“Too late—why?”
“There won’t be time for them to construct the equipment. My dear, the war is on.”
Her face grew white as she stared at him.
He said, “On the radio, a few minutes ago. Boston has been destroyed by an atomic bomb. War has been declared.”
He spoke faster. “And you know all that means and will lead to. I’m closing the switch that will put on the field and I’m keeping it on until it’s safe to open it again.” He didn’t shock her further by saying that he didn’t think it would be completely safe within their lifetimes. “We can’t help anyone else now—it’s too late. But we can save ourselves.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry I had to be so abrupt about this. But now you understand why. In fact, I don’t ask you to marry me right away, if you have any doubt at all. Just stay here until you’re ready. Let me say the things, do the things, I should have said and done.
“Until now”—he smiled at her—“until now I’ve been working so hard, so many hours a day, that I haven’t had time to make love to you. But now there’ll be time, lots of time—and I do love you, Myra.”
She stood up suddenly. Unseeingly, almost blindly, she started for the doorway.
“Myra!” he called. He started around the desk after her. She turned at the door and held him back. Her face and her voice were quite calm.
“I’ve got to go, Doctor. I’ve had a little nurse’s training. I’m going to be needed.”
“But, Myra, think what’s going to happen out there!
They’re going to turn into animals. They’re going to die horribly. Listen, I love you too much to let you face that. Stay, please!”
Amazingly she had smiled at him. “Good-bye, Dr. Braden. I’m afraid that I’m going to have to die with the rest of the animals. I guess I’m crazy that way.”
And the door had closed behind her. From the window he had watched her go down the steps and start running as soon as she had reached the sidewalk.
There’d been the roar of jets overhead. Probably, he thought, this soon, they were ours, But they could be the enemy—over the pole and across Canada, so high that they’d escaped detection, swooping low as they crossed Erie. With Cleveland as one of their objectives. Maybe somehow they’d even know of him and his work and had made Cleveland a prime objective. He had run to the switch and thrown it.
Outside the window, twenty feet from it, a gray nothingness had sprung into being. All sound from outside had ceased. He had gone out of the house and looked at it—the visible half of it a gray hemisphere, forty feet high and eighty feet broad, just big enough to clear the two-story almost cubical building that was his home and his laboratory both. And he knew that it extended forty feet into the earth to complete a perfect sphere. No ravening force could enter it from above, no earthworm crawl through it from below.
None had for thirty years.
Well, it hadn’t been too bad a thirty years, he thought. He’d had his books—and he’d read his favorite ones so often that he knew them almost by heart. He’d kept on experimenting and—although, the last seven years, since he’d passed sixty, he’d gradually lost interest and creativeness— he’d accomplished a few little things.
Nothing comparable to the field itself or even his inventions before that—but there hadn’t been the incentive. Too slight a probability that anything he developed would ever be of use to himself or to anybody else. What good is a refinement in electronics to a savage who doesn’t know how to tune a simple radio set, let alone build one.
Well, there’d been enough to keep him sane if not happy.
He went to the window and stared through it at the gray impalpability twenty feet away If only he could lower it
and then, when he saw what he knew he would see, restore it quickly. But once down it was down for good.
He walked to the switch and stood staring at it. Suddenly he reached up and pulled it. He turned slowly to the window and then walked, almost ran, to it. The gray wall was gone—what lay beyond it was sheerly incredible.
Not the Cleveland he’d known but a beautiful city, a new city. What had been a narrow street was a wide boulevard. The houses, the buildings, were clean and beautiful, the style of architecture strange to him. Grass, trees, everything well kept. What had happened—how could it be? After atomic war mankind couldn’t possibly have come back this far, this quickly. Else all of sociology was wrong and ridiculous.
And where were the people? As if in answer a car went by. A car? It looked like no car he’d ever seen before. Much faster, much sleeker, much more maneuverable—it barely seemed to touch the street, as though anti-gravity took away its weight while gyroscopes gave it stability. A man and woman rode in it, the man driving. He was young and handsome, the woman young and beautiful.
They turned and looked his way and suddenly the man stopped the vehicle—stopped it in an incredibly short distance for the speed at which they’d been traveling. Of course, Braden thought—they’ve driven past here before and the gray dome was here and now it’s gone. The car started up again. Braden thought, they’ve gone to tell someone.
He went to the door and outside, out onto the lovely boulevard. Out in the open he realized why there were so few people, so little traffic. His chronometers had gone wrong. Over thirty years they were off by hours at least. It was early morning—from the position of the Sun between six and seven o’clock.
He started walking. If he stayed there, in the house that had been thirty years under the dome, someone would come as soon as the young couple who had seen had reported. And yes, whoever came would explain what had happened but he wanted to figure it out for himself, to realize it more gradually than that.
He walked. He met no one. This was a fine residential part of town now and it was very early. He saw a few people at a distance. Their dress was different from his but not enough so as to make him an object of immediate curiosity.
He saw more of the incredible vehicles but none of their occupants chanced to notice him. They traveled incredibly fast.
At last he came to a store that was open. He walked in, too consumed by excited curiosity by now to wait any longer. A young man with curly hair was arranging things behind the counter. He looked at Braden almost incredulously, then asked politely, “What can I do for you, sir?” “Please don’t think Pm crazy. I’ll explain later. Just answer this. What happened thirty years ago? Wasn’t there atomic war?”
The young man’s eyes lighted. “Why, you must be the man who’s been under the dome, sir. That explains why you ...” He stopped as though embarrassed.
“Yes,” Braden said. ‘I've been under the dome. But what happened? After Boston was destroyed what happened?” “Space-ships, sir. The destruction of Boston was accidental. A fleet of ships came from Aldebaran. A race far more advanced than we and benevolent They came to welcome us into the Union and to help us. Unfortunately one crashed —into Boston—and the atomics that powered it exploded, and a million were killed. But other ships landed everywhere within hours and explained and apologized and war was averted—very narrowly. United States air fleets were already en route, but they managed to call them back.” Braden said hoarsely, “Then there was no war?”
“Of course not. War is something back in the dark ages now, thanks to the Galactic Union. We haven’t even national governments now to declare a war. There can't be war. And our progress, with the help of the Union, has been—well, tremendous. We’ve colonized Mars and Venus—they weren’t inhabited and the Union assigned them to us so we could expand. But Mars and Venus are just suburbs. We travel to the stars. We’ve even...” He paused.
Braden held tightly to the edge of the counter. He’d missed it all. He’d been thirty years alone and now he was an old man. He asked, “You’ve even—what?” Something inside him told him what was coming and he could hardly hear his own voice.
“Well, we’re not immortal but we’re closer to it than we were. We live for centuries. I wasn’t much you
nger than you were thirty years ago. But—I’m afraid you missed out on it,
sir. The processes the Union gave us work only on humans up to middle age—fifty at the very most. And you’re—” “Sixty-seven,” Braden said stiffly. “Thank you.”
Yes, he’d missed everything. The stars—he’d have given almost anything to go there but he didn’t want to now. And Myra.
He could have had her and they’d both still be young. He walked out of the store and turned his footsteps toward the building that had been under the dome. By now they’d be waiting for him there. And maybe they’d give him the only thing he’d ask of them—power to restore the force field so he could finish what was left of his life there under the dome. Yes, the only * thing he wanted now was what he’d thought he wanted least—to die, as he had lived, alone.
BLOOD
In their time machine, Vron and Dreena, last two survivors of the race of vampires, fled into the future to escape annihilation. They held hands and consoled one another in their terror and their hunger.
In the twenty-second century mankind had found them out, had discovered that the legend of vampires living secretly among humans was not a legend at all, but fact. There had been a pogrom that had found and killed every vampire but these two, who had already been working on a time machine and who had finished in time to escape in it. Into the future, far enough into the future that the very word vampire would be forgotten so they could again live unsuspected—and from their loins regenerate their race.
“I’m hungry, Vron. Awfully hungry.”
“I too, Dreena dear. We’ll stop again soon.”
They had stopped four times already and had narrowly escaped dying each time. They had not been forgotten. The last stop, half a million years back, had shown them a world gone to the dogs—quite literally: human beings were extinct and dogs had become civilized and man-like. Still they had been recognized for what they were. They’d managed to feed once, on the blood of a tender young bitch, but then they’d been hounded back to their time machine and into flight again.
“Thanks for stopping,” Dreena said. She sighed.
“Don’t thank me,” said Vron grimly. “This is the end of the line. We’re out of fuel and we’ll find none here—by now all radioactives will have turned to lead. We live here ... or else.”
They went out to scout. “Look,” said Dreena excitedly, pointing to something walking toward them. “A new creature! The dogs are gone and something else has taken oyer. And surely we’re forgotten.”
The approaching creature was telepathic. “I have heard your thoughts,” said a voice inside their brains. “You wonder whether we know ‘vampires,’ whatever they are. We do not.”
Dreena clutched Vron’s arm in ecstasy. “Freedom!” she murmured hungrily. “And food!”
“You also wonder,” said the voice, “about my origin and evolution. All life today is vegetable. I—” He bowed low to them. “I, a member of the dominant race, was once what you called a turnip.”
HALL OF MIRRORS
For an instant you think it is temporary blindness, this sudden dark that comes in the middle of a bright afternoon.
It must be blindness, you think; could the sun that was tanning you have gone out instantaneously, leaving you in utter blackness?
Then the nerves of your body tell you that you are standing, whereas only a second ago you were sitting comfortably, almost reclining, in a canvas chair. In the patio of a friend’s house in Beverly Hills. Talking to Barbara, your fiancee. Looking at Barbara—Barbara in a swim suit—her skin golden tan in the brilliant sunshine, beautiful.
You wore swimming trunks. Now you do not feel them on you; the slight pressure of the elastic waistband is no longer there against your waist. You touch your hands to your hips. You are naked. And standing.
Whatever has happened to you is more than a change to sudden darkness or to sudden blindness.
You raise your hands gropingly before you. They touch a plain smooth surface, a wall. You spread them apart and 1 each hand reaches a comer. You pivot slowly. A second wall, then a third, then a door. You are in a closet about four feet square.
Your hand finds the knob of the door. It turns and you push the door open.
There is light now. The door has opened to a lighted room , . . . a room that you have never seen before.
It is not large, but it is pleasantly furnished—although the 1 furniture is of a style that is strange to you. Modesty makes you open the door cautiously the rest of the way. But the p room is empty of people.
You step into the room, turning to look behind you into the closet, which is now illuminated by light from the room. The closet is and is not a closet; it is the size and shape of one, but it contains nothing, not a single hook, no rod for hanging clothes, no shelf. It is an empty, blank-walled, four-by-four foot space.
You close the door to it and stand looking around the room. It is about twelve by sixteen feet. There is one door, but it is closed. There are no windows. Five pieces of furniture. Four of them you recognize—more or less. One looks like a very functional desk. One is obviously a chair ... a comfortable-looking one. There is a table, although its top is on several levels instead of only one. Another is a bed, or couch. Something shimmering is lying across it and you walk over and pick the shimmering something up and examine it. It is a garment.
You are naked, so you put it on. Slippers are part way under the bed (or couch) and you slide your feet into them. They fit, and they feel warm and comfortable as nothing you have ever worn on your feet has felt. Like lamb’s wool, but softer.
You are dressed now. You look at the door—the only door of the room except that of the closet (closet?) from which, you entered it. You walk to the door and before you try the knob, you see the small typewritten sign pasted just above it that reads:
This door has a time lock set to open in one hour. For reasons you will soon understand, it is better that you do not leave this room before then. There is a letter for you on the desk. Please read it.
It is not signed. You look at the desk and see that there is an envelope lying on it.
You do not yet go to take that envelope from the desk and read the letter that must be in it.
Why not? Because you are frightened.
You see other things about the room. The lighting has no source that you can discover. It comes from nowhere. It is not indirect lighting; the ceiling and the walls are not reflecting it at all.
They didn’t have lighting like that, back where you came from. What did you mean by back where you came from?
You close your eyes. You tell yourself: I am Norman Hastings. I am an associate professor of mathematics at the University of Southern California. I am twenty-five years old, and this is the year nineteen hundred and fifty-four.
- You open your eyes and look again.
They didn’t use that style of furniture in Los Angeles—or anywhere else that you know of—in 1954. That thing over in the corner—you can’t even guess what it is. So might your grandfather, at your age, have looked at a television set. '
You look down at yourself, at the shimmering garment that you found waiting for you. With thumb and forefinger you feel its texture.
It’s like nothing you’ve ever touched before.
I am Norman Hastings. This is nineteen hundred and fifty-four.
Suddenly you must know, and at once.
You go to the desk and pick up the envelope that lies upon it. Your name is typed on the outside. Norman Hastings.
Your hands shake a little as you open it. Do you blame them?
There are several pages, typewritten. Dear Norman, it starts. You turn quickly to the end to look for the signature. It is unsigned.
You turn back and start reading.
“Do not be afraid. There is nothing to fear, but much to explain. Much that you must understand before the time lock opens that door. Much that you must accept and—obey.
“You have already guessed that y
ou are in the future—in
what, to you, seems to be the future. The clothes and the room must have told you that. I planned it that way so the shock would not be too sudden, so you would realize it over the course of several minutes rather than read it here—and quite probably disbelieve what you read.
“The ‘closet’ from which you have just stepped is, as you have by now realized, a time machine. From it you stepped into the world of 2004. The date is April 7th, just fifty years from the time you last remember.
“You cannot return.
“I did this to you and you may hate me for it; I do not know. That is up to you to decide, but it does not matter. What does matter, and not to you alone, is another decision which you must make. I am incapable of making it.
“Who is writing this to you? I would rather not tell you just yet. By the time you have finished reading this, even though it is not signed (for I knew you would look first for a signature), I will not need to tell you who I am. You will know.
“I am seventy-five years of age. I have, in this year 2004, been studying ‘time’ for thirty of those years. I have completed the first time machine ever built—and thus far, its construction, even the fact that it has been constructed, is my own secret.
“You have just participated in the first major experiment It will be your responsibility to decide whether there shall ever be any more experiments with it, whether it should be given to the world, or whether it should be destroyed and never used again.”
End of the first page. You look up for a moment, hesitating to turn the next page. Already you suspect what is coming.
You turn the page.
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