by Anthology
Danger, the black and deadly danger—they saw it not. But blindly chattered on about everything except the reality.
“Show him the frontispiece!” A voice cut into his burning reverie. “That’s the real give-away. It’s in German.”
The man. Brown, echoed: “Absolutely, the whole frontispiece in German. Look, the name of that city.”
The book was held up into the light of the moon; a shadowed finger pointed. Clair strained and read:
Zweiundvierzigste Strasse
Hitlerstadt, Nord-Amerika
743 N. H.
“What gets me,” said Brown, “is that 743 N. H. at the bottom. It’s senseless.”
Clair said grayly: “Nach Hitler”—it was funny how he knew, but he did, with utter certainty—“after Hitler. Seven hundred and forty-three years after. Hitlerstadt is, of course, the city we now call New York.”
There was a ripple of laughter, and somebody said: “Wha’ did he say? Wha’ did he say?”
The sentence was repeated, but the man did not echo the laughter. “Oh,” he said, “Oh, I’m glad somebody’s got a sense of humor. I’ve just been sitting here thinking if this might not be some manifestation of a secret enemy weapon. And I must say, I couldn’t think of how they could have worked it.”
There was more laughter. It was amazing to Clair how good-humored they had become. Somebody whispered to him: “That’s Capper, the scientist.”
“I know!” Clair nodded. He was thinking desperately: If he could keep them thinking it was all humor, and yet gain information—He said, straining for lightness, but heavy and cold with the import of his words:
“Professor Capper, we might as well carry this through: Is there a theory of time which would explain how an event which has already occurred can be changed, so that something entirely different would transpire?”
“Of course, of course.” The scientist spoke irritably. “The world is full of nonsensical ideas. Everything’s been thought of—everything. Trust human beings to waste their time with such stuff.” Clair fought an inner battle to keep his fingers from grabbing the other’s neck, and shaking the explanation out of him. The sense of urgency in him was so great that his voice trembled as he said:
“For the sake of curiosity, what is the theory?” “Why, it’s nothing but the old factor of—”
The plane swerved in a dizzy, twisting dive that sent Clair hurtling against a seat. He caught the plush back of the chair with a grip that nearly tore his muscles from his body.
There followed a sickening moment where the only sound was the shrill whine of the engines in the full fury of a power dive; and then—
Glass splintered. Bullets smashed against shiny woodwork, and screeched on metal. From somewhere near, a man screamed in the agony of death. Clair cursed aloud with a terrible understanding. The great transport plane had been swept from tail to nose by machine-gun fire.
He managed to wedge his body into the comparative stability and safety of the seat opposite the scientist, Capper—and through the window he saw the sliver-thin planes of the crooked cross, black pencils against the lightening sky.
Three of them darted past his narrow line of vision, like black angels gleaming in the moonlight, reflections of malignant beauty—
The thought came to Clair that he ought to be struggling to reach the cockpit, and that he was ruining himself by sitting here, ruining his great record, ruining himself in the eyes of the passengers.
Ruin—utter ruin—
And it mattered not. The thoughts were in his mind, but they were like burning phantoms, consuming their own substance, completely uncorrelatable to physical action. In his brain was one purpose, one unquenchable and tremendous purpose.
He leaned over to the scientist; he half shouted: “What is this theory of time?”
He braced himself for a verbal explosion, a tongue flaying that would sear his brain; an opinion about an officer neglecting his duty that would sting in his memory throughout all time. And there was a picture in his mind, a vivid, terrifying picture, of how the question he had asked would sound in court-martial testimony.
It mattered not. All the certainties, the motivations that had ruled his brain in the past seemed remote and unreal. There was only—
“Professor Capper, that time theory of which you spoke?”
“Young man,” came the reply, “you amaze me; your courage, your calmness—Thank you, sir, for being so matter-of-fact. Your example saved me from making a cowardly fool of myself. But I’m under control now—and you’re right, there is no reason why we shouldn’t discuss science or pseudoscience—”
Clair stared blankly; then came a brief, dark stound at the other’s unexpected reaction. It was a form of hysteria, of course; and there was ego here, an utter acceptance that a plane commander would, in a crisis, waste his time talking to a passenger. But—
For his purpose, it was as if God Himself had reached forth His magic hand, and rendered everything easy. Fighting for control, Clair said: “Professor, the time theory—give it to me as succinctly as possible.”
“A lot of nonsense, of course,” the man rumbled, “but fascinating to talk about under such conditions. Probable worlds! Imagine that—” His voice trailed off; Clair heard him muttering something more about nonsense—and trembled so violently that he could hardly stay in his seat. “Probable worlds? What do you mean?” “What I said. Suppose the ancient Sea-peoples had conquered Egypt; suppose Xerxes had defeated the Greek States; suppose the Moors had overrun Europe; suppose the Germans won this war; suppose—”
“But how does that fit the theory?”
In the light of the moon, the thin face of the professor frowned at Clair: “Don’t be so impatient. There is no hurry. The attack isn’t over yet; and we might as well talk. I want to thank you again for making it possible for me to face this situation with a fearlessness I never expected was in me. It feels great, wonderful. It—”
The twisting thought came to Clair that he would have to tell this loquacious savant the truth. He parted his lips—and then, through the window, he saw the black shape swoop in from the north.
“Duck!” he yelled, and jerked himself flat on the aisle floor, as the plane crackled and reverberated with the bullets that tore along its length.
A heavy body collapsed on top of Clair. At least, it felt unbearably heavy at the moment of fall; only it was surprisingly easy to lift the professor’s slight form back into his seat. The man crouched there, coughing a little, mumbling to himself.
Cold with the certainty of what had happened, Clair shook the drooping body.
“Professor—”
The head lifted wearily; and a strong glow of moonlight reflected from a pair of small, watery eyes.
“Never so proud,” came the mumble. “Never thought I’d face death like this. How can we lose this war, if even I—”
“The time theory!” Clair croaked.
“Oh, yes, the old business of probables—You’re the bravest man I ever met, squadron leader, to carry on such a conversation; and I’m not so bad myself. Tell them that, eh? Tell them we talked about . . . about time theories, about worlds and men that might have existed if—something hadn’t happened. Of course, to the theorist, those worlds do exist, that is, some projection of them, something of the spirit that carried on—”
“Professor, that stranger—he claimed to be from the future that would exist if we won this war—”
For an instant, after Clair had spoken, the scientist’s watery eyes brightened; he mumbled: “So that’s what you’ve been getting at. But it’s impossible. I’ll tell you why—if he was only from a probable world, he couldn’t have materialized here.”
“But he didn’t materialize. That’s what he said. That’s why he could slip out of our irons. He was only a reflection of—and this is his own phrase—of a moon-ray time reflector machine, and that we had to accept the illusion mentally before it would even exist as much as it did. Professor—
/> “Impossible. You’ve forgotten the book he left. That was material.”
“But, sir”—Clair had a hopeless feeling—“he said he had that printed under great difficulties in Hitlerstadt.”
“Spirit”—the professor’s voice was a remote, husky thing; and it was all too obvious that his mind had gyrated back to an earlier theme—“that’s it, spirit like ours cannot die . . . proud that I personally took a bullet without flinching, and after all my fears, too . . . proud—”
He crumpled like a house of cards; and Clair who had seen death too often to doubt its presence now, climbed over the contorted body in the aisle. He was shaking a little, but his mind was quite clear. Whatever hope there might have been of some mysterious superman coming to the rescue from a world that had yet to prove its right to exist—that hope was gone now.
The only man who knew enough to fill in the all-necessary details of identity was dead, and that meant—
The time had come to fight.
The two men in the cockpit snarled at him like beasts as he entered. Clair saw, from narrowing eyes, that Wilson’s right arm hung, a limp, tattered, bloody object at his side. Major Gray was at the port gun, hugging it to his shoulder. Both men flashed him the desperate expressions of human beings determinedly facing a hopeless martyrdom. It was Wilson who raged:
“Where in hell do you think you’ve been, you damned—”
There was, Clair recognized in a biting self-condemnation, justice behind those lashing words. But they were born of maddening pain, and served no useful purpose. He knew exactly what to do, what to say; his answer grew a live out of events:
“Silence!” He flared the words, because only anger could penetrate here. He sneered: “So you’ve given up in your hearts, both of you. Think we’re licked, eh? Going to go on shooting to the last, but deep in your minds you know it’s all hopeless. What can a transport do against fighter planes?
“Shut up!” He snapped the words at Major Gray, whose lips were parting for speech. “I know exactly what you’re thinking, but I’ve just seen a man die, who knew how, and if anybody in this cockpit disgraces him, I’ll take that person’s body, and throw it out of the ship. Only men are going to have the honor of going down with this plane.”
Before that blazing tirade, the two men, Wilson and the major, exchanged one amazed glance. Gray shrugged his stocky shoulders with the unmistakable gesture of a man who recognized stark insanity when he saw it.
Clair didn’t feel mad. His whole body was aglow with life that quivered like an itching finger on a hair trigger. Never had he been more alert, more conscious of the utter joy of being.
He saw the torpedo-shape silhouette for an instant against the moon, and as the Messerschmitt dived toward them in a long, slanting curve, he crouched over the starboard gun, his mind rocksteady, his whole body intent on aiming.
After a moment, he compressed the trigger gently, and held it back.
It took a moment, then, for his eyes to recover from the blinding light that ballooned into incandescence where the Hun ship had been.
A shrill yell sounded from Wilson: “Good boy! He blew up!”
The remote thought came to Clair that men in crises were chameleons in their emotions. His navigator who had hated with violence, now praised in a storm of approval.
That thought passed because—he noticed the oddness with a start—there was a difference in the feel of the gun. It was bulkier. But it felt strangely, immensely lighter; immeasurably easier to handle.
But there was something else, a mind-soaring difference: it had glowed green against the half light of the early morning sky; the whole shiny barrel had tinted a pale, iridescent green.
And the funniest part of all was that he had not the slightest doubt of what had happened:
He was firing a ray of intolerable energy.
As he crouched, he was conscious for the first time of the quiet confidence that was in him, the certainties. Unlike anything he had ever known, a sense of destiny.
He waited for the next attack from the unsuspecting enemy, and became aware of another unusualness.
It required a moment to understand what it was: silence!
Clair frowned; and then again he nodded to himself in perfect comprehension. There was no roar of engines. Which was utterly natural: the spaceship that had been NA-7044 wouldn’t be using gasoline engines.
It glided on with a glasslike smoothness, a superb armored creature of deep space, idling along with an impregnable casualness.
Clair stood up, and slipped into the seat before the duplicate controls. “I’ll take over,” he said very gently to Wilson. “You get to the medicine kit, and do something for that arm. We’ll land in a few minutes.”
As he finished speaking, his eyes searched the controls; and he smiled with a sudden, heart-quickening glee. The controls, though they were almost the same, were a shade different. The difference between life and death.
The accelerator was like some supersensitive pressure gauge; it reacted to the barest touch. With boldness Clair pressed it hard—and reeled from a moment of ultraspeed. He saw the great, familiar sweep of England’s shore.
They came down with scarcely a jar. The crescent moon was a pale shadow in the middle-western sky, as Clair stepped to the ground beside Colonel Ingraham.
The colonel swelled a little. “We certainly made it hot for those Boches. I blew two of them up myself. Must have set off their bomb nests.” For an instant, the officer’s utter obliviousness to what had really happened, was startling. But actually, Clair thought finally, it explained something that had been puzzling:
The superman had been able to materialize because Professor Capper had identified his origin, but, more than that, because the scientist had, in his superb death, provided an intense source of nervous exaltation—the purest of energies.
Enough energy around which to project, not only a dynamic will, but a concrete spaceship.
Why was the spaceship still here? That had been the puzzling thing until Colonel Ingraham spoke, and which now was as clear as light:
The people of freedom’s great future, the only world now, were not simply trusting to the fact that a flight, which had once failed, had, by their intervention, succeeded.
Men were too obstinate, too blind, too practical; so—
The superman that had been Squadron Leader Ernest William Clair smiled a secret smile. He was here to see that a world would be born—properly.
THE FOX AND THE FOREST
Ray Bradbury
There were fireworks the very first night, things that you should be afraid of perhaps, for they might remind you of other more horrible things, but these were beautiful, rockets that ascended into the ancient soft air of Mexico and shook the stars apart in blue and white fragments. Everything was good and sweet, the air was that blend of the dead and the living, of the rains and the dusts, of the incense from the church, and the brass smell of the tubas on the bandstand which pulsed out vast rhythms of “La Paloma.” The church doors were thrown wide and it seemed as if a giant yellow constellation had fallen from the October sky and lay breathing fire upon the church walls; a million candles sent their color and fumes about. Newer and better fireworks scurried like tight-rope walking comets across the cool-tiled square, banged against adobe café walls, then rushed on hot wires to bash the high church tower, in which boys’ naked feet alone could be seen kicking and re-kicking, clanging and tilting and retilting the monster bells into monstrous music. A flaming bull blundered about the plaza chasing laughing men and screaming children.
“The year is 1938,” said William Travis, standing by his wife on the edge of the yelling crowd, smiling. “A good year.”
The bull rushed upon them. Ducking, the couple ran, with fire balls pelting them, past the music and riot, the church, the band, under the stars, clutching each other, laughing. The bull passed, carried lightly on the shoulders of a charging Mexican, a framework of bamboo and sulphurous gunpowder.
“It’s amazing,” said William.
“It will go on, won’t it?”
“All night.”
“No, I mean our trip.”
He frowned and patted his breast pocket. “I’ve enough traveler’s checks for a lifetime. Enjoy yourself. Forget it. They’ll never find us.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
Now someone was setting off giant crackers, hurling them from the great bell-tolling tower of the church in a sputter of smoke, while the crowd below fell back under the threat and the crackers exploded in wonderful concussions among their dancing feet and flailing bodies. A wondrous smell of frying tortillas hung all about, and in the cafés men sat at tables looking out, mugs of beer in their brown hands.
The bull was dead. The fire was out of the bamboo tubes and he was expended. The laborer lifted the framework from his shoulders. Little boys clustered to touch the magnificent papier-mâché head, the real horns.
“Let’s examine the bull,” said William.
As they walked past the café entrance Susan saw the man looking out at them, a white man in a salt-white suit, with a blue tie and blue shirt, and a thin, sunburned face! His hair was blond and straight and his eyes were blue, and he watched them as they walked.
She would never have noticed him if it had not been for the bottles at his immaculate elbow; a fat bottle of crème de menthe, a clear bottle of vermouth, a flagon of cognac, and seven other bottles of assorted liqueurs, and, at his finger tips, ten small half-filled glasses from which, without taking his eyes off the street, he sipped, occasionally squinting, pressing his thin mouth shut upon the savor. In his free hand a thin Havana cigar smoked, and on a chair stood twenty cartons of Turkish cigarettes, six boxes of cigars, and some packaged colognes.
