. "Is all this related to Wygant?"

  "I don't know."

  "I can't see that it could have anything to do with whether or not Wygant was impersonating a Government agent."

  Conrad smiled humorously. "It's a tenuous thread," he admitted.

  "But the thread exists?"

  "Possibly. I'm trying to determine that."

  "Whi
ch, if it proves true, means that I am somehow involved. Is that what you're saying?"

  Conrad regarded him steadily. "That is possibly true," he finally assented.

  "I can't see how, or perhaps I should say why."

  "The answer to that could prove quite interesting," Conrad observed. "Does your work involve anything of a secret nature?"

  "Nothing whatever."

  "Is it something that might later be classified?"

  "Possibly." Kane smiled sourly. "The government has a mania for that."

  "I suspect you're right," Conrad agreed. His gaze rested on Kane's face. "I understand from your statement to the police that you'd encountered Wygant previous to the night of the shooting. Is that true?"

  "I explained all that in my statement to the police," Kane objected.

  "I'd like to hear it from you directly," Conrad persisted.

  "I'd just be parroting my words." Kane forced a smile. "I know them by rote."

  "I don't mind the repetition," the agent answered.

  Kane said, "I recognized him as the man I'd challenged several nights earlier—last Monday, as I recall—when I caught him lurking in the shadows as I was approaching the porch. He identified himself as a police officer."

  "Verbally?"

  Kane nodded. "He also displayed an identification."

  "Did you take a good look at it?"

  "Not really," he admitted. "He flashed a pencil beam on it but I can't recall any of the details of what I saw. You sort of take those things for granted."

  "Most people do," Conrad assented. "Did he say why he was hiding in the shadows?"

  "He explained that there had been several burglaries in the area, that the police were keeping it under surveillance.

  That sounded reasonable. Oh, yes, he knew who I was."

  "By name?"

  "I gave him my name, just my name, but then he addressed me as 'Dr. Kane.' I presumed from that he knew something about me."

  "I suspect he did." Conrad smiled grimly. "Did you ever see him on any other occasion?"

  "I can't state that with certainty." He hesitated. "I have the impression he was the man I'd noted tailing my car on several occasions. Again, that's just an impression."

  "That you were being tailed, or that he was the man tailing you?"

  "That he was the man tailing me," he answered. "I'm certain that I was followed on several occasions."