by Kris Neville
“Isn’t a time machine a little out of the question, Dr. Nostran? The Corsi equations pretty much eliminate the possibility of time travel in this universe, don’t they?”
“Benjamin Corsi was insane!” snapped Dr. Nostran. “There’s no question about the authenticity of historical documentation on that point; I have examined many of the original source materials myself. A small time machine just enough to move a negative mass a distance of 10 10 angstroms is all we would require.”
“If we could build a time machine,” said Bellflower after a moment, “couldn’t we just go back and get all those tapes MacDonald accidentally erased? Where would that leave your main project?”
“We couldn’t build one that large until we got the ideal mass of the pifilin. You can see that, Bellflower. A small one, maybe. Not a big one.”
“You mean you would really know how to build a time machine if you could get the ideal mass of the pifilin?”
“Jesus Christ, Bellflower, what do you think I’m working on? I’m talking about the Meal mass of the pifilin! Once we find that, it’s the key to everything!”
“Well,” said Bellflower, “perhaps I could sell them just a small time machine. What do you think it would cost to get research started along those lines on a modest scale? One billion? Two billion?”
So the conversation went. At length, having overstayed his time, Dr. Nostran stepped into the Transportation Booth and vanished about his business.
Bellflower closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment of speculation. Suppose Dr. Nostran was right—and who could possibly know whether he was right or not? What kind of a society most certainly would still have to administer the operation of getting rid of all the mistakes in human History, past and future. It would be a job to challenge his own talents. It would be a colossal program which would last more than a Human lifetime.
Dr. Nostran was 50 years old. Theoretical work he had done 25 years ago was now in graduate school texts on a billion planets. As the implications of his latest equations became partially evident, many were beginning to call him the Corsi of the Universe. At latest count, he had 92 million honorary doctor’s degrees, indicating the general esteem in which He was Held by his colleagues. Bellflower was completely persuaded that Dr. Nostran was the perfect man for the job of solving the transportation problem on Thyre Planet.
VI
With the second influx of Federation money on the promised schedule, Bellflower approved the plans for construction of the vast new Research Center, occupying a ten-mile-long site parallel to the particle accelerator excavation. The particle accelerator itself would ultimately consist of a gentle spiral trackway rising twenty-two stories above ground level. Construction was proceeding on schedule, and the 20-mile-long, mile-deep trench had been dug.
Bellflower was also occupied with a new proposal requested by the president of Thyre Planet. This envisioned the conversion of major areas of the planet to research sites—some connected with SOC, others independent of it. At Bellflower’s suggestion, master plans were in preparation to convert Thyre Planet to one of the major research facilities in the universe. SOC was establishing a solid base for this new construction. It already possessed a substantial number of die most famous scientists available, each laboring at the details of Era specialty in accordance with Dr. Nostran’s vision. Soon it would be doubtful that even the requirements of SOC could immediately accommodate usefully all the available talent they were funded for.
If Bellflower could be said to have a problem, it involved the time machine. The Federation inspection team was due in a month. They would go over the complete operation of the minutest detail. Bellflower knew the financial management aspect was secure against criticism. The Federation accountants would locate some duplication, the elimination of which would save a few million dollars Here and there to Justify their jobs, but otherwise they would approve the program as it stood. The senior scientific staff would doubtless be reluctant to criticize Dr. Nostran on any point, but some junior scientist, just out of school, would unquestionably challenge the time machine on the basis of the Coral equations. This could lead to an interminable squabble between experts, and so-called experts, and in the end cause the whole debate to erupt into unwanted publicity.
Bellflower decided the best way to avoid difficulty was to confront the time-machine research squarely at the first meeting. The Federation scientists must be made to understand that only a small time machine would be involved and the cost of the development would never exceed ten per cent of the total effort. Even if the research failed, it had cost next to nothing.
Bellflower would have to take the Federation contracting officer aside and explain that there was no intention of attempting to develop an operational model. It was difficult to see how any rational Federation officer in any position of authority could justify funds for that sort of research, since the benefits of the development were obscure and the multiple disadvantages and inherent problems too readily apparent. The contracting officer must be made unequivecably to understand that Dr. Nostran’s device, if successful, would be nothing more than another tool for the experimental physicists, with no wider application area, except possibly for demonstrations at fairs and in undergraduate science classrooms.
Bellflower’s reflections were disturbed by the dear-circuit signal on his Transportation Booth. Bellflower looked up. He Bad just time to compose his face to its most stony severity before the visitors emerged. It was the height of discourtesy to arrive without advance notification.
Out stepped a man Bellflower Identified as one of Dr. Nostran’s senior scientists. “Mr. Bellflower,” he said, “I Hate to go over Dr. Nostran’s head this way, but I think we’ve stumbled onto the solution to our problem.”
“What problem is that?” asked Bellflower coldly.
“The problem of what’s wrong with the transportation system on this planet,” the man said.
“What in God’s name are you talking about?” demanded Bellflower.
“It’s simply a question of a malfunction in the computer.”
“God damn it, man! There can’t be anything wrong with that computer . . . Can there?”
The president was smiling when Bellflower stepped out of the Transportation Booth.
“Mr. Bellflower, it’s always good to see you. I can’t imagine what sort of emergency you have in mind. But you know you have my support in the matter without asking,” He drew Bellflower to the comfortable chair and wait to the adjacent one. “Now, Mr. Bellflower, let’s hear it.”
“There is a remote possibility, Mr. President, that our research may have been rewarded.”
“In what way, Mr. Bellflower?” asked the president sympathetically.
“We may have found out what’s wrong with the transportation system.”
In the face of presidential silence, Bellflower preserved a respectful attitude of waiting.
“You really know what’s wrong with it?” asked the president at last.
“There’s a possibility that something’s wrong with the computer. The evidence is strong enough to suggest an investigation. The Federation people would be sure to insist on an investigation, in the face of the evidence I’ve seen.”
“I see,” the president said, relaxing. “Approximately how much additional funds do you think this will come to? Will we have to go back to the Federation right now, or can we swing the first part with what we’ve already been given?”
“The technicians think they can have it fixed tomorrow,” said Bellflower.
Again there was silence, which began as though it might continue for eternity. Bellflower could appreciate the president’s thoughts.
“In case they’re right,” Bellflower said, “we are confronted with some serious problems!” The voice reached the president in his cave of shattered ambitions. He roused himself to the present. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bellflower. What was that again?”
“I say we may have a lot of problems on our minds. If these t
echnicians are right, the problems involved in phasing out the SOC organization on Thyre Planet are going to have to be thought about right now. Do you realize how many people are involved? Do you realize the magnitude of this effect upon the lives of our citizens? Do you realize what an integral part of Thyrian life SOC has become?”
“I’m just stunned, Mr. Bellflower,” said the president. “I’m sure you’ve done all you can. I need a moment to pull myself together.”
“I knew you would be fully as elated as I am,” said Bellflower. “Yes, of course,” said the president.
Bellflower folded his Hands and waited. The president’s thoughts were now exploring all the unprofitable alternatives Bellflower’s mind had already explored. Delicate sensibilities prevented them from being vocalized.
The one Hope Bellflower had realistically glimpsed in his own analysis was fragmented on the character of the chief scientist Himself, Dr. Nostran. There were probably several thousand physicists and mathematicians who could see the implications of the time machine implicit in Dr. Nostran’s pifilin research. One of the stupid bastards would inevitably let the cat out of the bag in his enthusiasm, and the whole concept of continued Federation-sponsored research on Thyre Planet would go up the infinity tube.
“Well,” said the president at length, “We can’t be sure that this new plan or whatever it is will actually work, can we? There’s a good chance it won’t, isn’t there?”
After the conference with the president, Bellflower called on Dr. Nostran. Dr. Nostran took the visit rather badly, as Bellflower had known he would.
VII
Test day came. The day in advance, all communications media warned the citizens to refrain from use of the Transportation Booths from 11:06 a.m. until the government gave the all-clear announcement. Eleven o’clock approached.
The president and Bellflower had run through their victory statements on the television prompters. The president’s remarks began: “Citizens, the moment we have all prayfully hoped for so long has at last arrived.” Bellflower began: “I cannot tell you, today, the pride I feel in having been instrumental in a small measure in the glorious events of this afternoon. But in a larger sense, no one man can claim credit for our victory, not even the beloved Dr. Nostran. The events today demonstrate once again that if you are willing to make a large enough committment of your treasure, no problem in the universe is too complicated for man to solve.”
The alternative addresses, calling for renewed dedication and sacrifice, were also on hand in the unhappy event of failure.
The president, along with Bellflower and major political dignitaries, watched the TV coverage on a screen in the wall. Dr. Nostran had declined to attend the ceremonies, pleading urgent laboratory work.
The screen now showed technicians as they prepared to disconnect the computer. “We’re waiting now for you people out there to clear the Booths,” said the announcer impatiently for the fifth or sixth time. “Please do not use the Transportation Booths! You could be seriously Hurt or killed!” The camera studied flickering lights on the control panel. The announcer pleaded, “Please, tell everybody you know not to use the Booths! We can’t shut off the computer until every last light goes off!”
This went on for approximately thirty minutes. Slowly, the number of lights decreased on the control panel until only a few were left. There was suddenly a moment when all the lights were off. “Now!” cried a voice. The board went dead. All transportation across Thyre Planet ceased. “I certainly Hope we didn’t catch anyone in the system at cut-off,” said the announcer. “I thought I did see one light come on, just before the board went dead; let’s Hope not! Now, while the technicians replace the deficient unit, we will switch to the volunteers across the planet. Let’s talk to these brave people.”
The interviews with the volunteers went on seemingly without end. “Are you afraid, Miss Jones, to be one of the first to use the Booths after repairs?”
“They’re going to send some kitties through first,” she said. “If the kitties can make it, I’m willing to try.”
The proceedings wore on. Only one small note of tragedy interrupted them. A special bulletin came on one Hour and fifteen minutes after cut-off. “Ladies and Gentlemen. We have just received a report that a family of four are believed to have been caught in transit during cut-off of the Transportation Booths. Mr. Arnold Hutchins, 43, his wife, Mabel, age unknown, and their two children, Mary and Kathleen, seven and nine, all of 1700 Bentway Road, Aloseni, stepped into their Transportation Booth on their way to a local cinema at the exact time of cut-off. Police are now verifying the report, which was made by Mrs. Winifred Friendly, mother of the deceased “Wife, who was at the family Home at the time and who witnessed the tragic development. The family had been watching television until just a moment before the disaster, Mr. Hutchins’s last words upon entering the Booth are reported to have been, ‘We still have a lot of time. This thing will go oil for hours.’
“The Hutchins family and Mrs. Friendly, immigrants from the Extertian System, arrived on Thyre Planet three years ago and Homesteaded the site at 1700 Bentway Road, where they have lived since arrival. We have had no late word on funeral arrangements, but it is assumed by police that final details are still contingent on recovery of the four bodies.”
It was slightly after 1:30 when the computer was reactivated, its original function restored.
At that instant, unaware of my time lapse since stepping into their Transportation Booths on their way back Home from the world-wide annual picnic, the Thyrians emerged all across the planet. In physical appearance, they closely resembled the oriental race from the antiquity of Motherearth.
In the space of a heartbeat, though the residential areas of Thyre Planet, there were happy, holidaying Thyrians everywhere.
“What Happened?” demanded the president as Thyrians slowly acquiring puzzled looks overlayed with confusion, began to appear before television cameras.
“Apparently,” said Bellflower, they all got caught coming back from somewhere when the computer first went on the blink.”
“Oh, my God!” cried the president, as the magnitude of the disaster became apparent. “How many of them are there?”
Bellflower said, “The latest figures I’ve seen from the Xenological Division was an estimate of about four billion.” Bellflower turned to the oilier dignitaries assembled in the president’s suite. “Gentlemen,” He said, his expression without emotion, “some of the blame for all this is mine for relying too heavily on the scientific staff.” Outside, the four billion Thyrians, together with the billion and a Half Earthmen, the two races babbling incomprehensibly at each other, presented to the mind unquestionably the most tangled logistics problem ever encountered in the universe.
The president, in an awestruck voice said, “What do you think they will do when they find out we accidentally destroyed every single bit of tape recording on the planet—their History, their literature, their music . . .?”
“They’re going to be damned mad,” one of the dignitaries said.
“Mr. President,” the television technician said. “You’re on.” From the television screen on the wall came the words, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of Thyre . . .”
Bellflower’s thoughts turned to future challenges to his skill. He speculated on how the company who wrote his resumes for him would recount this latest success for the edification of future employer.
1970
THE REALITY MACHINE
After much too long an absence, Mr. Neville returns to these pages with a short piece of humor of the black and pointed variety, about a typical meeting between the president and his psychiatrist.
A.L. HAMBERGER M.D., NOTED that the President had now kept him waiting ten minuses beyond the accustomed time. The President was angry with him about the news leak on his latest proposal. The leak was certainly no fault of his. A typical childishness that he had come, on occasion, to expect.
Dr. Hamberger felt a mo
ment of panic that perhaps the appointment would not be kept at all. An abyss gaped in his soul. But he dismissed this reaction as characteristic of the paranoia which sometimes seemed to affect some of the less stable of the President’s close advisers. The President was secretive by nature, going off for long periods by himself—or for secret consultations with members of his official family (one could not be entirely sure which), the results of such meditations and/or conferences never being explicitly revealed. This habit of the man engendered suspicion in certain quarters and gave rise to fruitless speculations regarding what he was really thinking about. Particularly when, as Dr. Hamberger knew, crackpots frequently worked their way into the President’s confidences, feeding certain weaknesses in his character much as, say, writers cater to the whims of editors, or interns to surgeons.
Dr. Hamberger had been aware of this tendency toward paranoia for a long time, and he strongly resisted it in his own thoughts on every occasion. The President had a difficult job. He could destroy mankind, if he had to: he was the most powerful individual who ever lived. He was almost like a god, when you came down to it.
Dr. Hamberger was always reasssured when he entered the oval office, for Dr. Hamberger was an expert in emotional diseases, having for the last fifteen years followed this specialty in preference to dermatology, in which he had been trained.
Long ago, in fact, the relationship had been professional, but now it continued merely out of the warm regard and affection the physician felt for the President as a man. Or at least that was the major component in the relationship. This was in the best tradition of American medicine, seldom practiced in this day and age when everyone was out for a buck. In some small way, which he had to keep secret from the public, Dr. Hamberger felt he was advancing the humanitarian aspects of his calling.
Dr. Hamberger had come up with this arrangement when the fee-for-service interaction had been leaked to the press, and they had somehow implied that the President desperately needed the services of a psychiatrist. Which, of course, was not the actual fact at all, in the first place. The President was being made uncomfortable by a number of trivial physical disabilities, such as shortness of breath and a tendency to sleep 20 hours a day, both of which were of psychosomatic origin and could be easily controlled with nominal therapy. You could hardly call him badly disturbed.