Off The Main Sequence

by Robert A. Heinlein

  He had agents posted throughout the country of the Forsaken Ones with instructions to arrest any man with hair on his face and fetch him forthwith to the palace. The Hall of the Gate he watched himself.

  He tried fishing the future for Diktor, but had no significant luck. He thrice located a shadow and tracked it down; each time it was himself. From tedium and partly from curiosity he attempted to see the other end of the process; he tried to relocate his original home, thirty thousand years in the past.

  It was a long chore. The further the time button was displaced from the center, the poorer the control became. It took patient practice to be able to stop the image within a century or so of the period he wanted. It was in the course of this experimentation that he discovered what he had once looked for, a fractional control — a vernier, in effect. It was as simple as the primary control, but twist the bead instead of moving it directly.

  He steadied down on the twentieth century, approximated the year by the models of automobiles, types of architecture and other gross evidence, and stopped in what he believed to be 1952. Careful displacement of the space controls took him to the university town where he had started — after several false tries; the image did not enable him to read road signs.

  He located his boardinghouse, brought the Gate into his own room. It was vacant, no furniture in it.

  He panned away from the room, and tried again, a year earlier. Success — his own room, his own furniture, but empty. He ran rapidly back, looking for shadows.

  There! He checked the swing of the image. There were three figures in the room, the image was too small, the light too poor for him to be sure whether or not one of them was himself. He leaned over and studied the scene.

  He heard a dull thump outside the booth. He straightened up and looked over the side.

  Sprawled on the floor was a limp human figure. Near it lay a crushed and battered hat.

  He stood perfectly still for an uncounted time, staring at the two redundant figures, hat and man, while the winds of unreason swept through his mind and shook it. He did not need to examine the unconscious form to identify it. He knew … he knew — it was his younger self, knocked willy-nilly through the Time Gate.

  It was not that fact in itself which shook him. He had not particularly expected it to happen, having come tentatively to the conclusion that he was living in a different, an alternative, future from the one in which he had originally transitted the Time Gate. He had been aware that it might happen nevertheless, that it did happen did not surprise him.

  When it did happen, he himself had been the only spectator!

  He was Diktor. He was the Diktor. He was the only Diktor!

  He would never find Diktor, or have it out with him. He need never fear his coming. There never had been, never would be, any other person called Diktor, because Diktor never had been or ever would be anyone but himself.

  In review, it seemed obvious that he must be Diktor, there were so many bits of evidence pointing to it. And yet it had not been obvious. Each point of similarity between himself and the Diktor, he recalled, had arisen from rational causes — usually from his desire to ape the gross characteristics of the “other" and thereby consolidate his own position of power and authority before the “other" Diktor showed up. For that reason he had established himself in the very apartments that “Diktor" had used — so that they would be “his" first.

  To be sure his people called him Diktor, but he had thought nothing of that — they called anyone who ruled by that title, even the little sub-chieftains who were his local administrators.

  He had grown a beard, such as Diktor had worn, partly in imitation of the “other" man’s precedent, but more to set him apart from the hairless males of the Forsaken Ones. It gave him prestige, increased his tabu. He fingered his bearded chin. Still, it seemed strange that he had not recalled that his own present appearance checked with the appearance of “Diktor." “Diktor" had been an older man. He himself was only thirty-two, ten here, twenty-two there.

  Diktor he had judged to be about forty-five. Perhaps an unprejudiced witness would believe himself to be that age. His hair and beard were shot with gray — had been, ever since the year he had succeeded too well in spying on the High Ones. His face was lined. Uneasy lies the head and so forth. Running a country, even a peaceful Arcadia, will worry a man, keep him awake nights.

  Not that he was complaining — it had been a good life, a grand life, and it beat anything the ancient past had to offer.

  In any case, he had been looking for a man in his middle forties, whose face he remembered dimly after ten years and whose picture he did not have. It had never occurred to him to connect that blurred face with his present one. Naturally not.

  But there were other little things. Arma, for example. He had selected a likely-looking lass some three years back and made her one of his household staff, renaming her Arma in sentimental memory of the girl he had once fancied. It was logically necessary that they were the same girl, not two Armas, but one.

  But, as he recalled her, the “first" Arma had been much prettier.

  H — m-m-m — it must be his own point of view that had changed. He admitted that he had had much more opportunity to become bored with exquisite female beauty than his young friend over there on the floor. He recalled with a chuckle how he had found it necessary to surround himself with an elaborate system of tabus to keep the nubile daughters of his subjects out of his hair — most of the time. He had caused a particular pool in the river adjacent to the palace to be dedicated to his use in order that he might swim without getting tangled up in mermaids.

  The man on the floor groaned, but did not open his eyes.

  Wilson, the Diktor, bent over him but made no effort to revive him. That the man was not seriously injured he had reason to be certain. He did not wish him to wake up until he had had time to get his own thoughts entirely in order.

  For he had work to do, work which must be done meticulously, without mistake. Everyone, he thought with a wry smile, makes plans to provide for their future.

  He was about to provide for his past.

  There was the matter of the setting of the Time Gate when he got around to sending his early self back. When he had tuned in on the scene in his room a few minutes ago, he had picked up the action just before his early self had been knocked through. In sending him back he must make a slight readjustment in the time setting to an instant around two o’clock of that particular afternoon. That would be simple enough; he need only search a short sector until he found his early self alone and working at his desk.

  But the Time Gate had appeared in that room at a later hour; he had just caused it to do so. He felt confused.

  Wait a minute, now — if he changed the setting of the time control, the Gate would appear in his room at the earlier time, remain there and simply blend into its “reappearance" an hour or so later. Yes, that was right. To a person in the room it would simply be as if the Time Gate had been there all along, from about two o’clock.

  Which it had been. He would see to that.

  Experienced as he was with the phenomena exhibited by the Time Gate, it nevertheless required a strong and subtle intellectual effort to think other than in durational terms, to take an eternal viewpoint.

  And there was the hat. He picked it up and tried it on. It did not fit very well, no doubt because he was wearing his hair longer now. The hat must be placed where it would be found — Oh, yes, in the control booth. And the notebook, too.

  The notebook, the notebook — Mm-rn-m — Something funny, there. When the notebook he had stolen had become dog-eared and tattered almost to illegibility some four years back, he had carefully recopied its contents in a new notebook — to refresh his memory of English rather than from any need for it as a guide. The worn-out notebook he had destroyed; it was the new one he intended to obtain, and leave to be found.

  In that case, there never had been two notebooks. The one he had now would become, after b
eing taken through the Gate to a point ten years in the past, the notebook from which he had copied it. They were simply different segments of the same physical process, manipulated by means of the Gate to run concurrently, side by side, for a certain length of time.

  As he had himself — one afternoon.

  He wished that he had not thrown away the worn-out notebook: If he had it at hand, he could compare them and convince himself that they were identical save for the wear and tear of increasing entropy.

  But when had he learned the language, in order that he might prepare such a vocabulary? To be sure, when he copied it he then knew the language — copying had not actually been necessary.

  But he had copied it.

  The physical process he had all straightened out in his mind, but the intellectual process it represented was completely circular. His older self had taught his younger self a language which the older self knew because the younger self, after being taught, grew up to be the older self and was, therefore, capable of teaching.

  But where had it started?

  Which comes first, the hen or the egg?

  You feed the rats to the cats, skin the cats, and feed the carcasses of the cats to the rats who are in turn fed to the cats. The perpetual motion fur farm.

  If God created the world, who created God?

  Who wrote the notebook? Who started the chain?

  He felt the intellectual desperation of any honest philosopher. He knew that he had about as much chance of understanding such problems as a collie has of understanding how dog food gets into cans. Applied psychology was more his size — which reminded him that there were certain books which his early self would find very useful in learning how to deal with the political affairs of the country he was to run. He made a mental note to make a list.

  The man on the floor stirred again, sat up. Wilson knew that the time had come when he must insure his past. He was not worried; he felt the sure confidence of the gambler who is “hot," who knows what the next roll of the dice will show.

  He bent over his alter ego. “Are you all right?" he asked.

  “I guess so," the younger man mumbled. He put his hand to his bloody face. “My head hurts."

  “I should think it would," Wilson agreed. “You came through head over heels. I think you hit your head when you landed."

  His younger self did not appear fully to comprehend the words at first. He looked around dazedly, as if to get his bearings. Presently he said, “Came through? Came through what?"

  “The Gate, of course," Wilson told him. He nodded his head toward the Gate, feeling that the sight of it would orient the still groggy younger Bob.

  Young Wilson looked over his shoulder in the direction indicated, sat up with a jerk, shuddered and closed his eyes. He opened them again after what seemed to be a short period of prayer, looked again, and said, “Did I come through that?"

  “Yes," Wilson assured him.

  “Where am I?"

  “In the Hall of the Gate in the High Palace of Norkaal. But what is more important," Wilson added, “is when you are. You have gone forward a little more than thirty thousand years."

  The knowledge did not seem to reassure him. He got up and stumbled toward the Gate. Wilson put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Where are you going?"

  “Back!"

  “Not so fast." He did not dare let him go back yet, not until the Gate had been reset. Besides he was still drunk — his breath was staggering. “You will go back all right — I give you my word on that. But let me dress your wounds first. And you should rest. I have some explanations to make to you, and there is an errand you can do for me when you get back — to our mutual advantage. There is a great future in store for you and me, my boy — a great future!"

  A great future!

  Lost Legacy

  Super Science Stories, November 1941

  as by Lyle Monroe

  Chapter One

  “Ye Have Eyes to See With!"

  “Hi-yah, Butcher!" Doctor Philip Huxley put down the dice cup he had been fiddling with as he spoke, and shoved out a chair with his foot. “Sit down."

  The man addressed ostentatiously ignored the salutation while handing a yellow slicker and soggy felt hat to the Faculty Clubroom attendant, but accepted the chair. His first words were to the negro attendant.

  “Did you hear that, Pete? A witch doctor, passing himself off as a psychologist, has the effrontery to refer to me — to me, a licensed physician and surgeon, as a butcher." His voice was filled with gentle reproach.

  “Don’t let him kid you, Pete. If Doctor Coburn ever got you into an operating theatre, he’d open up your head just to see what makes you tick. He’d use your skull to make an ashtray."

  The man grinned as he wiped the table, but said nothing.

  Coburn clucked and shook his head. “That from a witch doctor. Still looking for the Little Man Who Wasn’t There, Phil?"

  “If you mean parapsychology, yes."

  “How’s the racket coming?"

  “Pretty good. I’ve got one less lecture this semester, which is just as well — I get awfully tired of explaining to the wide-eyed innocents how little we really know about what goes on inside their think-tanks. I’d rather do research."

  “Who wouldn’t? Struck any pay dirt lately?"

  “Some. I’m having a lot of fun with a law student just now, chap named Valdez."

  Coburn lifted his brows. “So? E.S.P.?"

  “Kinda. He’s sort of a clairvoyant; if he can see one side of an object, he can see the other side, too."

  “Nuts!"

  " 'If you’re so smart, why ain’t you rich?’ I’ve tried him out under carefully controlled conditions, and he can do it — see around comers."

  “Hmmmm — well, as my Grandfather Stonebender used to say, 'God has more aces up his sleeve than were ever dealt in the game.’ He would be a menace at stud poker."

  “Matter of fact, he made his stake for law school as a professional gambler."

  “Found out how he does it?"

  “No, damn it." Huxley drummed on the table top, a worried look on his face. “If I just had a little money for research I might get enough data to make this sort of thing significant. Look at what Rhine accomplished at Duke."

  “Well, why don’t you holler? Go before the Board and bite 'em in the ear for it. Tell 'em how you’re going to make Western University famous."

  Huxley looked still more morose. “Fat chance. I talked with my dean and he wouldn’t even let me take it up with the President. Scared that the old fathead will clamp down on the department even more than he has. You see, officially, we are supposed to be behaviorists. Any suggestion that there might be something to consciousness that can’t be explained in terms of physiology and mechanics is about as welcome as a Saint Bernard in a telephone booth."

  The telephone signal glowed red back of the attendant’s counter. He switched off the newscast and answered the call. “Hello … Yes, ma’am, he is. I’ll call him. Telephone for you, Doctuh Coburn."

  “Switch it over here." Coburn turned the telephone panel at the table around so that it faced him; as he did so it lighted up with the face of a young woman. He picked up the handset.

  “What is it? … What’s that? How long ago did it happen? … Who made the diagnosis? …

  Read that over again … Let me see the chart." He inspected its image reflected in the panel, then added, “Very well. I’ll be right over. Prepare the patient for operating." He switched off the instrument and turned to Huxley.

  “Got to go, Phil — emergency."

  “What sort?"

  “It’ll interest you. Trephining. Maybe some cerebral excision. Car accident.

  Come along and watch it, if you have time." He was putting on his slicker as he spoke. He turned and swung out the west door with a long, loose-limbed stride.

  Huxley grabbed his own raincoat and hurried to catch up with him.

  “How come," he asked as he came abreast,
“they had to search for you?"

  “Left my pocketphone in my other suit," Coburn returned briefly. “On purpose — I wanted a little peace and quiet. No luck."

  They worked north and west through the arcades and passages that connected the Union with the Science group, ignoring the moving walkways as being too slow.

  But when they came to the conveyor subway under Third Avenue opposite the Pottenger Medical School, they found it flooded, its machinery stalled, and were forced to detour west to the Fairfax Avenue conveyor.

  Coburn cursed impartially the engineers and the planning commission for the fact that spring brings torrential rains to Southern California, Chamber of Commerce or no.

  They got rid of their wet clothes in the Physicians’ Room and moved on to the gowning room for surgery. An orderly helped Huxley into white trousers and cotton shoe covers, and they moved to the next room to scrub. Coburn invited Huxley to scrub also in order that he might watch the operation close up. For three minutes by the little sand glass they scrubbed away with strong green soap, then stepped through a door and were gowned and gloved by silent, efficient nurses. Huxley felt rather silly to be helped on with his clothes by a nurse who had to stand on tip-toe to get the sleeves high enough. They were ushered through the glass door into Surgery III, rubber-covered hands held out, as if holding a skein of yarn.

  The patient was already in place on the table, head raised up and skull clamped immobile.

  Someone snapped a switch and a merciless circle of blue-white lights beat down on the only portion of him that was exposed, the right side of his skull. Coburn glanced quickly around the room, Huxley following his glance — light green walls, two operating nurses, gowned, masked, and hooded into sexlessness, a 'dirty’ nurse, busy with something in the corner, the anesthetist, the instruments that told Coburn the state of the patient’s heart action and respiration.

  A nurse held the chart for the surgeon to read. At a word from Coburn, the anesthetist uncovered the patient’s face for a moment. Lean brown face, aquiline nose, closed sunken eyes.