The Worlds of If
Page 3
Somewhereamong their ghostly infinities existed one that represented the worldthat would have been had I made the liner. I had only to call up Haskelvan Manderpootz, make an appointment, and then--find out.
Yet it wasn't an easy decision. Suppose--just suppose that I foundmyself responsible--not legally responsible, certainly; there'd be noquestion of criminal negligence, or anything of that sort--not evenmorally responsible, because I couldn't possibly have anticipated thatmy presence or absence could weigh so heavily in the scales of life anddeath, nor could I have known in which direction the scales would tip.Just--responsible; that was all. Yet I hated to find out.
I hated equally not finding out. Uncertainty has its pangs too, quite aspainful as those of remorse. It might be less nerve-racking to knowmyself responsible than to wonder, to waste thoughts in vain doubts andfutile reproaches. So I seized the visiphone, dialed the number of theUniversity, and at length gazed on the broad, humorous, intelligentfeatures of van Manderpootz, dragged from a morning lecture by my call.
* * * * *
I was all but prompt for the appointment the following evening, andmight actually have been on time but for an unreasonable traffic officerwho insisted on booking me for speeding. At any rate, van Manderpootzwas impressed.
"Well!" he rumbled. "I almost missed you, Dixon. I was just going overto the club, since I didn't expect you for an hour. You're only tenminutes late."
I ignored this. "Professor, I want to use your--uh--yoursubjunctivisor."
"Eh? Oh, yes. You're lucky, then. I was just about to dismantle it."
"Dismantle it! Why?"
"It has served its purpose. It has given birth to an idea far moreimportant than itself. I shall need the space it occupies."
"But what _is_ the idea, if it's not too presumptuous of me to ask?"
"It is not too presumptuous. You and the world which awaits it soeagerly may both know, but you hear it from the lips of the author. Itis nothing less than the autobiography of van Manderpootz!" He pausedimpressively.
I gaped. "Your autobiography?"
"Yes. The world, though perhaps unaware, is crying for it. I shalldetail my life, my work. I shall reveal myself as the man responsiblefor the three years' duration of the Pacific War of 2004."
"You?"
"None other. Had I not been a loyal Netherlands subject at that time,and therefore neutral, the forces of Asia would have been crushed inthree months instead of three years. The subjunctivisor tells me so; Iwould have invented a calculator to forecast the chances of everyengagement; van Manderpootz would have removed the hit or miss elementin the conduct of war." He frowned solemnly. "There is my idea. Theautobiography of van Manderpootz. What do you think of it?"
I recovered my thoughts. "It's--uh--it's colossal!" I said vehemently."I'll buy a copy myself. Several copies. I'll send 'em to my friends."
"I," said van Manderpootz expansively, "shall autograph your copy foryou. It will be priceless. I shall write in some fitting phrase, perhapssomething like _Magnificus sed non superbus_. 'Great but not proud!'That well described van Manderpootz, who despite his greatness issimple, modest, and unassuming. Don't you agree?"
"Perfectly! A very apt description of you. But--couldn't I see yoursubjunctivisor before it's dismantled to make way for the greater work?"
"Ah! You wish to find out something?"
"Yes, professor. Do you remember the _Baikal_ disaster of a week or twoago? I was to have taken that liner to Moscow. I just missed it." Irelated the circumstances.
"Humph!" he grunted. "You wish to discover what would have happened hadyou caught it, eh? Well, I see several possibilities. Among the world of'if' is the one that would have been real if you had been on time, theone that depended on the vessel waiting for your actual arrival, and theone that hung on your arriving within the five minutes they actuallywaited. In which are you interested?"
"Oh--the last one." That seemed the likeliest. After all, it was toomuch to expect that Dixon Wells could ever be on time, and as to thesecond possibility--well, they _hadn't_ waited for me, and that in a wayremoved the weight of responsibility.
"Come on," rumbled van Manderpootz. I followed him across to the PhysicsBuilding and into his littered laboratory. The device still stood on thetable and I took my place before it, staring at the screen of theHorsten psychomat. The clouds wavered and shifted as I sought to impressmy memories on their suggestive shapes, to read into them some pictureof that vanished morning.
Then I had it. I made out the vista from the Staten Bridge, and wasspeeding across the giant span toward the airport. I waved a signal tovan Manderpootz, the thing clicked, and the subjunctivisor was on.
The grassless clay of the field appeared. It is a curious thing aboutthe psychomat that you see only through the eyes of your image on thescreen. It lends a strange reality to the working of the toy; I supposea sort of self-hypnosis is partly responsible.
I was rushing over the ground toward the glittering, silver-wingedprojectile that was the _Baikal_. A glowering officer waved me on, and Idashed up the slant of the gangplank and into the ship; the port droppedand I heard a long "Whew!" of relief.
"Sit down!" barked the officer, gesturing toward an unoccupied seat. Ifell into it; the ship quivered under the thrust of the catapult, gratedharshly into motion, and then was flung bodily into the air. The blastsroared instantly, then settled to a more muffled throbbing, and Iwatched Staten Island drop down and slide back beneath me. The giantrocket was under way.
"Whew!" I breathed again. "Made it!" I caught an amused glance from myright. I was in an aisle seat; there was no one to my left, so I turnedto the eyes that had flashed, glanced, and froze staring.
It was a girl. Perhaps she wasn't actually as lovely as she looked tome; after all, I was seeing her through the half-visionary screen of apsychomat. I've told myself since that she _couldn't_ have been aspretty as she seemed, that it was due to my own imagination filling inthe details. I don't know; I remember only that I stared at curiouslylovely silver-blue eyes and velvety brown hair, and a small amusedmouth, and an impudent nose. I kept staring until she flushed.
"I'm sorry," I said quickly. "I--was startled."
There's a friendly atmosphere aboard a trans-oceanic rocket. Thepassengers are forced into a crowded intimacy for anywhere from seven totwelve hours, and there isn't much room for moving about. Generally, onestrikes up an acquaintance with his neighbors; introductions aren't atall necessary, and the custom is simply to speak to anybody youchoose--something like an all-day trip on the railroad trains of thelast century, I suppose. You make friends for the duration of thejourney, and then, nine times out of ten, you never hear of yourtraveling companions again.
The girl smiled. "Are you the individual responsible for the delay instarting?"
I admitted it. "I seem to be chronically late. Even watches lose time assoon as I wear them."
She laughed. "Your responsibilities can't be very heavy."
Well, they weren't of course, though it's surprising how many clubs,caddies, and chorus girls have depended on me at various times forappreciable portions of their incomes. But somehow I didn't feel likementioning those things to the silvery-eyed girl.
We talked. Her name, it developed, was Joanna Caldwell, and she wasgoing as far as Paris. She was an artist, or hoped to be one day, and ofcourse there is no place in the world that can supply both training andinspiration like Paris. So it was there she was bound for a year ofstudy, and despite her demurely humorous lips and laughing eyes, I couldsee that the business was of vast importance to her. I gathered that shehad worked hard for the year in Paris, had scraped and saved for threeyears as fashion illustrator for some woman's magazine, though shecouldn't have been many months over twenty-one. Her painting meant agreat deal to her, and I could understand it. I'd felt that way aboutpolo once.
So you see, we were sympathetic spirits from the beginning. I knew thatshe liked me, and it was obvious that she didn't connect Dixon
Wellswith the N. J. Wells Corporation. And as for me--well, after that firstglance into her cool silver eyes, I simply didn't care to look anywhereelse. The hours seemed to drip away like minutes while I watched her.
You know how those things go. Suddenly I was calling her Joanna and shewas calling me Dick, and it seemed as if we'd been doing just that allour lives. I'd decided to stop over in Paris on my way back from Moscow,and I'd secured her promise to let me see her. She was different, I tellyou; she was nothing like the calculating Whimsy White, and still lesslike the dancing, simpering, giddy youngsters one meets around at socialaffairs. She was just Joanna,