Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by Fox B. Holden

  He remembered the first thing he’d learned in his first plunge into space-mechanics research. Space cannot exist without time; time cannot exist without space. Space-time, then, is the fabric of the Universe.

  So the threads were real. As real as the fact that one day in his life, he had decided to study law rather than to continue as a physicist. There had suddenly been a new split in the thread, and he chose, and had become an attorney, and then a man of politics.

  What had Carl said? “. . . you’d’ve made that try for the moon a success last month instead of another near-miss . . .”

  And how many other might-have-beens could there be?

  We conceive of Time, as it is integral with the structure of Space, an infinite . . . The second thing he had learned.

  And therefore—therefore each thread of might-have-been, unto itself, was.

  Somewhere, there was a Congressman named Douglas Blair. Somewhere, there was an astrophysicist, an artist, a sculptor, a writer, a cab-driver, a general, a sailor, a doctor, a thief, perhaps even a corpse named Douglas Blair . . .

  “I know,” he said to the woman at his side then. “Dorothy, I think I know.”

  They entered the beautiful house set far back from a wide, beautiful highway on a lush, beautiful lawn.

  And he tried to explain, until he thought she understood.

  He was tired, then. She located food in the house, and he found money in a wallet in which the identification card said simply Douglas Blair, Senior Quadrate of Games.

  But everything was changed—everything. Not just himself, not just Dorothy. A whole world. All on another thread, that had started back somewhere, much further back. Through history, there had been so many ifs . . .

  In a little while she lay beside him, and they slept.

  THEY had intended to begin the search for materials to build another contraption, but before he was fully dressed, from somewhere, there was a soft tinkling sound. It was repeated, signal-like, from a far corner of the room. It came from what could only have been an extremely simplified, compact version of the telephone, installed integrally with the ample arm of a lounging chair.

  “Shall I?” he hesitated.

  “Be careful . . .”

  Doug lifted the slender receiver. “Blair,” he said.

  “Quardate Blair, sorry, sir, that the liberty was taken to disturb you at your home. However, because of the urgency of this morning’s conference at your offices, it was considered wise to remind you of the time it is planned to convene, as per Instruction 43-A. May you be expected at 1100 hours, sir?”

  He dared not hesitate.

  “Yes, yes of course.” The voice he answered was a woman’s.

  “Will you wish the ‘copter as usual, sir?”

  “Why—yes of course, as usual. Thank you . . .” He hung up quickly. Dot was looking at him with the question held at her lips.

  “I’m expected at some sort of high-powered pow-wow in—” he glanced at a delicate clock inset in the chair’s opposite arm, “—less than a half-hour. They’re sending a ’copter for me. God knows what will happen if I don’t show up.” And, he observed to himself, only God knew what would happen when he did.

  CHAPTER V

  WHEN the ’copter swished to a feather-like landing on the wide expanse of the front lawn, Doug was ready. He had dressed himself in one of the dozen uniforms he had found arrayed in neat order in a full-length bedroom closet. He fastened the cape at his throat, wished suddenly that there was some way he could take Dot with him.

  Suddenly she was in his arms, and Doug could feel her tremble.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” Doug said. He opened the door. “So far it looks pretty civilized—hell, they couldn’t be any worse than the quaint little tribe of cut-throats back home! Matter of fact, if I thought for a minute anyone here’d believe me—”

  “Better not, Doug.”

  “Not a chance. I’m still one of Our Crowd—I don’t trust anybody! And don’t you—Stay put right here ’til I’m back, understand?”

  He kissed her, then walked across the lawn to the idling helicopter.

  It was empty.

  He got inside, then saw the red button with the one word RETURN under it. He punched it.

  Effortlessly, the robot controlled craft lifted, wafted him in seconds high above the city. Its rise stopped at what he judged was about 1,000 feet, then proceeded on a course of its own.

  “Wonderful, these dreamers,” he muttered, and became engrossed in study of the fabulous city below him.

  There was no capitol dome, nor could he find the Washington monument. But there was still the Potomac, and there were the cherry blossoms.

  Then the city became little more than a rolling pattern of line and color to him, and the thoughts began coming quickly, intensely. An excuse for the difference in his voice—did people here have colds? The uniform—suppose something were wrong . . . and his own mannerisms—how closely would he resemble, under the close scrutiny of the few there must be who knew him well, the man whom he’d replaced—the other Douglas Blair, who must at this instant be facing the same problem in a world as alien to him as this was to Congressman Douglas Blair? The woman on the phone had said “Your offices”—his meeting, then, and they’d ask questions.

  He’d been a fool. He’d never carry it off in a million years! They were smart—even a half-intelligent person of his own world could spot the eternal phony trying to bluff for what just wasn’t there, even in the guy who’d learned how from the right books. Hell, he’d be as transparent as manners at a pink tea.

  HE wondered about the other Douglas Blair, and how the trap felt that had snapped on him. About the kids—what about his kids? Terry was a smart boy and he’d know the Contraption had been responsible for what had happened. Would he try to get hold of Carl or somebody? If a bunch of technicians or even scientists got to the Contraption, touched anything . . . There would be no knowing about that until they tried to get back. Either the reference frame would be the same or, if someone had tampered, it would be completely altered, and Dot and himself would go from one time thread to the next, ad infinitum, with finding their own again as probable as finding a specific grain of sand in the Sahara.

  The other Douglas Blair. And of course, his wife. He knew what they looked like—she would have Dot’s slenderness, her face, eyes, hair . . . No one would know. And the man would look like himself. Suppose even the kids didn’t know? Doug wondered if they’d fool the kids . . . And then—then what? No one would know, but that was a joke. They wouldn’t believe it if his alter-ego got to a microphone and broadcast it. People only believed in gossip, in rumor, in the miracles of wishful thinking. They never believed in facts. They accepted them, but they were not convinced. Newspapers would publish accounts of dolls that wept, but carefully steered clear of the scientific phenomenon if it were not between governmental quotation marks. It was true of course—mystery, properly interpreted, could not hurt. A fact defied interpretation; in the final analysis, it must be taken or left. And when it was a fact strange to the beliefs of men, it was left for as long a period as curiosity would permit. And then, of course, misunderstood.

  He wondered how the other Douglas Blair would manage, and what, upon realizing that his was the superior intelligence and knowledge, he would do with it . . .

  The ’copter had begun to lose altitude and the flat expanse of a large roof below was its destination. Its edges were lined with other ’copters, hangars, servicing equipment, men. While he watched a pilotless ship gently rose into a flight pattern above the roof toward which he descended. Another was descending toward it even as he was, from slightly above and from the east.

  And then there were little cold, stabbing fingers of panic inside him, squeezing, twisting his vitals.

  Relax, mister.

  Now it was no longer a pleasantly fantastic detached stage setting, with red exit lights glowing reassuringly somewhere off in the shadows of reality. Quite painfully, h
e felt the chiding slap of reality across his face.

  And it hurt.

  Forget about the Contraption, forget about the smart guys, and their smart little world—their little dung-heaps of stupidity and moral cannibalism you’ve had the colossal luck to escape . . .

  Can’t do it? That’s right—the kids, of course . . .

  Sure, but old Mother Nature takes care of that, doesn’t she? When your kids are lying dead on some foreign battlefield you can have more . . . That’s why life’s cheap, old man . . . Nature doesn’t care—she’ll keep supplying and supplying as long as there are fools enough to flood the market. And you have your woman, if it’s kids you want . . .

  It’s a clean slate . . . Pick up the chalk—

  But you couldn’t name them Mike and Terry, dammit, you couldn’t!

  The ’copter’s landing-gear touched.

  Its blades were still slowing as the two uniformed men appeared beside it, opened the small door. Doug climbed out, and the two stood at attention, each right palm open and raised. He understood. The universal gesture for peace—a salute. An odd gesture to replace the mock-shielding of the eyes against the glitter of a nobleman’s shiny battle armor!

  He returned it, and they fell in at his side to escort him across the landing roof to an opening entrance, cloaks swirling gently behind them in the bright morning sunlight.

  HE entered the chamber still flanked by the orderlies. There were nine men and a woman about the circumference of the long, elliptical conference table, and they stood as though brought erect by a common puppet-string as he came through the wide door.

  The vacant chair was at the far end of the table. Silently, he was escorted to it, seated. The others bowed with but a hint of movement toward him, then seated themselves. The orderlies withdrew, and the softly curved walls seemed to grow in upon themselves as the wide doorway through which he had come soundlessly disappeared.

  Here they were, then. Ten people whom he did not know, called to conference for the discussion of some supposedly vital situation of which he had not the slightest inkling. And he had apparently called it, so the talking was up to him.

  It would mean discovery before he had said ten words.

  As they sat, his eyes swept from one to the next in unhesitating succession.

  The woman, next to him, was clothed as Dot had been. He had seen many less attractive. Of the men, three obviously outranked the remaining six, who would have looked, were it not for the too-serious set of their faces, like college athletes. Their three superiors, he judged, were nearer his own age. The markings at the collars of their blue cloaks were identical with his own, with the exception that they were executed in red rather than in white. Four identical insignia—four identical commands then.

  The term Quadrate was at once self-explanatory. Somewhere, there were four great armies . . .

  And he, apparently, held power of decision over them all. What colossal thing surged one way or the other at his order? And—who or what, in turn, ordered him?

  Now they were seated, waiting.

  You should’ve run, you should’ve run . . . What’d you think it was, just a dream with the label “Impossible” stuck on it? How long did you think you could deny the reality of what you knew was real? How deep do you have to get into a mess before you’re convinced you don’t come equipped with a guardian angel, a $64 miracle that’ll just take you over and bail you out when the going gets rough enough? Charms and such went out with the Dark Ages, mister . . . Or didn’t anybody ever tell you?

  “. . . Gentlemen, you of course know why you’re here . . .” That’s the idea! After all, you learned the old double-talk technique a long time ago—Congressman. “Therefore perhaps it will he best to reverse the usual question and answer procedure; I shall hear your questions and opinions on the matter first, then present my own. Proceed . . .”

  The girl was writing.

  The others seemed to be swallowing it.

  “Quadrate Blair,” the tallest of the three said abruptly. “Frankly, we were hoping you might lay the matter open in this way! I don’t intend to speak for Quadrate Tayne and Quadrate Klauss, but I think they have felt the same as I. Is it to be our understanding that we are to receive no OP for this year’s games? I for one would be the first to grant that our overall system, developed since the days of the Sahara as it has been, is well perfected, as nearly without flaw as is possible to make it. Yet the burden of detail is always with us. It is the small details, after all, each built on each, that have brought us to the high level we’ve achieved. There has always been room for correction, for experiment, for change. Therefore I, and I think here I may speak for the others, am puzzled that, with the first phase of the games but a week hence, we have received nothing—and there were details of last year’s Operational Procedure that I know Quadrate Klauss as well as myself felt should have been further examined in the field. The boys themselves keep developing new techniques—one tells the other, a brother, a friend—and we must make it our business to keep abreast of them, or we’ll find ourselves in the midst of a confusion that could conceivably assail the very psychological foundations upon which our civilization is built!”

  THE one called Klauss rose then. He had a more soldierly carriage than the first man, but he was not as tall. His tone was more conservative, yet of a more subtle firmness. And Doug listened. It was the only way in which he might gain some hint, some shadow of an idea of what these impossible men were talking about.

  “Would you answer one question, sir?” the Quadrate named Klauss said. “Is the Director’s word on this thing final? I ask this since if there is still the possibility of discussing further any or all of the procedure amendments proposed in our check lists . . .”

  The words meant nothing. So far so good, but it was just stalling—he’d succeeded in gaining time, but when they were finished, they’d expect some sort of decision, and then a follow-through.

  Dammit, he was balled up! Somehow maybe he could fake long enough to get the materials, build the Contraption and get out. A tele-radio machine he had examined in the house while Dot slept might provide some of the needed material, but not the vital stuff. He would order that from a government supply office as soon as he returned to the house. His rank should be sufficient to get him what he needed without questions being asked. The Earth he knew with all its clatter of empty heads, its life-long familiarity—Terry and Mike were there. Or this world of seeming intelligence, efficiency, forthright honesty of conviction? Was there a choice?

  The girl beside him moved in her chair. Recording secretary, of course. She would know. Everything—

  How many times have you dreamed of a world like this? Don’t be a fool . . .

  “—and I therefore submit, sir, that unless final decision has been made by the Director, we further discuss the expedited drafting of the new OP for this year, based on the details enumerated in our checklists”

  The third one rose, the one referred to as Tayne.

  There was something in the look of the man that brought Doug at once on guard. Wide face and shoulders, sharp, small features that gave his face a curious look of flatness, small eyes. The eyes bored in as though they could see through Doug’s body and into his brain, examine it, and find it an imposter.

  “I think the Senior Quadrate will agree,” he said, “that each time the games are conducted, it must be according to a plan which is as closely fool-proof as is possible to make it. I think he will agree that personal feelings have no place in the formulation of such plans—or their lack of formulation.”

  All eyes were suddenly on Doug, and he knew that here was a challenge—that here was something the others had wished to say, but had considered the risk too great.

  “Continue,” he said.

  “I ask, in the interests of the Council, what the Senior Quadrate’s real reason is for having delayed the revised OP for so protracted a length of time. I am not in position to demand an answer, but I point out that
I ask the question as an alternative to filing a formal charge of outright profligacy in office I”

  THE sharp intakes of breath about the table were his cue. Even the girl hesitated the space of, a second in her transcription. Suddenly, the thing was obvious. And Doug knew he could cope with it—he had, so many times before!

  This lady, he thought, wants to be the next Senior Quadrate!

  “It seems,” he said, “the Quadrate has forgotten that the Council table is not intended as a political arena. He will be seated.”

  Tayne reddened. But he did not sit.

  “The Director be praised but it’s time we got to the bottom of this! Is it not true, Quadrate Blair, that the OP is being delayed so that whole sections may be entirely revised—in order to conform to your personal beliefs concerning what you term efficiency of equipment, on which we hear you expound so often? I suggest sir that you are grossly overstepping your authority! I doubt seriously that our check-lists have even been consulted! The Senior Quadrate would accuse me of seeking his position—I’m aware of that—but I ask him point-blank of his own ambitions toward the Directorate!”

  There was but an instant of silence; the Council was stunned. Doug felt cold little drops of sweat rolling down the undersides of his arms. What now? Was he supposed to shoot the man on the spot? Fire him, what? He turned to the girl.

  “You will make extra copies of the Quadrate’s remarks for the—the Director’s personal file. Forward them to his headquarters as soon following adjournment of this session as is possible.” She nodded. He was still doing it right. But luck wasn’t a consistent thing. “Until the Director clarifies the status of Quadrate Tayne, pending his review of this report of his insubordinate charges and my own recommendations for the severest penalty the law allows for such insubordination, we will consider the conference adjourned, gentlemen.”

  They stood at once, bowed, and flanked bv their junior officers filed silently out.