by E. C. Tubb
It was bitter, cynical and true. No one had felt about the old man as Sam had. He changed the subject.
“There’ll be money,” he said. “The patents were all made out to the firm and Gregor had made a will. Things will go on much the same as before.” He swallowed. “As much as they could ever be,” he whispered, “without Gregor.”
“Sure.” Jeff felt uncomfortable in the presence of grief. He produced cigarettes, lit them, passed one to Sam and sat back, smoking and staring through the windows of the cab. “You certain about that?” he said. “About things carrying on just the same?”
“Pretty certain.” Sam felt the warm sunshine on the back of his hand, thought of a polished box in cold, damp ground, shivered and filled his lungs with smoke. “Gregor told me once that the Institute was self-supporting. The income from the battery, the solar cell and the other things he invented will be sufficient to keep us in business.”
“With you in charge?”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“Not much doubt, is there?” Jeff flicked ash from his cigarette, “With you and the old man so close it’s obvious.” He sighed with relief. “Well, it suits me. I liked the work and I liked the job and I don’t fancy going back into normal, industrial research.” He looked at Sam.
“When will we know?”
“Tomorrow morning, the lawyer’s going to read the will then.” Sam leaned forward. “How about dropping me off? I’ll see you the Institute tomorrow morning about ten. Suit you?”
“To the ground.” Jeff stared through the windows, feeling more cheerful now that his future seemed assured. “Where shall I drop you, at the Institute?”
“No, here will do.”
Jeff nodded and gave instructions to the driver. The cab swung from the main stream of traffic and came to a smooth halt at the kerb. Sam dismounted, slammed the door and stood watching as the vehicle drove away. He sighed, dropped the cigarette, trod on it and turned to see Gregor Wantage walking down the street.
*
Sam arrived early at the Institute the next morning. Since Gregor’s death the place had been closed, and he let himself into the building, passed through the main offices, the laboratories and workshops and stepped into the inner sanctum. Slowly he closed the door behind him, letting his eyes wander over the appointments of the office, Gregor hadn’t used it much, he had been more interested in his private experiments than office routine, but it was luxurious and contained framed portrait of the professor taken when he had won the Nobel Prize.
It was a good likeness. The artist had given full justice to the high forehead, the thick, white, sweeping hair, the firm line of the jaw and the shrewd but kindly blue eyes. Even the small, crescent-shaped scar beneath the right eye had been depicted, the scar resulting from a laboratory accident. Sam didn’t remember the accident, it had happened just before Gregor had sought him out and made him his assistant. It was a minor disfigurement and one easily overlooked or forgotten but it was there and it was unmistakable. Sam stared at it with mounting relief.
The man in the street had not been Gregor Wantage.
Not that he could have been, of course, Gregor Wantage was dead and buried. But the man had had the same hair, the same eyes, the same face. He had walked the same and looked the same and Sam had felt sick as he chased after him. He had spoken and the man had stared blankly at him with no trace of mutual recognition. Sam had felt like a fool, had muttered apologies and hurried away. And yet...
It had taken the evidence of the scar to reassure him.
Jeff arrived closely followed by the lawyer and Sam turned his mind to business.
“Has everything been settled?”
“As far as possible.” The lawyer waited until they had taken seats, produced papers from his briefcase and cleared his throat. “The terms of the will are explicit and, as there are no surviving relatives and as the professor was without wife or family there should be no disputes.”
He paused and Sam restrained an impulse to tell him to get on with it.
“The monies from all patents both held by the professor and the Institute will be devoted to the advancement of pure science as conducted by the Institute at the time of the professor’s death. You, Mr. Howard, will be in fall charge with Mr. Armsworth as your chief assistant. Both positions are permanent and subject only to the jurisdiction of the Board of Trustees as appointed by the professor. The remainder of the staff will be subject to your authority.” He folded the papers, tucked them away and smiled at the two men.
“The legal details will be sent to you in due course. Are there any questions.”
“Is that all?” Sam lit a cigarette, conscious of the painted eyes of the portrait following his every move.
“Aside from several minor bequests, yes.”
About the money,” said Jeff. He shrugged at the lawyer’s expression. “Let’s be practical about this. Saying that the Institute must continue as usual is all very well, but only if the money is there to permit it. Was the old man well-off when he died?”
“He left a great deal of money,” said the lawyer. “A very great deal.”
“From the inventions?” Sam looked puzzled. “I know that we are getting royalties from them, will they be sufficient?”
“In themselves, no,” confessed the lawyer. “But the professor owned an immense private fortune and there are certain investments.” He obviously wasn’t going into details. “There will be ample funds have no fear as to that.”
“Good.” Jeff grinned as he rose to his feet. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s send for the rest of the staff and get back to work.” He looked defensive. “Well, it’s what the old man would have wanted isn’t it?”
“Yes,” admitted Sam. “Get to work on it, Jeff, and commence work where we left off.” He followed the lawyer from the office, not speaking until they had emerged in the street below. “Was there anything else?”
“How do you mean, Mr. Howard?”
“Those private bequests, was there one for me?”
“No.” The lawyer was sharp. “Were you expecting a legacy?”
“No.” Sam bit his lip. “No, of course not.” He turned and re-entered the building.
*
A month passed and the work of the Institute settled into routine, Jeff came into the inner office one afternoon, his hands full of papers and a crease between his eyes.
“I’ve been checking up on the old man’s pet experiment,” he said “He seemed to be working with neutrinos, using field equations and a theory of his own.”
He shook his head. “Think it’s worth following up?”
“I don’t know.” Sam stared thoughtfully at the portrait on the wall, “Gregor spent five years to my knowledge working on his experiment and the only concrete result was his death.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been checking the figures and more money was spent on that project than any other. Just what Gregor hoped to accomplish only he knew, on that subject he was the most secretive man I ever saw.”
“He was a strange one all right.” Jeff helped himself to a chair. “A brilliant man, no argument about that, but strange. Remember how he used to shut himself up in his private lab for hours at a time?”
“I remember.”
“Odd too, the way he selected his staff.” Jeff looked thoughtful. “How did you two meet up, Sam?”
“He sent for me,” said Sam shortly. “Why, I never learned. He seemed to know quite a bit about my background too, must have had me checked before contacting me.” He dismissed the subject. “How are the investigations into the gravity fields progressing?”
“Slow,” said Jeff. “Slow but sure. Negative results so far but that’s to be expected.” He stared thoughtfully at the portrait. “You know, Sam,” he said suddenly. “It’s just struck me. Did you notice how fast the old man was ageing just before his death?”
“No, was he?”
“I’d say he was. Seemed to be getting older all of a sudde
n.” Jeff shrugged. “Nothing in that though, lots of men seem to be hale and hearty one day and almost senile the next. When old age comes it sometimes hits all at once.” He glanced at his papers. “So you don’t think we should continue the old man’s experiments?”
“There doesn’t seem to be any point in doing so,” said Sam. “We don’t know just what he was after, he left no notes or legible papers, and the equipment was so badly damaged in the explosion that it doesn’t tell us much.”
He toyed with a pencil. “Better forget it and concentrate on other lines of research.”
“As you wish.” Jeff obviously didn’t care one way or the other. He and Gregor had never been close so there was no inclination to carry on with the old man’s work from sentimental motives. Such motives would apply to Sam but, if he didn’t want to make the investigation, that was up to him.
After further small talk Jeff returned to his bench and Sam sat alone.
He didn’t mind being alone, he was used to it. Before Gregor had taken him up he had followed his own path and could do so again. The difference now was that, instead of being a subordinate, he was the boss. Sam smiled up at the portrait as if sharing a secret with the painted image then, selecting papers from the pile before him, buried himself in work.
The afternoon drew towards evening, the staff went home and Jeff looked in to see if Sam was finished for the day.
“Coming?”
“No, I want to finish this work.” Sam glanced at his watch. “You’d better get off, your wife will be expecting you.”
“Mary expects me when she sees me.” Jeff hesitated. “I could phone that I’ll be late if you want me to stay and help.”
“I can manage, thanks all the same. See you in the morning.”
Jeff shrugged and left. Sam reached for more papers and began to work out the research programme for the coming week. The work was engrossing and he lost all account of time. He lifted his head in annoyance as the door opened, thinking that Jeff had returned.
“Hello, Sam.”
It wasn’t Jeff. It was Gregor Wantage.
Shock affects people in different ways. For one terrible moment Sam thought that his heart had stopped and then, with a gasping sigh, he dragged air into his lungs and felt the cold sweat of fear ooze from his body.
“Hello, Sam,” repeated Gregor. He smiled, crossed the room and took a chair. The wood creaked a little as he sat down. “Busy?”
He looked just the same, even to the scar beneath his eye. In the light from the tall windows his hair shone with a soft whiteness and his eyes were as shrewd and as kind as ever. Sam looked at him, then at the portrait, then back to his visitor. His tongue seemed to have become glued to the roof of his mouth.
“How is everything going?” Gregor seemed perfectly at ease. “Did you concentrate on the non-ferrous force fields I told you about?”
“Told me about?” Sam wet his lips. Gregor had never mentioned any such thing.
“Yes. Easbach has some good ideas on that field, you’d better contact him and get him under contract before someone else snaps him up.” Gregor frowned across the desk. “What’s the matter?”
“You...” Sam fought to control himself. “You’re dead.”
“No I’m not.” Gregor held out his hand. “I’m real enough. Feel.”
“No!” For some reason Sam couldn’t bring himself to touch the hand Gregor extended towards him. “You’re dead I tell you! Dead!”
Gregor vanished.
*
The cemetery was the same as he remembered it, the same tended plots, the shrubbery, the irreverent birds chirping as they settled for the night. It was late, the last lingering light fading from the sky and, in the growing dusk the new-laid turf covering the mortal remains of Gregor Wantage showed against the deeper, richer surrounding green. Sam shivered, knowing himself to be a fool for having come all this way and yet feeling a faint relief at the sight of the undisturbed grave.
Gregor was dead. Gregor was screwed in his coffin and buried eight feet deep. Gregor simply couldn’t be walking around alive and well. And yet he was.
Gravel made gritty noises beneath his shoes as Sam hurried from the cemetery. A cab answered his hail and dropped him at a bar. Brandy warmed him and more brandy dispelled some of the depression. Hallucination brought on by overwork. The hypnotic effect of the life-sized portrait and the associations of the familiar office. A trick of the brain and that was all. Sam drank his brandy and felt relief as he thought about it. And yet...
Mary answered the phone, her voice heavy with sleep.
“Yes?”
“Is Jeff there?”
“Who is it?”
“Sam. Sam Howard.” He chewed his lip as faint noises came from the receiver, wondering if he were doing the right thing. Jeff’s voice, hard and strong, came just as he was about to hang up.
“Sam?”
“That’s right. Sorry to have woken you, Jeff, but there’s something I want to know.” Sam paused, conscious that he was speaking too fast. “Would it be possible for Gregor to still be alive?”
“What!” Jeff snorted. “Is this your idea of a joke?”
“No, Jeff, I’m serious. Could he?”
“Not a chance.” Jeff’s voice altered. “Why, have you being seeing things?”
“Yes, no, that is I think so.” Sam dabbed at his forehead, knowing that he had said too much not to say more. “I thought I saw him in the street,” he said carefully. “It was only a glimpse but it gave me a turn and set me wondering. Could there have been a mistake?”
“No.” Jeff was very positive. “You didn’t see him after the explosion, he was a mess. And there’s no way he could have got out of the coffin either. Even if he had you wouldn’t have recognised him, not the shape he was in when they screwed him down.”
“I see,” said Sam. “Thanks.”
Jeff hung up and looked thoughtfully at his wife.
“That was Sam,” he said. “My boss, he’s been seeing ghosts.”
“He sounded drunk to me,” said Mary. She was a woman with little imagination and she didn’t like being woken up.
“He’d been drinking but he wasn’t drunk.” Jeff lit a cigarette and squinted through the smoke. “Sounded as if he’d just had a terrific shock. Now why would he feel shocked at seeing a man who was everything to him?”
“Gregor? But he’s dead isn’t he?”
“Sure, but so is your mother. If you thought you’d seen her you’d be shocked, yes, but not in the same way. Certainly you wouldn’t go out and try to get drunk afterwards.” He blew a thoughtful smoke ring. “I don’t like Sam,” he said. “And I wasn’t too fond of Gregor. I don’t like men who act as if they own another body and soul and I don’t like a man to be so possessed.”
“Sam and Gregor?”
“Yes. I’d have respected Sam more if he’d shown enough guts to tell the old man to go to hell.”
“Would you have done?”
“I did,” said Jeff. “Twice.” He smiled at her expression. “Sorry dear, but there it is. Job or no job a man’s got to remember that he’s a man, not a doormat.” He stubbed out the cigarette. “Anyway, I lost nothing by it so you needn’t worry.” He yawned. “What the hell? Let’s go back to bed.”
Halfway across town Sam finished his brandy and made his way home. He was a little unsteady on his feet but still far from being drunk. He sobered as he found the door to the apartment unlocked He became more than sober as he saw who was waiting for him.
“Hello, Sam.”
Gregor Wantage smiled from the comfort of a chair.
*
It was time travel, of course, Sam should have guessed it all along, The mysterious experiments, the strange reappearances of a man dead and buried, it all made perfect logical sense.
“I stumbled on it a long time ago,” said Gregor. He gestured with his pipe, he always smoked a pipe. “More by luck than judgement I will admit. My first trips were short, a matter of a f
ew years only, but they showed the way.”
Sam sat and listened to the man who, according to Jeff, had been his father, mother, employer and friend. Had been? Was rather, it was difficult to think of a person in the past tense when he sat firm and very solid in the bright lighting of an apartment.
And Jeff, like all the other members of the Institute, was just about as wrong as he could be. Sam hated Gregor, had done for years because he was the better man and had made Sam feel like dirt. He had stuck with the professor from weakness and hope of a legacy and had paid for his weakness over and over again. He had been glad when the old man had died. It had meant a final release from the sarcasm, the barely hidden contempt, the constant needling and false display of affection. Now it appeared that his relief was premature. Gregor was still alive.
“It requires energy, of course,” continued the professor. “Fortunately most of that energy is reclaimed when the object pushed forward in time returns to its own era. You can understand the analogy of a rubber band, Sam? I, in effect, am at one end of a piece of rubber which stretches from the present into the future or, as you would put it, from the present into the past. My past. When the propulsion effect, to coin a phrase, weakens, then I will be snatched back to my laboratory in the Institute.”
“I see.” Sam nodded, the scientist in him overcoming his detestation of the professor. “That accounts for what happened before. We were talking and suddenly you vanished.”
“Indeed?” Gregor tamped the tobacco in his pipe. “When was this?”
“A few hours ago, at the Institute, surely you remember?”
“I don’t remember,” said Gregor casually. “Probably because it has yet to happen.”
“Yet to happen?” Sam was baffled. “But it has happened. I saw it.”
“Your past, my future,” said Gregor calmly. “To you it has already happened, to me it has yet to happen.” Abruptly he changed the subject. “Have you commenced working on the machine yet?”
