It appeared to Bard Chai that Eng had gotten himself trapped in a closed loop. He would oscillate within a distinct small interval: between possessing only a theoretical account of the swabble and in actuality constructing and operating a functioning model. And tagging along with him would go a good portion of Terra's population.
We are caught with him, Bard Chai realized gloomily. How do we escape? What is our solution?
"We must either force Eng back into complete obliteration of his manuscript, including the idea for the construct," Gantrix said, "or --"
"But that is impossible," Bard Chai broke in impatiently. "At this point the Hobart Phase weakens automatically, since no working swabbles exist to sustain it. How, in their absence, can Eng be forced backward in time a single step farther?"
It constituted a valid -- and answerable -- query; both men realized that, and neither spoke for a time. Gantrix morosely continued to rub his jaw, as if he could perceive the steady growth of beard-stubble. Bard Chai, on the other hand, had withdrawn into an intensive introverted state; he pondered and repondered the problem.
No answer came. At least not yet. But, given time --
"This is extremely difficult," the Bard said, with agitation. "Eng will probably throw together his first swabble at any moment. And once more we will be cycled in a retrograde direction." What worried him now was one terrible, swift insight. This would occur again and again, and each time the interval would be shortened further. Until, he ruminated, it becomes a stall within a single microsecond; no time-progression in either direction will be able to take place.
A morbid prospect indeed. But one redemptive factor existed. Eng undoubtedly would perceive the problem, too. And he would seek a way out. Logically, it could be solved by him in at least one way: he could voluntarily abstain from inventing the swabble. The Hobart Phase, then, would never assert itself, at least not effectively
But such a decision lay with Ludwig Eng alone. Would he cooperate, if the idea were presented to him?
Probably not. Eng had always been a violent and autistic man; no one could influence him. This, of course, had helped him become an original personality; without this Eng would not have amounted to anything as an inventor, and the swabble, with its enormous effect on contemporary society, would never have come into existence.
Which would have been a good thing, the Bard thought morosely. But until now we could not appreciate this.
He appreciated it now.
The solution which Gantrix had proposed, that of rebirthing Eng, did not appeal to him. But it looked more and more to his eyes as the only way out. And a way out had to be found.
With profound irritation the librarian Niehls Lehrer inspected the clock on his desk, then his appointment book. Eng had not shown up; two-thirty had arrived, and Lehrer sat alone in his office. Carl Gantrix had been correct.
While pondering the meaning of this he heard, dimly, the phone ringing. Probably Eng, he decided as he reached for the receiver. A long way off, phoning in to say that he can't make it. I'll have trouble with this; the syndicate won't like it. And I'll have to alert them; I have no choice.
Into the phone he said, "Goodbye."
"I love you, Niehls." A breathless feminine voice; this was not the call which he had anticipated. "Do you love me?"
"Yes, Charise," he said. "I love you, too. But dammit, don't call me during business hours; I thought you knew that."
Contritely, Charise McFadden said, "Sorry, Niehls. But I keep thinking about poor Lance. Did you do the research on him that you promised? I bet you didn't."
As a matter of fact he had; or more accurately he had instructed a minor employee of the library to do the task for him. Reaching into the top desk drawer he brought out Lance Arbuthnot's folio. "Here it is," he informed Charise. "I know all there is to know about this crank. All I care to know, more correctly." He leafed among the sheets of paper within the file. "There's not much here, actually. Arbuthnot hasn't done much. You understand I can only take time to go into this matter because a major library client has failed -- so far -- to keep his two-thirty appointment. If he does show up, I'll have to terminate this conversation."
"Did Arbuthnot know the Anarch Peak?"
"That part of his account is true."
"And he is a genuine crank. So eradicating his thesis would be a distinct gain for society. It's your duty." Over the vid portion of the phone she batted her long lashes coaxingly. "Come on, Niehls, dear. Please."
"But," Lehrer continued inflexibly, "there is nothing here suggesting that Arbuthnot spent any time concocting a paper dealing with the psychosomatic aspects of death by meteor-strike."
She colored, hesitated, then said in a low voice, "I, um, made that up."
"Why?"
After a pause, Charise said, falteringly, "Well, h-h-he's -- the fact is, I'm his mistress."
"The fact is," Lehrer said boring ahead with ruthless vigor, "you don't really know what his thesis is about. It may be perfectly rational. A significant contribution to our society. Correct?" He did not wait for her reply; reaching, he started to break the phone circuit.
"Wait." She swallowed rapidly, ducked her head, then plunged on as his fingers touched the trip switch of the phone. "All right, Niehls; I admit it. Lance refuses to tell me what his thesis is about. He won't tell anybody. But if you'll undertake to eradicate it -- don't you see? He'll have to reveal it to you; your analysis of it is required before the syndicate accepts it. Isn't that so? And then you'll tell me what it's all about. I know you will."
Lehrer said, "What do you care what it's about?"
"I think," Charise said, hesitating, "it has to do with me. Honest. There's something strange about me, and Lance noticed it. I mean, that's not so unusual when you consider how, um, close we two are; we see so much -- if you'll excuse the expression -- of each other."
"I find this a dull topic," Lehrer said frigidly. At this point, he said to himself, I wouldn't accept Arbuthnot's thesis at any cost to me. Even if they debited me to the tune often thousand poscreds. "I'll talk to you some other time," he said, and broke the phone circuit.
"Sir," his secretary Miss Tomsen said over the desk intercom, "there's this man out here who's been waiting since six this evening. He says he only wants a second or two of your time, and Miss McFadden led him to understand that you'd be glad to --"
"Tell him I died in office," Lehrer said harshly.
"But you can't die, sir. You're under the Hobart Phase. And Mr. Arbuthnot knows that, because he mentioned it. He's been sitting out here doing a Hobart type horoscope on you, and he predicts that great things have happened to you during the previous year. Frankly he makes me nervous; some of his predictions sound so accurate."
"Fortune-telling about the past doesn't interest me," Lehrer said. "In fact, as far as I'm concerned, it's a hoax. Only the future is knowable." The man is a crank, all right, Lehrer realized. Charise told me the truth in that respect. Imagine maintaining in all seriousness that what has already happened, what has vanished into the limbo of nebulous yesterday, can be predicted. There's one killed every minute, as P.T. Barnum phrased it.
Maybe I should see him, he reflected. Charise is right; ideas like this ought to be eradicated for the good of mankind, if not for my own peace of mind.
But that was not all. Now a measure of curiosity overcame him. It would be interesting, in a feeble way, to hear the idiot out. See what he predicted, especially for the recent few weeks. And then accept his thesis for eradication. Be the first person he casts a Hobart type of horoscope for.
Undoubtedly, Ludwig Eng did not intend to show up. The time, Lehrer said to himself, must be two o'clock by now. He glanced at his wristwatch. And blinked.
The watch hands semaphored two-forty.
"Miss Tomsen," Lehrer said into the intercom, "What time do you have?"
"Leaping J. Lizards," Miss Tomsen said. "It's earlier than I thought. I distinctly recall it being two-twenty just a moment ago. My wat
ch must have stopped."
"You mean it's later than you thought. Two-forty is later than two-thirty."
"No sir, if you don't resent my disagreeing with you. I mean, it's not my place to tell you what's what, but I am right. You can ask anybody. I'll ask this gentleman out here. Mr. Arbuthnot, isn't two-forty earlier than two-twenty?"
Over the intercom speaker came a masculine voice, dry and controlled. "I'm only interested in seeing Mr. Lehrer, not in holding academic discussions. Mr. Lehrer, if you will see me, I guarantee you'll find my thesis the most flagrant piece of outright trash you've ever had brought to your attention; Miss McFadden will not mislead you."
"Send him in," Lehrer reluctantly instructed Miss Tomsen. He felt perplexed. Something weird had begun to happen, something which was connected with the orderly flow of time. But he could not make out precisely what.
A dapper young man, in the first stages of baldness, entered the office, a briefcase under his arm. He and Lehrer briefly shook and then Arbuthnot seated himself facing the desk.
So this is the man Charise is having an affair with, Lehrer said to himself. Well, so it goes. "I'll give you ten minutes," he stated. "And then you're out of here. You understand?"
"I have concocted here," Arbuthnot said, unzipping his briefcase, "the most outrageously impossible concept imaginable to my mind. And I think official eradication is absolutely essential, here, if this idea is to be kept from taking root and doing actual outright harm. There are people who pick up and act on any idea, no matter how contrary to rational good sense. You're the only person I've shown this to, and I show it to you with grave reservations." Arbuthnot then, in one brisk and spasmodic motion, dropped his typewritten work on the surface of Niehls Lehrer's desk. And sat back, waiting.
With professional caution, Lehrer surveyed the title of the paper, then shrugged. "This is nothing more than an inversion of Ludwig Eng's famous work." He slid his castered chair back from the desk, disavowing the manuscript; raising both hands he gestured in dismissal. "This is not so preposterous; it's logically thinkable to reverse Eng's title -- anybody could do it at any time."
Arbuthnot said grimly, "But no one has. Until now. Read it once again and think out the implications."
Unimpressed, Lehrer once more examined the thick bundle of pages.
"The implications," Arbuthnot continued in a low, quiet, but tense voice, "of the eradication of this manuscript."
The title, still unimpressive to Lehrer, read:
HOW I DISASSEMBLED MY SWABBLE
INTO ORDINARY HOUSEHOLD OBJECTS IN MY BASEMENT
DURING MY SPARE TIME
"So?" Lehrer said. "Anyone can disassemble a swabble; in fact it's being done. In fact, thousands of swabbles are being eradicated; it's the pattern. In fact, I doubt whether a single swabble is now to be found anywhere in --"
"When this thesis is eradicated," Arbuthnot said, "as I am certain it has been, and recently, what will the negation consist of? Think it out, Lehrer. You know the implications of cleaning out of existence Eng's premise; it means the end of the swabble and therefore the Hobart Phase. In fact, we'll see a return to normal time-flow throughout the Western United States and the Free Negro Municipality within the past forty-eight hours. . . as Eng's manuscript nears syndicate jurisdiction. The eradication of my work, then, if you follow the same line of reasoning --" He paused, "You see what I've done, don't you? I've found a way to preserve the swabble. And to maintain the now-disintegrating Hobart Phase, Without my thesis we'll gradually lose all that the swabble has brought us. The swabble, Lehrer, eliminates death; the case of the Anarch Peak is only the beginning. But the only way to keep the cycle alive is to balance Eng's paper with mine; Eng's paper moves us in one direction; my paper reverses it, and then Eng's becomes operative once more. Forever, if we want it. Unless -- and I can't imagine this happening, although admittedly it is theoretically possible -- a hopeless fusion of the two time-flows results."
"You're a crank," Lehrer said thickly.
"Exactly." Arbuthnot nodded. "And that's why you'll accept my paper for official syndicate eradication. Because you don't believe me. Because you think this is absurd." He smiled slightly, his eyes gray, intelligent and penetrating. Pressing the on-button of his intercom, Lehrer said, "Miss Tomsen, notify the local outlet of the syndicate that I'd like an Erad sent to my office as soon as possible. I have some junk here that I want him to rule on. So we can begin the business of terminal copy extinction." "Yes, Mr. Lehrer," Miss Tomsen's voice said.
Leaning back in his chair, Lehrer surveyed the man seated across from him. "Does that suit you?"
Still smiling, Arbuthnot said, "Perfectly."
"If I thought there was anything in your concept --"
"But you don't," Arbuthnot said patiently. "So I'm going to get what I want; I'll be successful. Sometime tomorrow or at the latest the day after."
"You mean yesterday," Lehrer said. "Or the day before." He examined his wristwatch. "The ten minutes are up," he informed the crank inventor. "I'll ask you now to leave." He placed his hand on the bundle of papers. "This stays here."
Rising, Arbuthnot moved toward the door of the office. "Mr. Lehrer," he said, pausing, "don't be alarmed by this, but with all due respects, sir, you need a shave."
"I haven't shaved in twenty-three years," Lehrer said. "Not since the Hobart Phase first took effect in my area of Los Angeles."
"You will by this time tomorrow," Arbuthnot said. And left the office; the door shut after him.
After a moment of reflection, Lehrer touched the button of the intercom. "Miss Tomsen, don't send anyone else in here; I'm cancelling my appointments for the balance of the day."
"Yes sir." Hopefully, Miss Tomsen said, "He was a crank, wasn't he? I thought so; I can always tell. You're glad you saw him."
"Will see him," he corrected.
"I think you're mistaken, Mr. Lehrer. The past tense --"
"Even if Ludwig Eng shows up," Lehrer said, "I don't feel like seeing him. I've had enough for today." Opening his desk drawer he carefully deposited Arbuthnot's manuscript within it, then shut it once more. He reached toward the ash tray on the desk, selected the shortest -- and hence best -- cigarette butt, dabbed it against the ceramic surface until it began to burn, then lifted it to his lips. Puffing shreds of tobacco into it, he sat staring fixedly out the office window at the poplar trees that lined the walk to the parking lot.
The wind, rushing about, gathered up a quantity of leaves, swirled them onto the branches of the trees, adhered them in a neat arrangement which decidedly added to the beauty of the trees.
Already, some of the brown leaves had turned green. In a short while autumn would give way to summer, and summer to spring.
He watched appreciatively. As he waited for the Erad sent out by the syndicate. Due to the crank's deranged thesis, time had once more returned to normal. Except --
Lehrer rubbed his chin. Bristles. He frowned.
"Miss Tomsen," he said into the intercom, "will you step in here and tell me whether or not I need a shave?"
He had a feeling that he did. And soon.
Probably within the previous half hour.
Holy Quarrel
I
Sleep dissolved; he blinked as a dazzle of white artificial light hurt him. The light came from three rings which held a fixed location above the bed, midway to the ceiling.
"Sorry to wake you, Mr. Stafford," a man's voice came from beyond the light. "You are Joseph Stafford, aren't you?" Then, speaking to someone else, also unseen, the voice continued, "Would be a damn shame to wake somebody else up -- somebody who didn't deserve it."
Stafford sat up and croaked, "Who are you?"
The bed creaked and one circle of light lowered. One of them had seated himself. "We're looking for Joseph Stafford, of tier six, floor fifty, who's the -- what do you call it?"
"Computer GB-class repairman," a companion assisted him.
"Yes, an expert, for example, in those ne
w molten-plasma data storage cans. You could fix one like that if it broke, couldn't you, Stafford?"
"Sure he could," another voice said calmly. "That's why he's rated as standby." He explained, "That second vidphone line we cut did that; it kept him directly connected with his superiors."
"How long has it been since you got a call, repairman?" the first voice inquired.
Stafford did not answer; he fished beneath the pillow of the bed, groped for the Sneek gun he generally kept there.
"Probably hasn't worked for a long time," one of the visitors with flashlight said. "Probably needs the money. You need any money, Stafford? Or what do you need? You enjoy fixing computers? I mean, you'd be a sap to enter this line of work unless you liked it -- with you on twenty-four-hour standby like it is. Are you good? Can you fix anything, no matter how ridiculous and remote it is, that happens to our Genux-B military planning programmer? Make us feel good; say yes."
"I -- have to think," Stafford said thickly. He still searched for the gun, but he had lost it; he felt its absence. Or possibly before awakening him they had taken it.
"Tell you what, Stafford," the voice went on.
Interrupting, another voice said, "Mr. Stafford. Listen." The far right nimbus of light also lowered; the man had bent over him. "Get out of bed, okay? Get dressed and we'll drive you to where we need a computer fixed, and on the way when you have plenty of time you can decide how good you are. And then when we get there you can have a quick look at the Genux-B and see how long it'll take you."
"We really want it fixed up," the first man said plaintively. "As it is, it's no good to us or anyone. The way it is now, data are piling up in mile-high mounds. And they're not being -- what do you say? -- ingested. They just sit there, and Genux-B doesn't process them, so naturally it can't come up with any decision. So naturally all those satellites are just flying along there like nothing happened."
Dick, Philip K. - Complete Stories 5 - The Eye of Sibyl and Other Stories (v3.0) Page 16