by Robert Bloch
"What are you talking about?"
"My instrument is out there in the bay. The paintings and manuscripts are there. I intended to remain submerged until the departure moment tonight, but a man shot me."
"You feel feverish?" I asked. "Does your head hurt?"
"No. I told you it was no use explaining things. You won't believe me, any more than you believed me about the bombs."
"Let's stick to facts," I suggested. "You admit you stole the paintings. Why?"
"Because of the bombs, of course. The war is coming, the big one. Before tomorrow morning your planes will be over the Russian border and their planes will retaliate. That's only the beginning. It will go on for months, years. In the end—shambles. But the masterpieces I take will be saved."
"How?"
"I told you. Tonight, at nine, I return to my own place in the time continuum." He raised his hand. "Don't tell me it's not possible. According to your present-day concepts of physics it would be. Even according to our science, only forward movement is demonstrable. When I suggested my project to the Institute they were skeptical. But they built the instrument according to my specifications, nevertheless. They permitted me to use the money from the Historical Foundation at Fort Knox. And I received an ironic blessing prior to my departure. I rather imagine my actual vanishment caused raised eyebrows. But that will be nothing compared to the reaction upon my return. My triumphant return, with a cargo of art masterpieces presumably destroyed nearly a thousand years in the past!"
"Let me get this straight," I said. "According to your story, you came here because you knew war was going to break out and you wanted to salvage some old masters from destruction. Is that it?"
"Precisely. It was a wild gamble, but I had the currency. I've studied the era as closely as any man can from the records available. I knew about the linguistic peculiarities of the age—you've had no trouble understanding me, have you? And I managed to work out a plan. Of course I haven't been entirely successful, but I've managed a great deal in less than a week's time. Perhaps I can return again—earlier—maybe a year or so beforehand, and procure more." His eyes grew bright. "Why not? We could build more instruments, come in a body. We could get everything we wanted, then."
I shook my head. "For the sake of argument, let's say for a minute that I believe you, which I don't. You've stolen some paintings, you say. You're taking them back to 29-something-or-other with you, tonight. You hope. Is that the story?"
"That's the truth."
"Very well. Now you suggest that you might repeat the experiment on a larger scale. Come back to a point a year before this in time and collect more masterpieces. Again, let's say you do it. What will happen to the paintings you took with you?"
"I don't follow you."
"Those paintings will be in your era, according to you. But a year ago they hung in various galleries. Will they be there when you come back? Surely they can't coexist."
He smiled. "A pretty paradox. I'm beginning to like you, Dr. Rafferty."
"Well, don't let the feeling grow on you. It's not reciprocal, I assure you. Even if you were telling the truth, I can't admire your motives."
"What's wrong with my motives?" He stood up, ignoring the gun. "Isn't it a worthwhile goal—to save immortal treasures from the senseless destruction of a tribal war? The world deserves the preservation of its artistic heritage. I've risked my existence for the sake of bringing beauty to my own time—where it can be properly appreciated and enjoyed by minds no longer obsessed with the greed and cruelty I find here."
"Big words," I said. "But the fact remains. You stole those paintings."
"Stole? I saved them! I tell you, before the year is out they'd be utterly destroyed. Your galleries, your museums, your libraries—everything will go. Is it stealing to carry precious articles from a burning temple?" He leaned over me. "Is that a crime?"
"Why not stop the fire, instead?" I countered. "You know—from historical records, I suppose—that war breaks out tonight or tomorrow. Why not take advantage of your foresight and try to prevent it?"
"I can't. The records are sketchy, incomplete. Events are jumbled. I've been unable to discover just how the war began—or will begin, rather. Some trivial incident, unnamed. Nothing is clear on that point."
"But couldn't you warn the authorities?"
"And change history? Change the actual sequence of events, rather? Impossible!"
"Aren't you changing them by taking the paintings?"
"That's different."
"Is it?" I stared into his eyes. "I don't see how. But then, the whole thing is impossible. I've wasted too much time in arguing."
"Time!" He looked at the wall clock. "Almost noon. I've got just nine hours left. And so much to do. The instrument must be adjusted."
"Where is this precious mechanism of yours?"
"Out in the bay. Submerged, of course, I had that in mind when it was constructed. You can conceive of the hazards of attempting to move through time and alight on a solid surface; the face of the land alters. But the ocean is comparatively unchanging. I knew if I departed from a spot several miles offshore and arrived there, I'd eliminate most of the ordinary hazards. Besides, it offers a most excellent place of concealment. The principle, you see, is simple. By purely mechanical means, I shall raise the instrument above the stratospheric level tonight and then intercalculate dimensionally when I am free of Earth's orbit. The gantic-drive will be—"
No doubt about it. I didn't have to wait for the double-talk to know he was crazier than a codfish. A pity, too; he was really a handsome specimen.
"Sorry," I said. "Time's up. This is something I hate to do, but there's no other choice. No, don't move. I'm calling the police, and if you take one step I'll plug you."
"Stop! You mustn't call! I'll do anything. I'll even take you with me. That's it, I'll take you with me! Wouldn't you like to save your life? Wouldn't you like to escape?"
"No. Nobody escapes," I told him. "Especially not you. Now stand still, and no more funny business. I'm making that call."
He stopped. He stood still. I picked up the phone, with a sweet smile. He smiled back. He looked at me.
Something happened.
There has been a great dispute about the clinical aspects of hypnotic therapy. I remember, in school, an attempt being made to hypnotize me. I was entirely immune. I concluded that a certain degree of cooperation or conditioned suggestibility is required of an individual in order to render him susceptible to hypnosis.
I was wrong.
I was wrong, because I couldn't move now. No lights, no mirrors, no voices, no suggestion. It was just that I couldn't move. I sat there holding the gun. I sat there and watched him walk out, locking the door behind him. I could see and I could feel. I could even hear him say "Goodbye."
But I couldn't move. I could function, but only as a paralytic functions. I could, for example, watch the clock.
I watched the clock from noon until almost seven. Several patients came during the afternoon, couldn't get in, and went away. I watched the clock until its face was lost in darkness. I sat there and endured hysteric rigidity until—providentially—the phone rang.
That broke it. But it broke me. I couldn't answer that phone. I merely slumped over on the desk, my muscles tightening with pain as the gun fell from my numb fingers. I lay there, gasping and sobbing, for a long time. I tried to sit up. It was agony. I tried to walk. My limbs rejected sensation. It took me an hour to gain control again. And even then, it was merely a partial control—a physical control. My thoughts were another matter.
Seven hours of thinking. Seven hours of true or false? Seven hours of accepting and rejecting the impossibly possible.
It was after eight before I was on my feet again, and then I didn't know what to do.
Call the police? Yes—but what could I tell them? I had to be sure, I had to know.
And what did I know? He was out in the bay, and he'd leave at nine o'clock. There was an instrument w
hich would rise above the stratosphere—
I got in the car and drove. The dock was deserted. I took the road over to the Point, where there's a good view. I had the binoculars. The stars were out, but no moon. Even so, I could see pretty clearly.
There was a small yacht bobbing on the water, but no lights shone. Could that be it?
No sense taking chances. I remembered the radio report about the Coast Guard patrols.
So I did it. I drove back to town and stopped at a drugstore and made my call. Just reported the presence of the yacht. Perhaps they'd investigate, because there were no lights. Yes, I'd stay there and wait for them if they wished.
I didn't stay, of course. I went back to the Point. I went back there and trained my binoculars on the yacht. It was almost nine when I saw the cutter come along, moving up behind the yacht with deadly swiftness.
It was exactly nine when they flashed their lights—and caught for an incredible instant, the gleaming reflection of the silver globe that rose from the water, rose straight up toward the sky.
Then came the explosion and I saw the shattering before I heard the echo of the report. They had portable anti-aircraft, something of the sort. It was effective.
One moment, the globe roared upward. The next moment, there was nothing. They blew it to bits.
And they blew me to bits with it. Because if there was a globe, perhaps he was inside. With the masterpieces, ready to return to another time. The story was true, then, and if that was true, then—
I guess I fainted. My watch showed 10:30 when I came to and stood up. It was 11:00 before I made it to the Coast Guard Station and told my story.
Of course, nobody believed me. Even Dr. Halvorsen from Emergency—he said he did, but he insisted on the injection and they took me here to the hospital.
It would have been too late, anyway. That globe did the trick. They must have contacted Washington immediately with their story of a new secret Soviet weapon destroyed offshore. Coming on the heels of finding those bomb-laden ships, it was the final straw. Somebody gave the orders and our planes were on their way.
I've been writing all night. Outside in the corridor they're getting radio reports. We've dropped bombs over there. And the alert has gone out, warning us of possible reprisals.
Maybe they'll believe me now. But it doesn't matter any more. It's going to be the way he said it was.
I keep thinking about the paradoxes of time travel. This notion of carrying objects from the present to the future—and this other notion, about altering the past. I'd like to work out the theory, only there's no need. The old masters aren't going into the future. Any more than he, returning to our present, could stop the war.
What had he said? "I've been unable to discover just how the war began—or will begin, rather. Some trivial incident, unnamed."
Well, this was the trivial incident. His visit. If I hadn't made that phone call, if the globe hadn't risen—but I can't bear to think about it any more. It makes my head hurt. All that buzzing and droning noise ....
I've just made an important discovery. The buzzing and droning does not come from inside my head. I can hear the sirens sounding, too. If I had any doubts about the truth of his claims, they're gone now.
I wish I'd believed him. I wish the others would believe me now. But there just isn't any time ....
A GOOD IMAGINATION
Originally published in the Suspect, 1956
I may have my faults, but lack of imagination isn't one of them.
Take this matter of George Parker, for example. It finally came to a head today, and I flatter myself that I handled it very well. That's where imagination counts.
If it hadn't been for my imagination I probably never would have noticed George in the first place. And I certainly wouldn't have been prepared to deal with him properly. But as it was, I had everything worked out.
He showed up, right on schedule, just after lunch. I was down in the basement, mixing cement, when I heard him rap on the back door.
"Anybody home?" he called.
"Down here," I said. "All ready to go."
So he walked through the kitchen and came down the cellar stairs, clumping. George, the eternal dumper, banging his way through life; about as subtle as a steamroller. And with a steamroller's smug belief in its own power, in its ability to crush anything that didn't get out of its way.
He had to stoop a bit here in the basement because he was so tall. Tall and heavyset, with the thick neck and broad shoulders that are the common endowment of outdoor men, movie stars, and adult male gorillas.
Of course I'm being a bit uncharitable. George Parker couldn't be compared to a gorilla. Not with that boyish haircut and amiable grin of his. No self-respecting gorilla would affect either.
"All alone?" he asked. "Where's Mrs. Logan?"
"Louise?" I shrugged. "She's gone over to Dalton to close up the bank account."
The grin vanished. "Oh. I was sort of hoping I'd get a chance to say goodbye to her."
I'll bet he was. It almost killed him, realizing that he wasn't going to see her again. I knew. I knew why he'd come scratching on the door with his "Anybody home?" routine. What he really meant was, "Is the coast clear, darling?"
How many times had he come creeping around this summer? I wondered. How many times had he called her "darling"? How many times during the long weekdays when I wasn't home—when I was slaving away in town, and she was alone up here at the summer house?
Alone with George Parker. The steamroller. The gorilla. The ape in the t-shirt.
In June, when we first came up, I had thought we were lucky to find somebody like George to fix things around the place. The house needed repairs and carpentry work, and a fresh coat of paint. The lawn and garden demanded attention, too. And since I could only get away on weekends, I congratulated myself on finding a willing worker like George.
Louise had congratulated me too. "It was wonderful of you to discover such a jewel. This place needs a handyman."
Well, George must have been handy. All summer long, Louise kept finding new things for him to do. Putting in a walk to the pier. Setting up trellises. The neighbors got used to seeing him come in three or four days a week. I got used to it, too. For better than two months, you'd have thought I didn't have any imagination at all. Then I began to put two and two together. Or one and one, rather. George and Louise. Together up here, day after day. And night after night?
Even then, I couldn't be sure. It took a great deal of imagination to conceive of any woman allowing herself to become enamored of such an obvious ape. But then, perhaps some women like apes. Perhaps they have a secret craving for hairy bodies and crushing weight and panting animalism. Louise always told me she hated that sort of thing. She respected me because I was gentle and understanding and controlled myself. At least, that's what she said.
But I saw the way she looked at George. And I saw the way he looked at her. And I saw the way they both looked at me, when they thought I wasn't aware.
I was aware, of course. Increasingly aware, as the weeks went by. At first I contemplated getting rid of George, but that would have been too obvious. Firing him in midsummer, with work to be done, didn't make sense. Unless I wanted to force a showdown with Louise.
That wasn't the answer, either. All I'd have gotten from her would've been a tearful denial. And before she was through, she'd have twisted things around so that I was to blame. I'd be the brute who penned her up here in the country all summer long and left her alone to suffer. After all, I couldn't really prove anything.
So then I decided to sell. It wasn't difficult. Getting the place fixed up was a good idea; it added a couple of thousand to the value of the property. All I had to do was pass the word around to the realtor over at Dalton, and he did the rest. By the end of August there were three offers. I chose the best one, and it gave me a tidy profit.
Of course, Louise was heartbroken when she heard about the deal. She loved it here, she was just getting settled, sh
e looked forward to coming back next year—why, she had even meant to talk to me about having a furnace put in so we could stay the year round.
She played the scene well, and I enjoyed it. All except the part about staying up here permanently. Did the little fool really think I was stupid enough to go for that? Staying in town alone all week, slaving away at the business, and then dragging up here weekends in the dead of winter to hear her excuses? "No, really, I'm just too bushed, honey. If you only knew how much work I've been doing around the place! I just want to sleep forever."
I wanted to shout at her, then. I wanted to curse her. I wanted to spit it all out, tell her that I knew, then take her in my arms and shake her until her silly head spun. But I couldn't. Louise was too delicate for such brutality. Or so she had always intimated to me. She demanded gentle treatment. Gentle George, the gorilla.
So I was gentle with her. I told her that selling the place was merely a matter of good business. We had a chance to realize a handsome profit. And next year we'd buy another. In fact, I had already arranged a little surprise for her. After Labor Day, on our way back to town, I'd show it to her, even though it was a day or so out of our way.
"Out of our way?" She gave me that wide-eyed stare. "You mean you've got another place picked out, not around here?"
"That's right."
"Where? Tell me. Is it far?"
I smiled. "Quite far."
"But I—I'd like to stay here, on the river."
"Wait until you see it before you decide," I said. "Let's not talk about it any more now. I imagine you're tired."
"Yes. I think I'll sleep on the day bed, if you don't mind."
I didn't mind. And we didn't talk about it any more. I just completed the sale and got Louise to start packing. There wasn't much to pack, because I'd sold the furniture, too.
Then I waited. Waited and watched. Louise didn't know about the watching, of course. Neither did George.
And now it was the last day, and George stood in the cellar with me and looked at the mixing .
