by Anthology
“In what way?” said Kip, genuinely puzzled. “If the experiment fails, well, it’s just an experiment that failed. Most do.”
“But they usually don’t fail in front of media reporters.” Neville whipped off his glasses. “This . . . this experiment of yours attracts the press like flies to treacle.” He looked off toward a window, avoiding Kip’s gaze. “Junk science usually does,” he added, softly.
Kip worked to keep his voice cheerful. There was nothing to be gained by losing his temper. “Why are you so set against this?” he asked.
“Research money is difficult to come by these days,” said Neville. “There is a lot of good science languishing because more meretricious projects get the funds.”
“Such as one of your own projects, perhaps?”
Neville glared.
Kip pointed to the TVM. “This is good science,” he said.
“One might differ.”
“Why?”
“For one,” said Neville, “your extrapolation from the Klein-Gordon equation is little more than speculation. And there is no way to know if this supposed entropy force could couple to the matter field. The effect, if it exists at all, might be localized to a micron or two and, even then, I can’t see that the arrow of time would lose meaning in the localized field.” With a show of deliberation, Neville put on his glasses. “But principally,” he said, glowering behind his thick lenses, “bell ringing, synchronized human minds—that is not physics.”
“Well, damn it, who made you the god of physics?” Kip, annoyed he’d allowed himself to be goaded, tried for a veneer of pleasantness. “We differ on this,” he said with a forced smile. “But I do thank you for letting me use the resources of your department.”
“Thank your National Science Foundation.” Neville walked to the door. “They’ve been very generous.” More forcefully than necessary, he closed the door behind him.
Tuesday morning, after visiting each of the three towers, Kip drove as close as roads allowed to the geographic center of the triangle. He parked the car on the side of the road, flipped on his radio transceiver, and popped it into his jacket pocket. Then, carrying the TVM, he stepped out onto the familiar soil—a tree-rich hill that was, coincidentally, a mere five-minute walk to the house he’d grown up in. He’d played here as a boy. All the Musketeers had.
Kip repositioned his hands-free headset from around his neck to over his head, then checked his watch: fifteen minutes to ten. The tower captains had been instructed to turn on their transceivers at ten, precisely.
While waiting for ten o’clock, Kip meandered the gentle woods, the crunch and rustle of the fallen leaves breaking the sylvan silence as he walked. Despite Neville’s forewarning, there were no reporters dogging his steps; he was quite alone.
Then, in the overcast but unseasonably warm morning, he heard the bells of Tower North. The bells, left down after use, were being rung up to their start positions. A minute later, there was silence again.
A few seconds before the hour, Kip leaned against a tree—a very familiar landmark, one he’d climbed repeatedly through the years of his childhood. It looked smaller now.
“Tower North,” he said. “Are you there?”
“Yes, Kip, my boy,” came Caruthers’ voice from his headset. “Tower North, ready.”
Kip checked the other towers, paused, then said, “Tower North. On my mark, begin rounds . . . Mark.”
“Treble’s going,” said a voice from the tower. “She’s gone.”
A second or so later, Kip heard the joyous cascade of rounds—the repeated descending scale, each repetition ending with the rich, mellow D from Great Peter.
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Kip brought in the second tower and spent the next few minutes coordinating the two rings of bells into synchronization.
“Tower East,” he said, “try to listen only to the earphones. You’re a little ahead of North.”
Finally, with North and East ringing in unison, Kip brought in Tower West and talked it into synchrony. Then he listened. The sound was uncanny. With the three towers ringing as one, the chorus of iron came from no discernable direction—the cry of the bells seemed to radiate from everywhere: the hills, the trees, from the ground itself.
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“Tower captains,” said Kip. “On my mark, begin the method . . . Mark.”
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The peal of Stedman Triples had begun. If the peal did not break down, Kip would have over three hours to collect data.
Using the tree as ground zero, Kip walked slowly in a widening gyre, sweeping the TVM in horizontal arcs as if he were looking for buried treasure. At first, Kip kept his eyes locked on the meter dial, eager to see the first success of his theory. But after about an hour, with the pointer stubbornly refusing to budge from zero, his mind’s eye took over; he imagined Neville, not even trying to disguise his glee at the failed experiment. Kip tried to convince himself that the dial was but a crude indicator. The important data would be recorded in memory. Computer analysis would build a data map of the region showing the true signal strength at any point to three or four significant figures.
Kip continued his spiral until he could just barely hear phase differences between the towers. Then he turned back, repeating the measurements in the eerie shadow of directionless sound. If nothing else, the simultaneous peal would go into the record books and would certainly get a big write-up in Ringers World. But that would hardly impress the American National Science Foundation.
After a few minutes where his eyes were locked on the TVM’s circular dial, Kip glanced up. Ahead, he saw the vaguest hint of a circle or maybe a sphere—an afterimage of the dial, he supposed. Transparent almost to the point of invisibility, the image had an ill-defined boundary, which appeared to start about nine feet above ground level. Kip moved his head, but the image didn’t move. Not an afterimage, but likely a trick of the light.
As he walked toward the ghostly object, he noticed that the ground-zero tree penetrated into it—that is, if there was indeed an it. Immersed in the dense tapestry of sound, Kip observed that the object might be shimmering in synchrony with the tenor bells. He wasn’t sure; it took an act of will to even see the sphere at all. And sometimes it seemed more pyramidal than spherical.
Near the base of the tree, Kip, almost by reflex, reached up with the TVM to touch the object. But there was nothing to touch, no resistance, only a near-subliminal change of color. Kip froze as the meter dial caught his eye. The pointer, no longer fixed at zero, vibrated across a quarter of its range. Kip stood on tiptoes and raised the tip of the TVM higher into the object. The meter fluctuated wildly, making soft clicking sounds as the needle pinned itself against the stops. Although uncertain of exactly what was happening, Kip had no doubt that a few feet above his head, something very strange was happening to time. A wave of satisfaction washed over him; his experiment had succeeded. At the same time, he reproached himself for overlooking the third dimension. Of course the effect would be significantly above ground level; the bells were high in towers.
He stuck the TVM in his belt like a sword and examined the tree for hand and foot holds. He’d climbed the tree before; he would climb it again. As he began to clamber upward, he smiled. He was taller now, but perhaps not as lithe. Although pleased with himself at how easily he climbed, he knew that, unlike twenty-five years ago, he would feel the aftereffects the next day.
Breathing heavily from the exertion as he fought for altitude, he reminisced—remembering his previous visits to the tree. He locked his mind onto one particular arboreal excursion—and noticed he was gesticulating and also moving his lips.
Abruptly, Kip realized he wasn’t so much reminiscing as reliving the experience—the way one would do in a dream. Finding a familiar cleft between two branches, Kip wedged himself in. He had to think.
It could just be the hypnotic effect of the bells, but it seemed real. He ex
perimented again, this time with his mind and his will.
Like a train on a track, he could will himself to roll back in time and relive any portion of his life. And with effort, he could live it all at once. It was as if all his past, his worldline, happened simultaneously—like photos from an album stacked and pressed together.
He took refuge in physics. Maybe there was a second dimension of time—time as a function of time. Perhaps here in the tree, time was disconnected from space. His theory said it could happen. Maybe he was experiencing the multi-world formalism of quantum mechanics.
Kip shook his head, struck with the thought that one version of the Christian heaven and the multi-world formalism might actually describe the same phenomenon. Maybe he’d been a trifle too uncompromising in his view of religion—his “fight” as Audrey called it; maybe religion was just a subset of physics.
Methodically, in his mind, he moved the lever back—experiencing his life at an ever earlier period—sharing his mind with all those other Kips. He wondered about those others; did they too experience the mind-sharing? Did they think they were perhaps having psychotic episodes? He remembered that as late as age twelve, he talked to himself—another himself.
Kip focused, pulling abruptly back from the brink. He’d felt his forty-year-old identity weaken and his eleven- or twelve-year-old self begin to assert control. He shuddered. It had been close. Yes, it might have been good to go back and relive his life, but he doubted he had the endurance to go through childhood again.
Tentatively, experimentally, he let his mind return to the brink and as he did so, noticed his hands. They were a child’s hands—and his clothes were those of a young boy: shorts, tee shirt, sneakers. He inhaled, sharply—and noticed the smells, delicious smells: the pleasantly acrid aroma of tree bark, the tang of the autumn leaves, the sweet fragrance of the grass.
“Kippy,” came a voice from below, harmonizing with the ever present bells. “Come down, now. You’re late for dinner.”
Kip started. One part of his mind experienced shock while another felt he was in trouble and would really catch it when his father got home from work. He looked down at his mom, wondering what to say. But then he noticed the bells.
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They were ringing rounds! The peal had ended and that meant the detached time effect would soon end. He had to get back to his own time or be trapped here as an eleven-year-old.
“Mom,” he called out, his voice a long-forgotten treble. “I love you.”
Her face, showing a puzzled expression, faded as he struggled forward in time. But now it felt as if he were running under water; already, the effect was diminishing. As he pushed ahead against an ever increasing drag, he took some comfort in the notion that if he didn’t make it, he’d still be able to live at normal speed and eventually get back to where he was. But then, he shuddered with a horrible thought; if he didn’t get back, he’d be in an endless time loop: reliving his life to the point of doing the experiment, then going back and living it again—and again and again. But maybe not! Maybe he’d manage to do just one different thing this time. That might be all he needed. Like bobs in a ringing method, it might change everything. He held firm to that hope as memories of the future faded to memories of memories and then to dreams.
He fought his way forward and wondered how old he was. What a stupid thing to wonder. He was fourteen.
“Hey, Kipper!”
Kip looked down, then hooked his legs over the limb and swung over, letting his arms dangle. “One for all,” he said, hanging upside down, “and all for pickles.”
“Geez,” said Malvyn, astride his bicycle. “Last time I heard you say that, you were eleven.”
Kip chuckled, then grabbed a limb and vaulted to the ground like a gymnast.
“Glad I found you,” said Malvyn. “In honor of your not winning your fiddle scholarship, we decided we’d treat you to some goodies at Beowulfie’s.”
“Hey, that’s really neat,” said Kip. “You and Nev?”
“Yeah. His idea.” Malvyn pumped his hand brakes, a sign he was anxious to get moving. “He said he’ll meet us there at two. And why I’m glad I found you is because if I hadn’t, Neville said I’d have to treat him.”
Kip raised his bicycle upright from the grass and wheeled it next to Malvyn’s. “I’m glad I didn’t win it,” he said, quietly.
“What?” Malvyn practically squeaked.
“I’ve decided I don’t really want to be a concert violinist.”
“Geez.” Malvyn shook his head. “You know, Kipper, I don’t understand you.”
“Yes, I know.” Kip shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Boy,” said Malvyn. “For the last month, you’ve checked your mailbox ten times a day, and talked us to death about how you wanted that scholarship more than anything in the universe. And now you say you’re glad.” Malvyn stretched his arms imploringly to the heavens. “Geez.”
“I’ve decided that science is more important to me than playing the violin.” Kip mounted his bicycle but kept one foot on the ground. “Anyway, I can play violin as a hobby. And I don’t think you can be a scientist as a hobby.” He leaned over and glanced at Malvyn’s wristwatch. “We’re too early for Wulfie’s.”
“Okay.” Malvyn leaned his weight on a pedal and set off. “Let’s go over to the tower.”
Kip set off as well. “Yeah. Maybe we can sneak into the belfry and untie a bell rope or something.”
Malvyn looked back over his shoulder. “Not bloody likely!” He pedaled slowly, letting Kip roll up along side. “Last time, my dad caught me. He nearly tore my head off.” Malvin scrunched up his shoulders as if he were in pain. “And if he catches me again, I’m toast.”
“So you’ve sworn off belfry visits?”
“Not exactly.” Malvyn laughed. “I’ve just got to be a little sneakier about it.”
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“Too late, anyway,” said Malvyn. “They’ve started ringing.”
“Only rounds.”
“You know,” said Malvyn as he pedaled steadily on the road into town. “I’m sort of glad you didn’t get the scholarship. Keeps the Musketeers together. And Audrey would have missed you.”
“Really? How do you know?”
“She told me.”
Kip pressed down on the handbrakes. “Malv,” he called out, “stop for a moment, will you?”
Malvyn cycled in a graceful curve and pulled up next to Kip. “What’s wrong?”
“Did she really say she’d miss me?”
“Audrey? Yes. She did.”
Kip looked down and worked the handbrakes a few times. “You . . . You know something about girls.”
“Yeah, a little. Why?”
Kip continued working the brakes, but didn’t say anything.
Malvyn laughed. “I know. You want to ask Audrey out, but you’re too shy to ask.” He laughed again. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
Kip felt himself blush. He still didn’t say anything, but just listened to the bells.
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“Look, it’s not so hard,” said Malvyn, sounding now like a helpful older brother. “Just ask her. I bet she’s wanted you to ask her for a long time.”
“You think so?”
“Yes!”
With a show of resolve, Kip looked up. “I will ask her,” he said. “I’ll do it today.”
Malvyn placed a hand on Kip’s shoulder. “Believe me, my boy,” he said, mimicking Mr. Caruthers’ voice and mannerisms, “it will change your life.”
“Change my life.” Kip laughed. “Yeah, right.”
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THE THIRD LEVEL
Jack Finney
The presidents of the New York Central and the New York New Haven and Hartford railroads will swear on a stack of timetables that there are only two. But I say there are three, because I’ve been on the third level of Grand Centr
al Station. Yes, I’ve taken the obvious step: I talked to a psychiatrist friend of mine, among others. I told him about the third level at Grand Central Station, and he said it was a waking-dream wish fulfillment. He said I was unhappy. That made my wife kind of mad, but he explained that he meant the modern world is full of insecurity, fear, war, worry and all the rest of it, and that I just want to escape. Well, who doesn’t? Everybody I know wants to escape, but they don’t wander down into any third level at Grand Central Station.
But that’s the reason, he said, and my friends all agreed. Everything points to it, they claimed. My stamp collecting, for example; that’s a “temporary refuge from reality.” Well, maybe, but my grandfather didn’t need any refuge from reality; things were pretty nice and peaceful in his day, from all I hear, and he started my collection. It’s a nice collection, too, blocks of four practically every U.S. issue, first-day covers, and so on. President Roosevelt collected stamps, too, you know.
Anyway, here’s what happened at Grand Central. One night last summer I worked late at the office. I was in a hurry to get uptown to my apartment so I decided to take the subway from Grand Central because it’s faster than the bus.
Now, I don’t know why this should have happened to me. I’m just an ordinary guy named Charley, thirty-one years old, and I was wearing a tan gabardine suit and a straw hat with a fancy band; I passed a dozen men who looked just like me. And I wasn’t trying to escape from anything; I just wanted to get home to Louisa, my wife.
I turned into Grand Central from Vanderbilt Avenue, and went down the steps to the first level, where you take trains like the Twentieth Century. Then I walked down another flight to the second level, where the suburban trains leave from, ducked into an arched doorway heading for the subway—and got lost. That’s easy to do. I’ve been in and out of Grand Central hundreds of times, but I’m always bumping into new doorways and stairs and corridors. Once I got into a tunnel about a mile long and came out in the lobby of the Roosevelt Hotel. Another time I came up in an office building on Forty-sixth Street, three blocks away.
