The Time Masters

by Wilson Tucker

  “You love her. Keep going on the theory.”

  “In the beginning I didn’t realize of course what was taking place; our marriage was too new, Carolyn was too new and I lacked previous data. I don’t recall now just when I first suspected the truth. It was one of those years . . . One of those years I discovered that Carolyn was learning my most precious secrets, the most confidential government secrets that we at Manhattan were exploring. Manhattan was very strict you must understand. Nothing was to be carried home to the wife and family, arid following those dictates my lips were sealed. Never, never in the many years of our marriage have I spoken a confidential word to my wife—about my work, I mean. Not one word. I wouldn’t even so much as mention the name of another man I happened across at the laboratory, for fear the mere name and presence of that man would partially reveal the particular experiment under consideration. You see, in our work, a man’s name immediately identifies him with his subject.”

  “Yes, Newton and gravity, Heinlein and the moon. Keep going.” Nash had again closed his eyes and was hunched in the desk chair, listening intently.

  “So I said absolutely nothing to Carolyn about the work, nothing! But in a short while she knew everything I was doing, and everything I had observed others doing. I worried about it, puzzled over it, told myself I was deliberately fabricating false premises—but she knew, and in the end I realized that she knew. She would prove that to me when certain instances arose in my work that stopped me cold. I would stand still for days, unable to progress by so much as a single decimal point and meanwhile she would grow irritated with me. Impatient with me really, for I was holding her back as well. Finally her irritation and impatience would reach the point where she would drop some hint in our idle conversation—not about the work stoppage, no, but she had the knack of inserting an irrelevant phrase or thought into whatever subject we were discussing. That irrelevant something would grow in my mind and in a day or so I would change it—that is, reassign the values, and apply them to the work under consideration. And immediately the problem would vanish, the knot would disappear and the work would go forward once more. And Carolyn’s mood would change for the better. I have included all that in my theory of her.

  “Carolyn helped me actively push my work, and in return Carolyn shared the results of that work. Against my conscious will. I puzzled a long, long time over the method she employed to gain access to my knowledge. Mr. Nash, the following is apt to be . . . to be . . .”

  “Confidence of the client, remember? Don’t worry about what it is apt to be. Just spill it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hodgkins fidgeted. “At first—at first I considered mental telepathy, those Rhine experiments with ESP and that sort of thing. I wondered if Carolyn was—say sitting across the room from me and reading my thoughts; and although I blush to admit it, I toyed with that idea for quite some time and would find myself devising mental traps for her. I used to think things, sometimes revolting and horrible things—nasty little thoughts—and watch to see if she reacted to my thoughts. She never did, never gave an indication that she was ‘reading’ those thoughts or ‘reading’ my mind. In time, I discarded the theory of mental telepathy. That is, I discarded that particular theory of telepathy. Mr. Nash, I can’t prove what I am about to say and so it must remain my theory only, but I believe I have discovered the channel of workable telepathy—at least between Carolyn and myself.”

  “I know one thing right now,” Nash told him. “I guessed it by your manner and your growing discomfort. It is a rather delicate channel, isn’t it?”

  Hodgkins eyed him in wonder. “Very delicate. I’ve come to believe this telepathy of ours requires a physical contact. A very intimate physical contact.”

  “I’m anticipating you. But go on.”

  “This—I haven’t even told this to my doctor—but as our years of marriage went by and I modulated my theory, I finally came to realize that we must have this physical contact for her to know my innermost thoughts. I’ve already told you that we maintained separate bedrooms.” He broke off to fidget, to glance with embarrassment at Nash. “I’m afraid this becomes very personal, I hope you will understand. In the beginning of course we were very much in love, always together, and incidentally unable to afford separate bedrooms. You’ve never been married, have you? Marriage begins with a maximum amount of closeness, of clinging together physically and mentally, of being constantly aware of one another and the desire to be near one another. But over the course of years that tends to wear away and you experience only periodically what you felt at first.

  “It was during this latter period that I formed my theory of Carolyn. We had moved to Oak Ridge by this time, we could afford separate bedrooms. Will you—will you forgive me this?”

  “Easily done.”

  “I have formed the theory that Carolyn can know my thoughts by physical contact, that her mental powers are limited to that means of conductivity. Let us assume that we were holding hands—when you are in love, Mr. Nash, there is much of that. When we were holding hands, Carolyn could know my surface thoughts, could know what I was thinking of in a vague distant manner. When we kissed, she was able to plunge deeper, able to read and know everything I knew. I could feel that, I could feel her plumbing my mind for knowledge. It amounted almost to a physical probing. I knew what was happening and yet I was powerless to prevent it. I—-was and am in love with Carolyn. I couldn’t deny her affection.

  “But when”—Hodgkins cast a sheepish, half-defiant glare at Nash—”but when I would return home from work after having solved, or nearly solved, some particularly important problem, Carolyn would be extremely affectionate. She—she would sleep in my room that night.”

  Nash said nothing, waiting.

  “As an illustration,” Hodgkins continued after a moment, “let me use that schematic drawing I spoke of before. While I would be working my slow way through that drawing, Carolyn would keep pace with me by holding my hand, by kissing me warmly each evening as I came home. But on the day I had mastered it, the day I had enmeshed the whole and understood the scheme completely—on that day Carolyn would know what had happened, would know that I had solved another knotty problem and it was on its way to the proper government agencies. That night, then—that night she would delight me, would live with me again the early days of our marriage when I was a younger and more active man, and before the next morning she would know what had been accomplished. She would know each exact detail and could, if need be, sit down and make a copy of that drawing. All this without a spoken, word passing my lips.”

  He used the soiled handkerchief to mop his face. “And that, Mr. Nash, is my theory. I believe I know how mental telepathy works and I believe I have unwillingly proved it.”

  Nash opened his eyes and shifted his position in the chair. He fastened his penetrating gaze upon Hodgkins. “If you were an archeologist instead of a physicist, that form of telepathy wouldn’t have startled you so. Astonished and pleased you—yes, but you would have probably recognized it.”

  “I would?”

  “Yes. Making due allowance for the scanty information available today, there’s reason to believe your telepathy was practiced among the Sumerians some five to seven thousand years ago. The art has since become lost.”

  “Is that a fact? Are you an archeologist?”

  “The armchair variety,” Nash said. “But you seem to have overlooked the most important point right now. What did your wife do with the knowledge she gained from you? What did she do with those government secrets? Pass them along to someone else perhaps?”

  “I don’t know. I have no idea. I never saw anything suspicious that would suggest such a thing. But then, I wouldn’t see that, would I?”

  “No, that too would be behind your back.”

  “Do you—do you think perhaps Carolyn ran away with a spy?”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic,” Nash snapped. “Spies don’t run away with anyone—they travel alone. No, she didn’t run away
with a spy—”

  Hodgkins melted back into his chair, dejected. “Do you understand the terrible trouble I’m in? I have my convictions and I believe utterly in them. But can I take them to the police? Would they believe me? Would they examine their files for your Sumerians? Can I tell my troubles to the security agents who guard the plant out there? What would that psychiatrist say if I told him all that I have told you? What would happen to me? And think, man—do I want to turn my own beloved wife over to the law, assuming they would believe me?”

  Nash shook his head. “Friend, you’ve got my sympathy. You’re in a very clever trap, the damn’dest and most foolproof trap I’ve ever seen.” He interlaced his fingers, staring at the scientist. “You were trapped into marriage, believe me. Baited and trapped by a beautiful woman because of what you would become in the future, not because of what you were then. To add to your own misfortunes, you fell in love with her . . .” He paused, let his gaze drift slowly around the walls of the room and then back to the man. “Or maybe you were made to fall in love with her.”

  “I—don’t think I understand.”

  “I’m not surprised. Few mortals do.” Nash paused again, frowning. “You still haven’t told me why you and Carolyn separated.”

  “Why—I was sent home from the plant! That silly psychiatrist prescribed rest. And I was of no use to Carolyn after I had left the Ridge.”

  Nash considered the answer. “That isn’t all of it.” He bounded from the chair and strode to the window.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do. Which happened first, your being sent home, or your wife walking out?”

  “They—they both happened on the same day. Carolyn left the same afternoon I came home.”

  “That’s better, and that’s quite interesting. We will assume that she deserted you when she discovered your usefulness was over. As you say, she could—siphon no more secrets from you if you no longer worked there. But that still isn’t all. Before that afternoon, what caused your dismissal? Why were you in such a state that the psychiatrist told you to go home?”

  “Carolyn.”

  “Carolyn? What did she do?”

  “Nothing obvious. But for weeks she gave every indication of—being finished with me. I gained the distinct impression that she was mentally packing up and preparing to leave. I worried about it, I didn’t want to part with her. I suppose I worried myself into such a state that I visited the doctor. And he—you know the rest.”

  Nash put his forehead to the pane of window glass and looked down. “I know that your wife realized you were finished before you did. The point is, finished in what way? You still have your mental and physical health, you still have an excellent job, and that particular agency of the government doesn’t send you to a glue factory when they are done with you. So how and why were you finished?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Hodgkins answered evasively.

  Nash stared at his own close reflection in the window glass. “Perhaps not—and perhaps you can. I want to think of that for a moment. It’s highly important that we discover why your wife decided you were finished, why she prepared to leave you.” He fell silent for a moment, musing. Traffic noise reached up, thin and diluted with distance. “What about your work on the Ridge? Had you just wound up some really important job?”

  “Well—yes.” Hodgkins grew uneasy.

  “Don’t worry—I’m not going to pump you.”

  “Official secrecy, you know,” the man said pompously.

  Nash turned slowly around to stare down at him, not attempting to conceal the scorn in his expression or his voice. “Hodgkins, I’m laughing at you now. Not at what you have told me up to this moment; I made a promise and I intend to keep it. But I’m laughing at what you’ve just said.”

  The physicist returned his glance, puzzled and ill at ease.

  Nash flicked a pointed finger. “Other than those people down there on the street who aren’t able to think beyond the printed lines of a newspaper, there are only two kinds of men in all the world who still believe there are keepable secrets in nuclear physics! One of those men is the blind, awkward and fumbling politician—and we can dismiss him because he suffers his occupational disease. The other man is a jealous researcher.”

  “But I—”

  “But you have so narrowed your mind and your former capacity for intelligent reasoning that you now fall into the second category. You were even startled when I looked at that signboard stuck in your lapel and told you where you worked. Can you comprehend the iron grip that the secrecy fetish has on your mind? Realistic secrecy in nuclear physics is a farce. What did you tell me awhile ago about borrowing books and magazines from the library to aid your studies? Do you think men all over the world have forgotten what was printed in them—that tens of thousands of scattered copies were gathered up and burned? Do you actually believe that only your group and your government know how to build weapons? Control all the knowledge?” Nash stabbed out a finger to emphasize his point. “I feel sorry for you, Hodgkins—and all those others who think as you do. You have no secrets.”

  “Our security people—”

  “The security people worship at the feet of the same idol and believe in the same religion; and in a half-dozen other countries a half-dozen other security forces worship similar idols. I’m laughing at you, Hodgkins, because all the idols are images of the same god, all the religions are one. All the security forces struggle to prevent the same ‘secrets’ leaking to the outer countries.”

  “I’ve heard the theory discussed,” Hodgkins said.

  “So? You think it an abstract matter? Listen then, friend, while I destroy your religion. Your government long ago invented and put to use an inverted-Y gun for detonating the atomic bomb. One or two years ago, Russia developed an inverted-Y gun for detonating the atomic bomb. Less than six months ago, England examined and discarded the principal of an inverted-Y gun for detonating an atomic bomb. Secrecy—hell!”

  Hodgkins looked his firm disbelief.

  Nash’s voice dropped softly. “A great and pompous to-do is made about the size of the critical mass necessary to detonate that bomb. The people making the greatest fuss are the most deluded.” His voice dropped still lower almost to a whisper. “Hodgkins—what would happen in this room, to this building, if I were able to bring together very quickly just twenty-two pounds of pure U-235? Twenty-two point seven pounds, to be exact?”

  He waited for an answer but there was none. The physicist stared numbly at his hands lying limp in his lap.

  “I didn’t obtain that information by stealth or trickery,” Nash declared. “And you can tell your security agents about me, if you like. When they come trooping in here I’ll show them where it was published, chapter and verse.” He moved away from the desk to pace the room. “I can also tell you the present size of the bomb casings, as opposed to that ungainly giant dropped on Hiroshima—surely you recall that it was necessary to gouge out the interior of a plane to house that one. And I know—if you don’t—that an inglorious thing like a three-dollar alarm clock was the timing device in that first bomb. Today they are using frequency impulses. Now will you believe me—there are no real secrets?”

  “I can’t—tell you anything. I have sworn.”

  “All right,” Nash said in resignation, “keep your oath if it will help you keep your sanity. I’ll tell you. You don’t have to answer, you needn’t say a word. I’ll know by your face whether I’m right or wrong.”

  He went back to the window to place his forehead against the cool glass. Hodgkins glanced up briefly, stared at the back of his neck and dropped his eyes again.

  “I think your wife left you for two reasons,” Nash began. “And I think she knew you were finished in more ways than one. First and foremost, she knew you had finished the very important work you were doing on the Ridge. What could that work be? The major restrictions of the place were dropped in 1949 and now the public runs through the town as i
f it were a railroad station. Other plants in other places have seized the initiative and Oak Ridge could be compared to a ghost town, it played the star role years ago.” The tall man turned his back to the window and settled his gaze on Hodgkins.

  “Today, places like Hanford and Brookhaven and the Savannah River are the stars—while Oak Ridge is supposedly a has-been. Only supposedly. Actually it isn’t—you are still there, or were until three weeks ago, working on highly important matter. What is so important in nuclear physics these days to keep you at Oak Ridge?”

  Hodgkins did not look up.

  “It might be a reaction motor,” Nash said softly, watching the other’s half-averted face. “They’re installing one in that submarine over on the east coast. And one of the electrical companies up north is attempting to build a plane on a similar principle.” He paused again, waiting a few seconds for the effect. “It might be an atomic drive for another type of vehicle—a stepchild of the submarine.” Hodgkins had moved. Nash watched him. “It might be a heavy-duty reaction motor, designed to fit into a special kind of ship with a special kind of problem to overcome.” The scientist was becoming visibly nervous. “It could, be a small-scale pile capable of developing a tremendous kick—something, say, which would drive the children of the Wac Corporal into space.”

  Nash whirled to the window, suddenly satisfied with the results of his probing. That last shot had told.

  “As a matter of fact,” he continued calmly, “the Army’s Wac Corporal and the V-2 as well as the Navy’s Viking are dodoes; they are the has-beens that Oak Ridge is supposed to be. The Army passed them by long ago—what was the date? I think it was in February, 1949, that man first jumped into space. Remember that, Hodgkins? Remember the V-2 that carried the Corporal toward space? The V-z managed a hundred miles before it fell back, but meanwhile the Corporal had leaped from its nose and continued on for another hundred and fifty miles. A total of two hundred and fifty miles off the earth, Hodgkins! The Wac Corporal reached empty space. But what have they done since then? How many hundreds of miles more have they gone?” He turned on the physicist eagerly, demanding. “Has Heirdein reached the moon? Has he made the big jump? And in what year of the future will the Army get around to announcing it?”