by Kris Neville
“What’s this nonsense about the future?”
“Look at me. I’m an old man. The Gene at Oregon State is younger than you are. Phone Oregon State. I’ll pay. Phone the physics department. They’ll tell you Gene taught his classes today. Maybe you can get to talk to him. How can I be here and there both?”
‘That’s impossible. That would be time travel. That’s impossible.”
Gene gestured at the phone.
“. . . I know he’s there,” Ray said.
“You travel in time, Ray. Every second. It’s a two-way street.”
“That’s silly,” Ray said. “You can’t tell me that. Man can’t slow it up or speed it up or turn it back. All man can do is measure it.”
He’s still a conceited fool, Gene thought. “I can’t explain the math to you, Ray. If you’d passed calculus you wouldn’t be a reporter today.”
“It’s against all reason, man. Time is merely a measure of the rate of change.”
“I’ll see if I can put it in words,” Gene said. “Don’t think of time as a unity. Think of it as being divisible. There is a human temporal continuum—a perceptor time—that governs human history; and it is not the same time that determines the—say—decay of radioactivity: it is conditional upon a variable number of human events. Whether a man takes an hour or a day to travel 100 miles has no influence on the interstellar space-time continuum, but it vastly influences the historical perceptor. Exactly as I influence and am influenced by the temporal aspect of the historical perceptor without influencing the radiological time continuum. The temporal factor of any continuum is relative to the standard of measure.”
Ray looked around the room. “I need a drink,” he said. “All right. I’ll call you Gene. I’ll listen to what you have to say.”
“I better phone down for a bottle. Bourbon?”
“Bourbon will be fine,” Ray said.
While they were waiting for the whisky, Gene thought: I’ll have to try to anticipate his arguments. I’ll have to try to guess his thoughts and counter his objections in advance.
After each had a whisky-and-water in his hand, Gene said, “You’ve got to help me see the President.”
“The President?” Ray said, startled. “I couldn’t get you an appointment with him even if I wanted to.”
He’s lying, Gene thought. I won’t be put off. He could if he’d try. “Damn it, you’ve got to!”
Ray put his glass on the floor. “I said I’d listen. That doesn’t mean you can order me around. I don’t go for that, mister.”
Gene blinked his eyes rapidly.
“Now, now, don’t get upset,” he said.
You’ve gone at it wrong, he thought. There’s some people you can’t bully.
“I’m sorry, Ray. I didn’t mean it that way. I’m a tired old man. Tired, Ray. Don’t tell me it’s impossible to see the President, Ray, please don’t.”
“I’m not telling you anything that isn’t true. Even if I wanted to I couldn’t do you any good. He’s getting ready to start on a two-week cruise.”
He doesn’t like me, Gene thought. He never did.
“People don’t like me,” he said pathetically. “I know I’m not easy to get along with. I admit it. I’m sorry I made you mad. I didn’t intend to. I’m an old man. I thought you’d help me; I need the help so desperately.” He held up his hands. I have to crucify myself, he thought. “Look at them: they’re not strong any more. I’ve been given a young man’s job—that’s what’s wrong with the world: they always send the old men out when there’s anything important to be done. Statesmen, generals. They keep the young for the dying. I’m different only in that respect, Ray: they sent an old man to die. I’ve got to depend on young hands. I’m helpless, I’m a helpless old man.”
“Maybe you better tell me what you want to see him for.”
That’s better, Gene thought. I’m just a poor old man, and he feels sorry for me. It’s true: I’m old and helpless. And he’s going to help me. He has to.
“I’ve got to change the future,” he said.
Ray slumped deeper in the chair and peered out behind half-closed eyes. “I told you I’d listen.”
The old man’s eyes were feverish. He bent forward. He spread his hands a foot apart as if they held the physical substance of his argument; as if he could present the argument to Ray as he might present a package. The three-day growth of beard on his face made him appear even more fanatical.
“Mankind is about to be destroyed,” he said.
He cleared his throat. He’s got to believe!
“All mankind—all over the world.”
He was becoming excited. “Right now, today, there is a terrible focal area of this destruction. It has to be eliminated; rooted out; destroyed! We have to be able to fight the war to a conclusion without killing off all life!”
Ray’s voice was strained. “You—do I understand you correctly?—you want to see the President and have him atom bomb some city in Russia?” He retrieved his drink.
Gene licked his lips. His hands were shaking with excitement. “Russia? Not Russia, Ray.”
“Then . . .?”
“Australia. Southern Australia.”
“Just a minute . . .” Ray protested.
“Please,” Gene said. He leaned back and gasped for air.
He straightened up and shook his head. He got to his feet and began to pace the room. “You’re thinking about it wrong, Ray: chauvinistically. You’re thinking that right now Australia is on your side. How do you know who will be the enemy—how do you know who will be on whose side a few years from now? How do you know what realignment of powers will take place? Think back over the last few years . . . But I’m not interested in whose side she’s on; I’m interested in saving at least something of the race.
“Your story doesn’t hang together,” Ray said. “If an atomic blast got out of hand and destroyed the world, you wouldn’t have time to get away in a time machine—let alone have time to prepare for the trip.”
“You’re thinking in your terms, Ray. You’ve got to think in ours. It wasn’t anything atomic. It was a growth hormone that inhibits all plant life, that neutralizes chlorophyll. It’s carried by a rapid-breeding, air-borne bacterium. They got everywhere. If you could see our young wheat fields, forests, lawns, gardens . . . Should you be somewhere right now?”
“Eh?” Ray said. “What’s that got to do with . . . I canceled an appointment—nothing important.”
Gene winced in pain as the compression wave rolled over him. He sagged to the bed, clutching at his side. “Let me alone for a minute, please. I’m afraid your appointment—oh, damn this . . .”
Ray stood up, suddenly awkward. “What is this—your tired-old-man act again? Are you really sick?”
Gene was breathing with difficulty. “Oh . . . no, no, no . . .”
“How in hell can I get into your mind? Can I get you something?”
Gene shook his head. “There’s still . . . some pain in my side. But I’m all right, I think.” His face was damp and ashen. “Could you get me a drink? Water seems to help.”
“I’ll get it,” Ray said. He hurried to the washbasin.
Gene was trembling. He’s afraid I’ll die, Gene thought. Then he’d never be able to know what to believe about me. But I won’t die. Not yet.
Ray drew a glass of water and carried it to the bed.
“Thanks,” Gene said. He drank. Some of the water dribbled over his chin. He was panting.
“We had better than a month to prepare,” he said after a moment. “We had just finished the machine—on military contract. We—”
Ray had returned to the chair. “Why did the government pick you?”
“. . . government didn’t. There was considerable confusion. The—Well, the . . . Our experimental group acted on its own. We didn’t have much time, only the month. I was chosen by—by consent. They thought I had the best contact possibilities for the job.”
“What, then, exactly, is the job?”
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“That’s more like it, Ray. That’s better. All I ask is that you be reasonable and listen . . . I don’t think we’ll have to bomb Australia. There might not even need to be any bloodshed. Not much. Maybe the President would have to move troops in. Certainly he’d have to demolish . . . You see, I don’t know for sure how far along things are by now. He’d be able to know after I told him what to look for. He could tell how much had to be done. Things may be too far advanced for a painless solution.” Ray relaxed into the chair. “Suppose you’ve convinced me. I’ll admit your story sounds good. Particularly if you are Gene Martin. It holds together. But what makes you think you can convince the President? I’m a special case. I know Gene. I doubt if you could convince anyone who didn’t know him that you are him, let alone . . .”
“If I could just get to see the President! I convinced you. I came prepared to convince him. You’ve got to help me, Ray. I appeal to you for hands.” There, Gene thought, it’s easy. I’ve presented it well.
“My God, think what you’d be asking the President to take on faith.”
“. . . I have documents, photographs . . .”
“They could be faked.”
“I could talk to the scientists; my knowledge can’t be faked, Ray.”
Ray shook his head.
“I convinced you,” the old man said. Pie relaxed. There. There. There, he thought. You’ll help me see the President. That’s all I want from you. “I’ll move heaven and earth to get the appointment,” Ray said.
Gene felt exhilarating confidence surge through his body. Ahhh, ahhhh, there, he thought. “Tomorrow?”
“It will take at least a month.”
“No!”
“I’m sorry, Gene. These things take time; I’ve been around for quite a while; I know. It’s impossible to do anything until he gets back from his vacation.”
No! Gene shrieked to himself. “Next month? I . . . I can’t live near that long! My heart . . . the attacks . . . I’ve got less than a week. I can tell.” His face twisted in anguish and he fretted at the pillow case.
“Why did they send a man in your physical condition, then?”
“I’m not the first diplomat with a weak heart. They didn’t know about it . . . There was a great deal of—of confusion . . . There are complications here—strains, excitements. I’m living on will power, Ray, right now, pure will power.”
“Does it have to be the President, then? Isn’t there anyone else you could see? Isn’t there some other way you can go about it?”
“. . . no. No . . . Well—yes: there is. There’s another course of action.” Gene suddenly felt old and tired. His body ached. “It might work as well; it might. Who can tell? What seemingly insignificant act might even work as well? We can’t tell. We selected the most direct feasible action for one man to accomplish in a limited time, but there are so many imponderables—so many.” He felt energy flowing out of him. “If, for instance, Hegel had never written his books, what would have been the affect on Marx? On the October Revolution?” Stop it! he thought. Your mind is beginning to wander! I’m not defeated! I’m not defeated!
He lit a cigarette. “. . . I’ll . . .I’ll have to take the other course, now. That’s all there’s time for.”
“Tell me something,” Ray said. “Suppose you do succeed. What will the new future be like?”
Gene felt his nerves begin to quiver. “I don’t know.”
“How do you know mankind won’t figure out another way to commit suicide?”
“I don’t know that, either . . .”
“All right, Gene,” Ray said. “I’ve listened to your story. I’m a reporter, I’m trained to listen. I’ve even agreed to help you see the President.”
“I’ll be dead before you could get the appointment.”
“You can’t be sure. Meanwhile, I’ll help you get in to see whoever else you want to . . .”
“I am sure,” Gene said wearily.
“We’ll see,” the reporter said. He poured himself another drink and added tap water. Standing before the bed, the drink in his right hand, he looked down at the huddled figure of the man from the future. “Now let me talk for a little while. Let’s assume you are Gene; let’s say I’m convinced . . . I remember Gene very well. He wasn’t a likable person. I’ve seen him fly into insane rages. But we’ll let my personal reactions pass. Gene was insecure and frustrated and frightened by society. He had let himself become self-centered; everything was for him; he always seemed to imagine himself in the big role. He was brilliant, yes; but he was also vicious and vindictive . . . He lived in the laboratory instead of the world. He liked things he could weigh up; he liked things to come out even. He liked problems to have answers. He needed to see things as blacks and whites. No in-betweens. He never understood that human society isn’t like a laboratory. Do you see what I’m trying to get at? No, let me finish first. He could become a warped and dangerous man . . . How can anyone know how much time has changed him? Have his frustrations been eliminated or have they been aggravated? Is he a better man or a worse? How can anyone know what his motives are?”
“I have documents, photographs . . .” Gene said, twisting his hands excitedly.
“They could be faked.”
Gene’s lips drew into a taut line. He struggled to control his rage. “I’m giving my life!” he cried. He sprang up, moving his hands rapidly. “My old life. It’s not much. I’m giving all I have, all in the world an old man has . . .”
“History is full of fanatics,” Ray said quietly.
“Goddamn you, oh, God damn you!” Gene said, shaking his fist at Ray. “I’ve stood enough from you! I’m twice your age! You’re a fool! I won’t tolerate your impudence! You’ve badgered me with questions designed to prove I’m a liar! You’ve—”
He fell back on the bed, twitching, gasping, clutching his chest above his heart. His face grew purple.
“Water,” he pleaded. “Worst yet, oh, God, oh, God! I can’t die! I won’t. I won’t . . . I won’t!”
Ray’s hands were shaking as he filled the glass. The shrill, imperative near hysteria in the voice was frightening.
“No! No! No!” Gene cried, He tried to sit up.
Ray was at his side. “There. There. Drink this.”
The old man ignored him. He lay back. His hands twitched nervously at the coverlet. “No, no, no!” he cried. His breathing became easier. He collapsed and began to cry.
Ray said slowly, “I wish I could know what to believe. Are you here to do God’s work or the Devil’s? Are you a savior or a demagog?”
Gene struggled to a sitting position. “I’m telling the truth. How can you vouchsafe the character of the man picked by circumstance and fate to try to save the remnant of the race? Can you afford not to believe?”
“I’m just a reporter.”
Leadenly, Gene took the glass. He drank thirstily. “It’s good.” He put the glass down and shook his fist at the wall. “You’ll not stop me, damn you! Pound me! Persecute me! But you’ll not stop me!” He turned to Ray. “Destiny,” he whimpered. He fumbled out a cigarette. His last one still smoked in the ash tray. “You’ve got to help me, Ray. I can’t survive long. You’ll have to go with me.”
“It’s not for me to say whether you’re a humanitarian in the ultimate sense or an insane partisan of some sort. I’m not qualified to judge. Who do you want to see?”
“. . . Gene Martin,” He felt pain in his side. He’s got to go with me, I can’t survive alone. I’m a poor, helpless old man . . . Another compression wave, and my heart may . . .
“But that’s you! What in the name of God do you want to see yourself for?”
Gene said, “He . . . I . . . Gene . . . We knew a man called Wilson. He worshiped Gene for . . . while he was in college. You haven’t heard of him yet; you will. Wilson makes the crucial decision to release the hormone. He is presented with two alternatives. He selects the wrong one . . .” The psychologist in our group (psychology is more of a science
than now, remember) suggested that if he had suffered a severe emotional shock in his youth, he might have chosen differently. It involves life and death, the choice, so the shock must be right. He’s young, right now; he knows Gene—there is a deep personal attachment between them; if the attachment is deep enough, Gene can provide the shock. We thought first of eliminating Wilson, but that might not serve, because we couldn’t know what type of personality history would then choose to fulfil his role . . . If the shock is severe enough, the psychologist felt that there is a good chance Wilson’s decision would have been correct. My side hurts. I hope I can live long enough. I’ve got to, that’s all . . .”
“But what is the thing Gene has to do?”
“Commit suicide,” the old man said. “He must shoot himself in front of Wilson. I have his suicide note in that trunk.”
Ray was shaken. He remained motionless. “My God! That’s . . . That would be . . . Suicide; double suicide! You’d be destroying . . .”
“It’s all that’s left. I have to convince myself to commit suicide in order to save life on this planet.” He shuddered, thinking of the compression wave that would rend his present body: he remembered the second Rattler.
Ray’s face was white. His hands were trembling. His eyes narrowed. Don’t you see what you’ve done?”
“What? What?” Gene said. Ice formed in his stomach.
Ray began to speak slowly. His voice was strained. “I offered to get you an appointment with the President . . .”
“There isn’t time!”
“. . . because,” Ray continued, “the final decision wouldn’t have been mine. I could help you see any man in a responsible position without committing myself. But now . . . If I let you leave this room alive the decision is my responsibility. Are you the agent of some future Hitler or Franco or Stalin? I’ve got to know the truth! I’m the only man in the world who can stop Gene Martin!”
My God, oh, my God, the old man thought. His lips were bloodless.
“What are you going to do?” he asked weakly.
SHE KNEW SHE WAS COMING
Mary might have learned a more ladylike trade, but one thing is certain: she had a shining faith in that space guy from Earth. Now, about that cake she baked . . .