Star Science Fiction Stories No. 2

by Frederik Pohl

  “We’ll need a Cerebral Mechanist, a Cyberneticist, a Psychiatrist, an Anatomist, an Archaeologist and a first rate Historian. They’ll go into that ward and they won’t come out until their job is done. They must get the technique of time travel.”

  The first five experts were easy to draft from other war departments. All America was a tool chest of hardened and sharpened specialists. But there was trouble locating a first-class Historian until the Federal Penitentiary cooperated with the army and released Dr. Bradley Scrim from his twenty years at hard labor. Dr. Scrim was acid and jagged. He had held the chair of Philosophic History at a Western university until he spoke his mind about the war for the American Dream. That got him the twenty years hard.

  Scrim was still intransigent, but induced to play ball by the intriguing problem of Ward T.

  “But I’m not an expert,” he snapped. “In this benighted nation of experts, I’m the last singing grasshopper in the ant heap.”

  Carpenter snapped up the intercom. “Get me an Entomologist,” he said.

  “Don’t bother,” Scrim said. “I’ll translate. You’re a nest of ants . . . all working and toiling and specializing. For what?”

  “To preserve the American Dream,” Carpenter answered hotly. “We’re fighting for poetry and culture and education and the Finer Things in Life.”

  “You’re fighting to preserve me,” Scrim said. “That’s what I’ve devoted my life to. And what do you do with me? Put me in jail.”

  “You were convicted of enemy sympathizing and fellow-traveling,” Carpenter said.

  “I was convicted of believing in the American Dream,” Scrim said. “Which is another way of saying I had a mind of my own.”

  Scrim was also intransigent in Ward T. He stayed one night, enjoyed three good meals, read the reports, threw them down and began hollering to be let out.

  “There’s a job for everyone and everyone must be on the job,” Colonel Dimmock told him. “You don’t come out until you’ve got the secret of time travel.”

  “There’s no secret I can get,” Scrim said.

  “Do they travel in time?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “The answer has to be one or the other. Not both. You’re evading the—”

  “Look,” Scrim interrupted wearily. “What are you an expert in?”

  “Psychotherapy.”

  “Then how the hell can you understand what I’m talking about? This is a philosophic concept. I tell you there’s no secret here that the army can use. There’s no secret any group can use. It’s a secret for individuals only.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “I didn’t think you would. Take me to Carpenter.”

  They took Scrim to Carpenter’s office where he grinned at the general malignantly, looking for all the world like a red-headed, underfed devil.

  “I’ll need ten minutes,” Scrim said. “Can you spare them out of your tool box?”

  Carpenter nodded.

  “Now listen carefully. I’m going to give you all the clues to something vast, so strange, so new, that it will need all your fine edge to cut into it.”

  Carpenter looked expectant.

  “Nathan Riley goes back in time to the early twentieth century. There he lives the life of his fondest dreams. He’s a big-time gambler, the friend of Diamond Jim Brady and others. He wins money betting on events because be always knows the outcome in advance. He won money betting on Eisenhower to win an election. He won money betting on a prize fighter named Marciano to beat another prize fighter named La Starza. He made money investing in an automobile company owned by Henry Ford. There are the clues. They mean anything to you?”

  “Not without a Sociological Analyst,” Carpenter answered. He reached for the intercom.

  “Don’t bother. I’ll explain. Let’s try some more clues. Lela Machan, for example. She escapes into the Roman empire where she lives the life of her dreams as a femme fatale. Every man loves her. Julius Caesar, Brutus, the entire Twentieth Legion, a man named Ben Hur. Do you see the fallacy?”

  “No.”

  “She also smokes cigarettes.”

  “Well?” Carpenter asked after a pause.

  “I continue,” Scrim said. “George escapes into England of the nineteenth century where he’s a Member of Parliament and the friend of Gladstone, Canning and Disraeli, who takes him riding in his Rolls Royce. Do you know what a Rolls Royce is?”

  “No.”

  “It was the name of an automobile.”

  “You don’t understand yet?”

  “No.”

  Scrim paced the floor in exaltation. “Carpenter, this is a bigger discovery than teleportation or time travel. This can be the salvation of man. I don’t think I’m exaggerating. Those two dozen shock victims in Ward T have been H-Bombed into something so gigantic that it’s no wonder your specialists and experts can’t understand it.”

  “What the hell’s bigger than time travel, Scrim?”

  “Listen to this, Carpenter. Eisenhower did not run for office until the middle of the twentieth century. Nathan Riley could not have been a friend of Diamond Jim Brady’s and bet on Eisenhower to win an election . . . not simultaneously. Brady was dead a quarter of a century before Ike was President. Marciano defeated La Starza fifty years after Henry Ford started his automobile company. Nathan Riley’s time traveling is full of similar anachronisms.”

  Carpenter looked puzzled.

  “Lela Machan could not have had Ben Hur for a lover. Ben Hur never existed in Rome. He never existed at all. He was a character in a novel. She couldn’t have smoked. They didn’t have tobacco then. You see? More anachronisms. Disraeli could never have taken George Hanmer for a ride in a Rolls Royce because automobiles weren’t invented until long after Disraeli’s death.”

  “The hell you say,” Carpenter exclaimed. “You mean they’re all lying?”

  “No. Don’t forget, they don’t need sleep. They don’t need food. They are not lying. They’re going back in time all right. They’re eating and sleeping back there.”

  “But you just said their stories don’t stand up. They’re full of anachronisms.”

  “Because they travel back into a time of their own imagination. Nathan Riley has his own picture of what America was like in the early twentieth century. It’s faulty and anachronistic because he’s no scholar; but it’s real for him. He can live there. The same is true for the others.”

  Carpenter goggled.

  “The concept is almost beyond understanding. These people have discovered how to turn dreams into reality. They know how to enter their dream realities. They can stay there, live there, perhaps forever. My God, Carpenter, this is your American dream. It’s miracle-working, immortality, Godlike creation, mind over matter... It must be explored. It must be studied. It must be given to the world.”

  “Can you do it, Scrim?”

  “No, I cannot. I’m a historian. I’m noncreative, so it’s beyond me. You need a poet . . . a man who understands the creation of dreams. From creating dreams on paper or canvas it oughtn’t to be too difficult to take the step to creating dreams in actuality.”

  “A poet? Are you serious?”

  “Certainly I’m serious. Don’t you know what a poet is? You’ve been telling us for five years that this war is being fought to save the poets.”

  “Don’t be facetious, Scrim, I—”

  “Send a poet into Ward T. He’ll learn how they do it. He’s the only man who can. A poet is half doing it anyway. Once he learns, he can teach, your psychologists and anatomists. Then they can teach us; but the poet is the only man who can interpret between those shock cases and your experts.”

  “I believe you’re right, Scrim.”

  “Then don’t delay, Carpenter. Those patients are returning to this world less -and less frequently. We’ve got to get at that secret before they disappear forever. Send a poet to Ward T.”

  Carpenter snapped up his intercom. “Send me a poet,” be said.r />
  He waited, and waited . . . and waited . . . while America sorted feverishly through its two hundred and ninety millions of hardened and sharpened experts, its specialized tools to defend the American Dream of beauty and poetry and the Better Things in Life. He waited for them to find a poet, not understanding the endless delay, the fruitless search, not understanding why Bradley Scrim laughed and laughed and laughed at this final, fatal disappearance.

  <>

  * * * *

  THEODORE STURGEON

  There is nothing that needs to be said about the man who wrote It, Microcosmic God and Maturity—to name only three prime-quality Sturgeons out of a crop that numbers well into the hundreds, and includes not only short stories like the foregoing but such exciting books as More Than Human, Without Sorcery and The Dreaming Jewels. Your editor has had more than a passing interest in Sturgeon’s career, for, like your editor, Sturgeon has devoted a large part of his time to selling other writers’ stories as a literary agent, and a number of years to peddling the printed word as a direct-mail advertising man. But the parallel stops too short; for Sturgeon actually did write, and your editor only wishes he had written, the sensitive and memorable story called-

  The Clinic

  The police men and the doctors men and most of the people outside, they all helped me, they were very nice but nobody helped me as many-much as Elena.

  De la Torre liked me very nice I think, but number one because what I am is his work. The Sergeant liked me very nice too but inside I think he say not real, not real. He say in all his years he know two for-real amnesiacs but only in police book. Unless me. Some day, he say, some day he find out I not-real amnesiac trying to fool him. De la Torre say I real. Classic case, he say. He say plenty men forget talk forget name forget way to do life-work but por Dios not forget buttons forget eating forget every damn thing like me. The Sergeant say yes Doc you would rather find a medical monstrosity than turn up a faker. De la Torre say yes you would rather find out he is a fugitive than a phenomenon, well this just shows you what expert opinion is worth when you get two experts together. He say, one of us has to be wrong.

  Is half right. Is both wrong.

  If I am a fugitive I must be very intelligent. If I am an amnesiac I could be even intelligenter as a fugitive. Anyway I be intelligent better than any man in the world, as how could conversation as articulo-fluent like this after only six days five hours fifty three minutes?

  Is both wrong. I be Nemo.

  But now comes Elena again, de la Torre is look happy-face, the Sergeant is look watch-face, Elena smile so warm, and we go.

  * * * *

  “How are you tonight, Nemo?”

  “I am very intelligent.”

  She laughs. “You can say that again,” and then she puts hand on my mouth and more laughs. “No, don’t say it again. Another figure of speech. . . . Remember any yet?”

  “What state what school what name, all that? No.”

  “All right.” Now de la Torre, he ask me like that and when I no him, he try and try ask some other how. The Sergeant, he ask

  me like that and when I no him, he try and try ask me the same asking, again again. Elena ask and when I no her, she talk something else. Now she say, “What would you like to do tonight?”

  I say, “Go with you whatever.”

  She say, “Well we’ll start with a short beer,” so we do.

  The short beer is in a room with long twisty blue lights and red lights and a noise-machine looks like two sunsets with bubbles and sounds unhappy out loud. The short beer is wet, high as a hand, color like Elena’s eyes, shampoo on top, little bubbles inside. Elena drank then I drink all. Little bubbles make big bubble inside me, big bubble come right back up so roaring that all people look to see, so it is bigger as the noise-machine. I look at people and Elena laugh again. She say, “I guess I shouldn’t laugh. Most people don’t do that in public, Nemo.”

  “Was largely recalcitrant bubble and decontrolled,” I say. “So what do—keep for intestinals?”

  She laugh again and say, “Well, no. Just try to keep it quiet.” And now come a man from high long table where so many stand, he has hair on face, low lip flaccid, teeth brown black and gold, he smell as waste-food, first taste of mouth-thermometer, and skin moisture after drying in heavy weavings. He say, “You sound like a pig, Mac, where you think you are, home?”

  I look at Elena and I look at he, I say, “Good evening.” That what de la Torre say in first speak to peoples after begin night. Elena quick touch arm of mine, say, “Don’t pay any attention to him, Nemo.” Man bend over, put hand forward and touches it to ear of me with velocity, to make a large percussive effect. Same time bald man run around end of long high table exhibiting wooden device, speaking the prognosis: “Don’t start nothing in my place, Purky, or I’ll feed you this bung-starter.”

  I rub at ear and look at man who smells. He say, “Yeah, but, you hear this little pig here? Where he think he’s at?”

  The man with bung-starter device say, “Tell you where you’ll be at, you don’t behave yourself, you’ll be out on the payment with a knot on your head,” and he walk at Purky until Purky move and walk again until Purky is back to old place. I rub on ear and look at Elena and Elena has lip-paint of much bigger red now. No it is not bigger red, it is face skin of more white. Elena say, “Are you all right, Nemo? Did he hurt you?”

  I say, “He is destroyed no part. He is create algesia of the middle ear. This is usual?”

  “The dirty rat. No, Nemo, it isn’t usual. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t’ve brought you in here. . . . Some day someone’ll do the world a favor and knock his block off.”

  “I have behavior?”

  She say, “You what? Oh—did you act right.” She gives me diagnostic regard from sides of eyes. “I guess so, Nemo. But . . . you can’t let people push you around like that. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “But then this is no more short beer, yes?”

  “You like it? You want another?”

  I touch my larynx. “It localizes a euphoria.”

  “Does it now. Well, whatever that means, I guess you can have another.” She high display two fingers and big bald man gives dispensing of short beer more. I take all and large bubble forms and with concentration I exude it through nostrils quietly and gain Elena’s approval and laughter. I say my thinks about the kindlies, about de la Torre and the Sergeant but it is Elena who helps with the large manymuchness.

  “Forget it,” she say.

  “Is figure of speech? Is command?”

  She say low-intensity to shampoo on short beer, “I don’t know, Nemo. No, I guess I wouldn’t want you to forget me.” She look up at me and I know she will say again, “You’ll never forget your promise, Nemo?” and she say it. And I say, “I not go away before I say, Elena, I going away.”

  She say, “What’s the matter, Nemo? What is it?”

  I say, “You think I go away, so I think about I go away too. I like you think about I here. And that not all of it.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that I—well, it’s important to me, that’s all. I couldn’t bear it if you just disappeared some day. . . . What else, Nemo?”

  I say, “Two more short beer.”

  We drink the new short beer with no talk and with thinks. Then she say she go powder she nose. She nose have powder but she also have behavior so I no say why. When she go in door-place at back angle, I stand and walk.

  I walk to high long table where stand the smelly man Purky, I push on him, he turn around.

  He say, “Well look what crawled up! What you want, piggy?”

  I say, “Where you block?”

  He say, “Where’s what?” He speak down to me from very tall, but he speak more noise than optimum.

  I say, “You block. Block. You know, knock off block. Where you block? I knock off.”

  Big man who bring short beer, he roar. Purky, he roar. Mens jump back, looking, looking. Purky
lift high big bottle, approach it at me swiftly. I move very close swift-lier, impact the neck of Purky by shoulder, squeeze flesh of Purky in and down behind pelvis, sink right thumb in left abdomen of Purky—one-two-three and go away again. Purky still swing down bottle but I not there for desired encounter now. Bottle go down to floor, Purky go down to floor, I walk back to chair, Purky lie twitching, men look at he, men look at me, Purky say “Uh-uh-uh,” I sit down.

  Elena come out of door running, say “What happened? Nemo . . .” and she look at Purky and all men looking.

  I say, “Sorry. Sorry.”

  “Did you do that, Nemo?”

  I make the head-nod, yes.

  “Well what are you sorry about?” she say, all pretty with surprise and fierce.

  I say, “I think you happy if I knock block off, but not know block. Where is block? I knock off now.”

  “No you don’t!” she say. “You come right along out of here! Nemo, you’re dynamite!”

  I puzzle. “Is good?”

  “Just now, is good.”

  We go out and big man call, “Hey, how about one on the house, Bomber?”

  I puzzle again. Elena say, “He means he wants to give you a drink.”

  “Short beer?”