They found the points by which the black hole had entered and left the cavity, and had these welded closed. Over their original entry point they built a docking hatch and an airlock. Then they radioed New Australia for the S.T.A. to come and take possession of the prize. Captain-Administrator Wilson was the first S.T.A. man to arrive. He went in with a disbelieving sneer, and came out so passionately impressed that he broke down and cried.
From then on, the orthodox engineers took charge, ferrying gasses to provide a breatheable atmosphere in the cavity, bringing in power plants and treatment plants and all the paraphernalia necessary to support men’s existence in the far reaches of space. Their task done, the unorthodox engineers returned in triumph to Terra.
* * * *
‘You don’t have to rub it in, Fritz,’ said Colonel Belling, when next they met. ‘I admit I was wrong and you were right. Unorthodoxy does have a use in unorthodox situations.’
‘Actually we’re only arguing about definitions,’ said van Noon. ‘Orthodoxy for us is the tools and techniques which have been evolved for dealing with our local Terran situation. We can’t expect these to be the optimum for a completely altered set of conditions. What’s orthodox in one part of the galaxy may be unorthodox in another. All that I’m saying is that the most useful thing we can take to any problem is an open mind.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly proved your point. The S.T.A. are so delighted with their acquisition that they’ve asked permission to call their Negrav installation Base van Noon. I thought it only fair to let you make your own refusal.’
‘Refusal?’
‘That’s what I said, Fritz. While you’ve been journeying back, I’ve been analysing your figures. As I read it, this was a battle you actually lost, but were saved by a most fantastic stroke of luck. D’you really mean to claim it as a victory?’
‘In the circumstances, I take your point. But I claim the right to nominate my own alternative.’
‘Which is?’ asked Belling, ominously.
‘How about Serendipity?’
The Colonel’s face broke into a huge smile, and he rose from the table to clasp van Noon’s hand.
‘I’ll go along with that, Fritz. I’ll even buy you a drink on it. And while you’re here, there’s another matter I want to discuss. It concerns the tunnelling problem on Eggar-twenty four. Now, I’ve been thinking that with one of your black holes...’
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* * * *
A LITTLE MORE THAN TWELVE MINUTES
Wolfgang Jeschke
translated by
Peter Roberts
At night, when the city is still and sleeps under its roofs, and the moon is bright and the heavens swim, the airfield of Kiara still sleeps on the edge of the ancient sun-dried desert where the heat and the dust burn, and men still journey over ash and leaf, sea and dust, cold and darkness. Do they all exist in the self-same moment of time or are they separated by the inescapable millennia? This hot dust-dry day is just an ordinary day, ordinary for a time in which time-travel is as boring as a train journey is for us. You just take a ticket and go in the Time-traverser. It takes you through the centuries where you do not yet exist, where your particles are still dispersed, still the dust of history. One of these journeys lasts just...
* * * *
The airfield stretched lazily in the sun.
Kiara.
Old earth, baked dry, steeped in history.
Heat.
The dust sparkled and made the few trees grey.
On the edge squatted the Time-traverser, its high windows yawning in the afternoon.
The wind slept.
The great machine, held in the sluggish stream of time by the threads of its brain, had stretched out its feelers, hovered over the abysses of the past, over ravines and gorges, over stagnant waters, had watched, its thin planks in readiness. But no foot searched for the step, no hand its hold, only paralysis, sleep and lifeless reflection.
A web of silver electrodes in the grey clouds of the great brain-case, a hand which touches you cautiously through the forehead, holding you, tiny threads of energy, a pattern, lying in the skull without difficulty, pulls your ego through switchboards and circuits in the great darkness of the corridors in which time runs.
The airfield stretched lazily in the sun, the airfield of Kiara, on the edge of the ancient, deserted city between the desert and the long dried-up river.
Heat.
* * * *
I have a lodger.
Now you’ll say that isn’t anything special, and you’re right. Many people have lodgers, congenial or unpleasant and constantly annoying; but as you’ll see, mine is still somewhat special. Both of us live in the same room in fact —yet I’ve never seen or heard him; I mean, really heard him.
A really pleasant lodger, you’ll be saying; but wait a minute, just wait a minute! Listen further. I must assure you that I don’t believe in ghosts, and moreover I’m not timid; but the thing does seem a trifle sinister to me. So I’ll tell you something about the affair. I’d never dream of boring you; but I must none the less know whether others are in the same position as myself. Don’t laugh. I have reasons for this assumption. I also have a lodger, whom I’ve never seen or heard, really heard, that is.
Except at nights.
I sometimes hear him at nights. He speaks very softly, almost inaudibly, although his voice comes directly into my brain and I can even block my ears up, indeed I often have to hold them closed in order to concentrate completely on his voice. ‘Voice’ is saying too much; it’s an indistinct whisper, a hissing, a buzzing; I have great difficulty understanding and must often ask him to repeat things, or completely break off our conversation so I can get up and refresh myself. Sometimes I’m too tired or unable to concentrate, then I implore him to postpone the conversation. He consents, is never angry, for he has time, more time than you or I can imagine.
Much of what he tells me I don’t understand and it seems confused and absurd to me; but I want to repeat it exactly as I believe I’ve heard it told to me.
He says he is in the Time-traverser. That seems to be a machine, a ship or something similar, but at the same time a gate through which you can travel in and out. This thing transported him from the future far into the past; but he seems to have missed his connection, and now he must wait. He says he is ancient and yet isn’t even born; he isn’t real yet, but he is among us and is everywhere, he is you and I, ash and leaf, sea and dust, stars and light, still disordered.
He says I am a telepath, out of the ordinary, that it is rare for him to have the good fortune to have company. I don’t know whether I’m a telepath, how should I ? I have no idea whether I should be happy about it or not. But he must know, because he is ancient and has seen and heard much, although he isn’t even born yet; perhaps I’m his great-grand-grandfather, who knows how many ‘greats’. Who wants to know ?
He has told me his story, a strange story. At night, when the city is still and sleeps under its roofs and the moon is full and swims shining over the sky, at the edge of dreams, then I can hear him.
I shall have to take care not to tell my neighbours about this thing. They would laugh, because they don’t understand. Perhaps they would even take me for mad and their pointing fingers would make things difficult for me.
But you don’t know me, and when you laugh, as you certainly will, it’ll do me no harm, and you can’t point a finger at me, because you don’t know my name and where I live. But perhaps your reaction is completely different; you don’t laugh, but draw a deep breath of relief and at last have the proof that it’s not just you alone, knowing my story only too well, since you too have a lodger who frightens you and pains you. Oh, yes, I’m positive! There are many others who are waiting until the first machine is invented through which they can go back home, into the future. They wait for the Johannesburg Gate, as mine told me. Our century is like an enormous terrible waiting-room in which they sit, shadowy, invisible, clearing their thro
ats, sometimes sighing, attempting a whispered conversation, others sleeping; nothing interests them any more, they’ve seen it all, much too much. Now they are waiting for the first train to leave; but the tracks on which they must travel are not even laid yet.
Sometimes they try to strike up a conversation with us.
Perhaps you hear their voices. At night, when the town has become still and the moon swims over the rooftops, then you hear them perfectly.
At the edge of a dream.
Perhaps ...?
* * * *
Kiara and heat.
And in front of the high windows, the afternoon on the airfield.
The dusty trees.
‘It really ought to rain again, Gin. You know, a really good rain with thunder, jumping and dancing, letting everything overflow and making everything wet, really wet.’
He often said ‘really’ and was one of the last old officials of the Time-traverser. He was stout, wore a sand-brown uniform and sweated badly. His uniform was bleached almost the colour of the dust on the leaves, with dark flecks of sweat. His bald skull was burnt red by the sun and his old face laughed with a thousand wrinkles.
‘Thunderstorms aren’t allowed here. Chief. Electrical discharges in the atmosphere would be a catastrophe for the Time-traverser. You know that as well as I, Chief. The weather office will never allow any thunderstorms in this district.’
Gin was tall and slim, moved himself powerfully and smoothly, and didn’t sweat. His skin was smooth and his voice somewhat colourless. His body was of metal and plastic tissue. He was an android and a normal official.
‘Yes, I know, unfortunately. Only sun, sun and more sun. They don’t even produce any breezes, these blighters, while we’re here suffocating in this box. I just wish it would rain, in spite of all the prohibitions. Really pour down.’ He imagined it and rubbed his hands cheerfully. ‘Really rain so that everything would be wet. Can you imagine it. Gin, everything really wet?’
‘Naturally, Chief, but my organism reacts to dampness with little delight. My ancestors didn’t come from the water like mankind’s.’
‘Your body is as shy of water as a cat’s, I know. But I’d still like a thunderstorm today. A real thunderstorm, with tempests and rain. Pass me the weather card.’
‘Yes, Chief.’
A ship dropped on to the airfield and the loudspeaker startled the afternoon. She escaped into the desert, and the great voice shepherded her back to the edge of the runway where the warehouse stood.
The heat remained.
‘Twenty minutes stop in Kiara, then Vega, Aldebaran, Berenice and further ...’
The restaurant dug itself whispering into place and settled down. It looked fresh and brightly coloured.
Guests came and sat down at the tables; one of them stepped out of the shadow and went diagonally across the ground to the Time-traverser.
The customer wore his hair long and was haggard. He looked dark, strange and from faraway.
He placed his big travelling-bag on the counter and his shoes were dusty.
‘I’d like to make a journey, please.’
He said it slowly, almost timidly, like a boy who wants to buy something big.
His speech was also from far away, like his face.
‘Where to?’ said Gin and stamped the direction card.
‘17 346 before Zahatopolk, please,’ said the stranger and looked at his dusty shoes. His hair was jet-black and thick, and he was still young, 200 years at the most.
The rain man looked up and, wiping the sweat from his brow, said, ‘In this department we only have dispersal to within two years. We also have no bodies at our disposal, you might know. I mean, real bodies, or—,’ the official smiled, ‘—are you an esper?’
The stranger shrugged his shoulders and made an uncertain gesture.
‘I draw your attention to the fact that the return journey is not possible before about 15 300 before Zah. You therefore have a long period to wait. Are you clear what that means? Will you go through with it?’ The official seemed anxious.
‘I know what I’m doing,’ said the stranger. ‘I’m prepared. A commission, you know. I must go there ...’
He broke off as if he’d already said too much and paid the credits on the counter.
‘Good. Then listen to me.’ The official pointed to the giant timetable behind him. ‘We are here.’ His finger travelled far back along the timeline, covered with hundreds of coloured markings and numbers, to where the marks were more scarce, and still further. ‘You land here.’ He let a small blue disc click on to a point on the timeline where it stayed fixed. Gin stamped the position in the direction card. ‘From here on we must let you carry on. You must wait about 3000 years for the time of return.’ The official moved the timeline further up. ‘Here.’ He tapped on a green mark with his finger. ‘The Time-traverser was invented 15 370 before Zah, but not until 70 years later are the first gates opened for travellers from our time sphere. I recommend the Johannesburg Gate, the first really serviceable Time-traverser, well-fashioned for the technical abilities of the time, open from 15 275. Very reliable. We’ve never had any trouble with it. From there we can bring you safely back. If you don’t put in an appearance there, then we must make a search for you. A few centuries can elapse that way. It is therefore in your interest to be on time.’
‘Yes, thanks. It’s o.k. I’ll be there.’
‘Have a good time.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it. Always your servant. Gin, accompany this gentleman to cabin thirteen.’
‘This way, please.’
Gin went out. The stranger lifted up his eyes to the high honeycomb of the travel-cabin. The platform was suspended above.
The cell door groaned and clapped shut. Gin directed the gas into his face and watched him through the glass.
The stranger saw the android’s face swim and began to soar.
The Time-traverser started. As the groping electrodes penetrated his brain, it was like the long fingers of a soft hand in his hair.
He began to fly.
It became dark and cold and always faster.
Corridors of time.
Only the light grasp of the hand in his hair held him in the darkness, held him so that he might not fall and be lost.
He flew further and further over plains of ashes and night, yonder where his body was still dust and leaves, flowers and animals, you and I, stars and light, and everything together, disordered.
He lay powerless, leaning back in the cell while the point in the centre which was his ego (is, will be) raced over relays and points through electronic patterns, which it overlaid and reinforced, flew and flew over plains of ashes and night.
Sleep and lifeless reflection.
* * * *
Kiara and heat.
‘Gin, take a look at that. Have you ever seen books before, real books?’
He groped in the big, worn-out travelling-bag which the stranger had left open on the counter.
‘Real books; true antiques.’
He carefully lifted one out and sniffed at it.
‘It smells like God knows what.’
He leafed through it, but the marks were unknown to him.
He shook his head.
‘A strange man, Gin. As strange as his books.’
‘All men are strange,’ was Gin’s level opinion and he followed the light point on the timeline.
‘That’s your opinion, eh?’
The afternoon had ventured out over the airfield once more and stroked the foreign ship curiously and the open, shady tables of the restaurant.
The light point on the timeline was extinguished as it reached its goal. Gin turned around suddenly.
‘I’ve got it, Chief.’
‘What have you got?’
‘I’ve been considering the data; somehow it came to me. Now I have it.’
‘So what?”
‘17 346 is the beginning of an old era on this planet whi
ch began on a cultural or religious event.’
‘So ? All the more reason for a sociologist or historian to look around there. Perhaps he’s a space historian, that’s quite the fashion now.’
‘My knowledge gives no spaceflight yet in that century.’
‘Ah, well, he wants something. It doesn’t concern us. But he’d scarcely wait 3000 years without reason in the bargain. It’s not amusement, I can assure you, Gin. Amusement is nothing any more, although I’ve experienced it once along the timeline.’
New Writings in SF 25 - [Anthology] Page 10