Compleat collected sff w.., p.275
COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 275
"It's crazy," DuBrose said.
Pell watched the screen. "See how this sounds. Some race far away in time made an expedition. I don't know why. They must have been pretty unthinkably inhuman. Fifty million years in the future—or a hundred million. Maybe they faced extinction and took refuge in time instead of in space. They came here, twenty-two years ago, in the Duds. They didn't survive. While they did, for an hour, they—talked?—in their particular way. Not with sound waves. Not with vibrations. With hard radiations. Or perhaps they always emitted those radiations."
DuBrose looked at the hypnotized boy and swallowed dryly. Pell's cold, steady voice went on.
"Hard radiations. Genes getting knocked around—mutation. But a very queer kind of mutation. The only kind possible. It was a sort of biological meeting of two utterly unlike species. Mental. Genus homo and genus—X!"
-
They were perhaps the ultimate adaptation of life on earth. Their race had never been human; they had sprung from other seeds in their own unthinkably long ago. And they could move through time, in their own way. Not easily, for only under certain specialized, nearly unique conditions, could they exist at all.
Seventy-four temporal protective domes sprang into existence in the world of genus homo. From within those shells, genus X looked at a planet fantastically alien to them, as a human might regard the boiling gneiss raging across the seething crust of a molten earth.
And the hard radiations came out from the domes for an hour, radiations that were an integral part of the basic matrix of genus X. Human gene plasm responded. And was altered.
Before genus X passed, it had bequeathed to a few unborn specimens of genus homo certain latent abilities, wild talents not to be perceptible until the delayed maturation. And even then the powers of genus X would be all but useless to a merely human race.
The legatees could sense duration. But, by the time they were able to do that, they were hopelessly insane.
-
Pell said, "Some sort of energy must maintain what's left of the Duds. These mutants sense that. Or else they see—"
"What about Ridgeley?"
"I've checked the records. This is actually the first time any of these cases has ever roused from his lethargy except when near a Dud. Remember what this boy said when he saw ... sensed ... Ridgeley?"
"It's integrated with the other stuff," DuBrose said. "There are several possible conclusions." He nodded toward the screen.
"Yeah. To somebody who can see duration, a baby must look plenty flat. No, I'm wrong. That would depend on the baby's longevity. If he grew up to be a hundred, he wouldn't seem so flat. But Billy said everyone was too short except Ridgeley. Ridgeley reaches in the right direction, longer than anyone else who was in the infirmary then—but not as long as the shining things."
"The Duds. Wait a minute, Seth. If Billy here can sense duration, that might just mean that Ridgeley's going to live to a ripe old age."
Pell grunted. "Do you realize from how far in the future the Duds must have come? You can't compare the heights of ants when you use Everest as the measuring stick. If Ridgeley's duration is noticeably long to Billy's perception, he must reach plenty far along temporal lines."
"You're jumping at conclusions. There's not enough data—"
"You heard me question this boy. You heard the answers. Look how the integrator figures 'em!" Pell jerked his thumb toward the screen. "What about that list? I asked our patient what he—senses—in this room, and—"
The list was complete and inaccurate. It included present furnishings, equipment that hadn't been here for years, a diatherm that was scheduled to arrive next week, a centrifuge that had been on order for a month, and a great deal of material that wasn't expected at all, including some gadgets that probably weren't invented yet.
"Now doesn't mean much to Billy Van Ness," Pell said. "He's told us what he senses in this room in the past, present and future. Look at the word association conclusions. It all points to duration, and Ridgeley's tied up with it. I asked those questions with a purpose, Ben."
DuBrose moistened his lips. "Well, then—what?"
"My guess is that Ridgeley may have come from the future. Not from the incredibly distant future of the Duds, but from one closer to us."
"Seth, for Pete's sake! There's nothing to prove—"
"No proof at all. I know. And the only proof I may ever be able to get will probably be empirical. But it's the only answer that fits all the terms."
"You could pluck an answer out of the air for any problem," DuBrose complained, "if you ignore probabilities. You could say Ridgeley's a goblin who's found Aladdin's lamp!"
"I'm not saying anything definitely. This is a theoretical solution. Nothing more. Billy Van Ness has ETP. His duration comparisons indicate that Ridgeley doesn't compare with radium half-time but about equals iron. If the boy were a metallurgist I could learn more. I don't know what grade of iron he has in mind. But, roughly, the life expectancy of ordinary iron equals Ridgeley's duration, as Billy's ETP sees it."
"How long does iron last?"
"Find out. Come in my office, will you?"
-
There Pell put in a televisor call, a request for information on Daniel Ridgeley. "Now we'll wait and see. Sit down, Ben. What do you think?"
DuBrose dropped on cushions. "I still think you're jumping at conclusions. There might be other explanations. Why jump at the wildest possibility?"
"Yet you didn't cavil at the idea that the Duds might come from the future."
"That's different," DuBrose said illogically. "They don't do anything. What's Ridgeley trying to do? Upset the apple cart? Is he following Kalender's orders?"
"The Secretary of War is a brass hat, but he's no traitor. Ridgeley could be—probably is—acting on his own initiative. He may be in enemy pay. All along, Ben, I've been puzzled by one point: how the Falangists could have worked out this equation. They're not from the future. Their technology isn't much more advanced than ours, if at all. We live on this side of the world; the Falangists live on the other; but we're contemporaries. They're neither supermen nor are they from a super future. They're people like us. But Ridgeley—well, I think he's from the future, and he's butting into a fight that doesn't concern him. Or maybe it does, somehow. I don't know." Pell grimaced. "Well, I'm hungry. Let's order up some chow. We've been running around all night, and it's 3 a. m." He spoke into the mike, after switching off the force-field that guarded his desk.
"As for the report we're going to hand in to the chief," he said, fingering a fresh bundle of papers and spools before him, "it's integrated and ready, I think. We've taken out the dangerous stuff. Quite a job."
"About Ridgeley, Seth—"
"One thing at a time. I believe Ridgeley ties in with this equation business. He's been trying to give dangerous information directly to the chief. Well, we'll guard against that from now on. This latest message from the Secretary of War—seven more technicians have gone insane. Not Pastor; he's still working away up in his hideaway in the Rockies. But the danger is clearer now. The equation must be solved before the enemy solves it."
"Every technician in the country may go crazy," DuBrose said.
"Only top-flight men can work on a thing like this. The others aren't qualified. But those men are the ones who keep the war from being lost. They're the ones who think up offensives and defensives fast. If our best technicians are insane—and the list is growing—we're caught flat footed if the enemy launches an assault. There's one thing in our favor. Those insane technicians can be cured."
DuBrose thought it over. "Uh ... yeah, I get that angle. They took refuge in insanity because they couldn't solve the equation, and the responsibility was too much for them. Show them the solution to the equation, and they'll snap out of it. Right?"
"Near enough. None of these case histories"—he tapped the pile on the desk—"indicate noncurable pathological states. Once we—" He stopped, looking past DuBrose.
"Hello, Ridgeley," he said.
-
DuBrose found himself on his feet, swinging to face the courier. Ridgeley was standing against the closed door, his eyes blazing, his face impassive as ever. In a lifted hand he held something so bright and glittering that DuBrose could not see it clearly.
"It's too easy," Ridgeley said.
"And you prefer it the hard way, is that it? I don't think you'll find it so easy."
"No?"
"How did you check up on us? Some sort of scanning ray?"
"Something of the sort," Ridgeley admitted. The thing in his hand trembled slightly; dazzling rays momentarily blinded DuBrose.
Pell said, "So we're right. You're from the future."
"Yes."
DuBrose snarled, "Why don't you go back there?"
For the first time he saw expression on those blunt features—something very much like fear. But Ridgeley only said, "No, I like it here. I'd rather no one knew as much about me as you two know. So—"
DuBrose glanced toward Pell, waiting for a signal. But the aide hadn't even risen from his seat. He smiled at the courier and said, "You turned off your scanner too soon. I've put in a routine check query on the visor. Querying you, Ridgeley. If we're found dead, or disappear, somebody will start wondering why the last time I used the visor, I asked about you."
"You wouldn't be found," Ridgeley said, but his voice wasn't quite as certain. He hesitated.
Tension grew in the room. Suddenly that burning, joyous excitement leaped again behind the courier's eyes.
"All right," he said. "We'll do it the hard way." He fumbled behind him, opened the door, and slipped out. DuBrose sprang forward, but Pell's quiet voice halted him.
"Hold it, Ben. No heroics. You haven't even got a gun."
DuBrose made an impatient noise. "Well, let's do something! Can't we have that ... that guy picked up? Or—"
"I'll think about it," Pell chuckled. "Take it easy. You're flying off the handle. Here." He tossed a blue plastic key on the desk. "Why not knock off for a few hours?"
"I ... what is it?" DuBrose picked up the key and examined it.
Pell said, "Not many people have those, Ben. They open the door to supercharged hedonism. Show that key at Blue Heaven in Low Manhattan, and you'll get the most thorough dose of extroversion you can imagine. Useful when hypertension creeps up. Try their Creepies—it's a catharsis. Go on, get out of here. That's an order. You need something like—a blue key."
DuBrose said, "What about you? If Ridgeley comes back—"
"He won't. Go away. I'll expect you back in the morning, bright-eyed and ready for anything. Outside!"
DuBrose went away.
-
VI.
Across the curve of the world dawn came, rose and gray, the laggard sun behind. The cool light brightened on a quiet land. Tiny hamlets speckled the continent, and only a few flaming streaks that might have been meteors gave any hint that the peace was deceptive. Even across the gray scars of the cities, New York and Detroit and San Francisco, the reclaiming green crept out from the wildernesses that had been the city parks.
Helicopters with their glider-trains troubled still air. The rising sun glittered here and there on a few silvery, tattered shells, the monuments of genus X. Warmen began to drift toward the pneumocar terminals.
Before dawn—
Three more technicians had gone insane, two of them irreplaceable key men in electronics.
-
Mid-morning. Pell came into DuBrose's office, smiling and cheerful.
"Use that key?"
"Uh ... no," DuBrose said. "I was dead beat. I took Deep Sleep. Feel better now."
"Suit yourself," Pell said, shrugging. "I got that report on Ridgeley. He's a highly confidential and trustworthy Secret Service man. Not just a courier. He's been responsible for several fast deals but benefited our side. He's been on the job for seven years. Every once in a while he disappears. No reason given. Unorthodox, but—he's valuable."
"To whom?" DuBrose asked. "The enemy?"
Pell looked puzzled. "He's been valuable to us, Ben. That's what throws me. He dug up plans for some gadgets we found mighty useful. There's never been any question as to his loyalty."
"Do anything about it?"
"Not ... yet," Pell said slowly. "Except to put a few papers in my safe, just in case. The chief has the combination. Remember that."
DuBrose turned the subject. "How is the chief?"
"Jumpy. Nervous. I don't know why. I handed him the stuff on the equation a couple of hours ago—along with allied problems I dug up, to keep him from smelling a rat. I've handled it as semitheoretical material. I couldn't tell him how urgent it was—if he knew that, he'd realize its significance. But I loaded the other items with key words he'll subconsciously shy away from—the wrong emotional indexes for his personality. He'll study the equation dope first."
"Won't he wonder about Ridgeley?"
"I blamed that on the brass hats. I said Ridgeley was just trying to do his duty;—deliver his message to the Director of Psychometrics. Dunno if the chief swallowed it, but I gave him something else to think about—a few hints he'll chew on. Just in case he starts wondering too much why I wanted to isolate him and act as filter. I fixed it. Pretty soon he'll decide the enemy are trying to kill him. Simple assassination attempt. Toxin probably. Let him figure it out. A personal menace like that won't worry him in the least."
"Oh. Well—I've got nothing new. Billy Van Ness is completely passive now. Force-feeding, as usual. And I took a call from Dr. Pastor, up in the Rockies. He says he'll have the equation solved before the day's over."
"Good. How did he look?"
"Not too well. I notified Wyoming Emergency to stand ready. Though there wasn't any definite symptom. He talked a little too fast—but nothing psychopathic. The responsibility didn't seem to bother him."
"Fair enough," Pell said. "Now come along. The chief wants to see me about the equation—"
"Already?"
"He's a fast worker."
-
Cameron sat behind his desk and watched it rain. He thought that if he could get through the door, the rain might stop; but he wasn't having any. He'd tried it already. Wading through knee-deep invisible water wasn't a pleasant experience.
The slanting veils of rain made the walls gray and shadowy. He felt the drops tap softly on his bare head and against his face and on his hands. With tremendous effort he remained motionless. Within his skin he was twisting and writhing.
There was, he thought, a gauge in his head, and a needle that had risen dangerously close to the red mark. He couldn't stand much more of this. What was keeping Pell?
As the door opened the rain stopped. Cameron looked at the backs of his hands; they were quite dry. So was the surface of his desk, and the carpet.
His head pounded.
He was rather sorry Pell and DuBrose had come in. That meant he had to do something. As long as he remained perfectly motionless, trying not to think, he could not easily be betrayed. Rain might fall, but the objects he reached for wouldn't slide away or collapse into blobs as long as he refrained from reaching.
Cameron drew in a long breath.
His voice came out more steadily than he had expected.
"Ben?"
"I wanted him to hear this," Pell said. "Got an answer for me?"
Cameron said carefully, "I think so. You didn't give me all the necessary factors, but there may be a way. What's this for?"
"I'd rather not say just yet. It's semitheoretical anyhow." Pell sat down; DuBrose followed his example.
"I'd say it's completely theoretical. Look here. You've got an equation based on constants gone variable. You want to know its probable effect on various types of trained personalities—scientifically trained. And you stipulate that the solution of the equation is a high-powered survival factor—the individuals must solve it. Is that correct, Seth?"
Pell nodded and crossed his legs, his eyes half-closed. "Correct," he said casually. "What do you think?"
"You left out one point. If the technicians fail to solve the problem, they'll go insane, under the circumstances."
"Mm-m. That's obvious, chief."
Cameron looked at something on his desk, hesitated, and seemed to lose the thread. "So ... uh, well, the sort of equation you presuppose implies the use of truth itself as a variable. Or rather several sets of truths—all logical and accurate. Under certain conditions, let's say, an apple falls to the ground; under other conditions, it flies upward. In the first case the familiar law of gravitation holds good. In the second, it doesn't; an arbitrary basic is substituted, but a true one."
