by Anthology
“Of course you won’t leave Babylon,” he said, “until you know whether Jipfur is guilty or innocent of a murder.”
“We can’t wait,” I said.
“I myself am very curious to know what the gods will say,” said the Serpent. “The lives of several thousand people will be affected one way or another. If the gods should strike him down—”
“Don’t worry,” I laughed. “With all due respect to the gods, I’m sure Jipfur knows what he’s doing.”
It was a long steep climb, and we rested again on the fifth level. That left two more to go.
Betty frowned as she looked down on the glazed brick buildings.
“I see the king’s palace,” she said, “but where is the crowd?”
I didn’t know. I had supposed the plaza would be packed with a vast multitude. Was it possible that Jipfur had slid out of his proposition to stand before the gods?
“On top of the ziggurat is the palace to stand before the gods,” said the Third Serpent. “That’s why so many people have been passing us. Most of the! crowd is ahead of us.”
“Ahead of us!” I was already dizzy from the four hundred and fifty feet of climbing. This remark gave me a whirling sensation as if I were spiraling down on a roller coaster.
“The king changed the place of the test,” said the Third Serpent, adding in the same dry voice. “Why are you suddenly hurrying?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I said. “But we’ve got a certain spot reserved. We’ve got to get there—and—and clear it!”
The Third Serpent was right, the crowd was ahead of us, a good five thousand strong—an ample number to witness Jipfur’s challenge to the gods.
The ceremony was already in progress. The five thousand spectators sat close-packed on the brick floor—a vast circle of sky gazers, their eyes intent on the big fluffy clouds that passed—almost low enough to touch.
Jipfur was looking up, too, shouting into the heavens, calling the names of the Babylonian deities, challenging them brazenly.
“Come, Shamash, if you have any accusations against me, strike me with lightning. Come, Ishtar—”
I saw the anxiety flash through Betty’s face. She knew it must be only a matter of minutes until our departure.
Very well, in a few minutes we would be ready. The watchman had told us the exact point where the glass message had been deposited. We had only to take a few measurements—
But how could we? This vast throng packed every inch of circumference around the tower-top!
“Quick!” Betty whispered. “We’ve got to disregard them.”
I knew she was right. I forced my way through to a specified point at the outer edge, tried to take measured steps across the thicket of spectators.
“Down! Down!” the people hissed. They were intent on the show at the center of the ring. Jipfur was waving his arms, bellowing into the skies.
Betty moaned, “We’ve got to wait. Maybe they’ll leave soon.”
“I’m afraid not,” I said. “The bull moose means to keep it up till he wears them out. Listen to him!”
“Strike me down, if you dare, Oh Marduk! Stab me with fire if I have ever been guilty of an unkind deed!”
He tossed his pudgy head from side to side. The wavy locks beneath his cone-shaped cap fluttered in the breeze. The brass necklace, “Bull Moose,” dangled from his throat, swinging with each boastful beckon of his arms.
“In their blindness,” Jipfur roared, “my fellowmen have accused me of murdering Slaf-Carch, my beloved uncle. If I did this deed, strike me dead this inst—”
It came! It flashed down out of the sky—a veritable spiral of lightning. Five thousand people caught the quick glimpse—a cylinder of red fire!
Then it was gone.
Betty clutched my hand and I felt the awful throb of disappointment in her grip. Our chance had come and gone—and here we sat, helpless, surrounded by five thousand Babylonians, viewing the sham-religious antics of Jipfur—
What had happened?
Jipfur was lying down, motionless—but not all of him. Only the lower half of his body was there. The top half was gone!
No blood ran, no muscles twitched, there was no life in that weird looking mass of trunk, hips, and legs. But the rest of the body—chest, arms, and head—had vanished with the flash of heavenly fire.
“Jipfur! Jipfur!”
Scores of voices called the name at once, but the shrill cry of the patesi’s haughty sister rang out above the rest. Several persons started toward the grotesque, lifeless object, then drew back in fear and trembling. Hundreds of people began to mumble prayers aloud.
Suddenly, above the welter of excited clamoring, an old familiar voice sounded, loud and clear. It was the never-to-be-forgotten voice of Slaf-Carch.
“Today the gods have spoken!”
A chorus of murmurs echoed the words, like a chant. Then there was a tense silence of waiting, broken at last by a throbbing outcry from Jipfur’s sister.
“Speak on, Slaf-Carch! We are listening.”
Again the voice of Slaf-Carch spoke and as his gentle words came forth, Betty’s hand, held tightly in mine, ceased to tremble.
“Today Jipfur has been taken from you,” said the voice. “Let his passing bring peace to all who were once my laborers and my slaves. I am still with you in spirit. My helpers may carry on for me if they are willing. Even those of you who have come from a foreign land—and a foreign time—may find your ultimate place here. If you believe in me, stay and become my chosen leaders.”
Betty and I were among the last to descend the lofty tower that afternoon. There was so much to talk about, so much to plan. Somehow Slaf-Carch’s words made the world look fresh and new for both of us, now that all Betty had feared and dreaded was gone.
“As long as you’re here, Hal,” she said, looking up at me, starry-eyed, “I don’t care whether I ever go back to the twentieth century.”
“What?” I said with a wink. “Haven’t you any feelings for your poor uncle, the Colonel?”
“The Colonel!” Betty laughed. “We’ve sent him a bull moose. What more could he ask?”
One day after Betty, Kish and I had gotten the business reorganization of Borbel palace well under way—Jipfur’s sister having generously honored us with managerial responsibilities and a share of ownership—I invited the Third Serpent to come in for an interview.
He closed the door behind him, settled his misshapen back within a comfortable chair, and apparently stared at me through his ring-eyed mask.
I said, “I’ve been looking over the records. You are fairly new to this Serpent clique, I see.”
“I joined early last fall, shortly before you and Jipfur met us by the marsh.”
“This job of gouging peasants for money apparently didn’t agree with you. You were very easy on them, I find.”
“You are welcome to fire me,” said the Third Serpent dryly, “if my work is unsatisfactory.”
“I’ve fired the others,” I replied. “In your case, however, certain other services are not to be overlooked. You are deserving of something over and above a Serpent’s salary. Have you ever considered taking a vacation to—say, the twentieth century?”
The Third Serpent gave a gurgling chuckle and settled more comfortably in his chair. “As a matter of fact, I have. I’d like to go back for a facial surgery job sometime—” he supplemented his smooth Babylonian words with a sprinkling of English—“sometime after the Colonel grows a bit steadier at the controls. Naturally, I’d give anything to get out of this mask.”
“Is it—quite bad?”
The Third Serpent nodded. “I never allow anyone to see me. Of course I had to learn to talk all over. Does she suspect?”
“Not at all,” I said. “The voice of Slaf-Carch is the real McCoy with her. You know how she loves that river legend.”
“Childlike!” he mused. “That’s why she’s a good Babylonian.” He rose to go.
“That hunched back o
f yours, Professor,” I said, “is it another Babylonian legend?”
He laughed. “It might be some day. I developed it the same week you traded off the vocoder. It’s made of leather—detachable, of course—and a splendid place to keep my magic. By the way, your machine’s a wonder. It tones down so soft that my fellow Serpents never heard me practicing my Slaf-Carch.”
“You were perfect. And to think you’ve actually made Slaf-Carch live on.”
“He deserves to live on.” He moved to the door, then turned back. “You won’t say anything to my daughter, of course. If she knew, she’d want to see me. For the present it’s better that she believe me dead.”
“For the present,” I nodded. “But I’ll insist that the Third Serpent be present at our Babylonian wedding.”
BY HIS BOOTSTRAPS
Robert Heinlein
Bob Wilson did not see the circle grow.
Nor, for that matter, did he see the stranger who stepped out of the circle and stood staring at the back of Wilson’s neck—stared, and breathed heavily, as if laboring under strong and unusual emotion.
Wilson had no reason to suspect that anyone else was in his room; he had every reason to expect the contrary. He had locked himself in his room for the purpose of completing his thesis in one sustained drive. He had to—tomorrow was the last day for submission, yesterday the thesis had been no more than a title: “An Investigation into Certain Mathematical Aspects of a Rigor of Metaphysics.”
Fifty-two cigarettes, four pots of coffee, and thirteen hours of continuous work had added seven thousand words to the title. As to the validity of his thesis he was far too groggy to give a damn. Get it done, turn it in, take three stiff drinks and sleep for a week.
He glanced up and let his eyes rest on his wardrobe door, behind which he had cached a gin bottle, nearly full. No, he admonished himself, one more drink and you’ll never finish it, Bob, old son.
The stranger behind him said nothing.
Wilson resumed typing. “—nor is it valid to assume that a conceivable proposition is necessarily a possible proposition, even when it is possible to formulate mathematics which describes the proposition with exactness. A case in point is the concept ‘Time Travel.’ Time travel may be imagined and its necessities may be formulated under any and all theories of time, formulae which resolve the paradoxes of each theory. Nevertheless, we know certain things about the empirical nature of time which preclude the possibility of the conceivable proposition. Duration is an attribute of consciousness and not of the plenum. It has no ding an sicht. Therefore—”
A key of the typewriter stuck, three more jammed up on top of it. Wilson swore duly and reached forward to straighten out the cantankerous machinery. “Don’t bother with it,” he heard a voice say. “It’s a lot of utter hogwash anyhow.”
Wilson sat up with a jerk, then turned his head slowly around. He fervently hoped that there was someone behind him. Otherwise—
He perceived the stranger with relief. “Thank God,” he said to himself. “For a moment I thought I had come unstuck.” His relief turned to extreme annoyance. “What the devil are you doing in my room?” he demanded. He shoved back his chair, got up and strode over to the one door. It was still locked, and bolted on the inside.
The windows were no help; they Were adjacent to his desk and three stories above a busy street. “How did you get in?” he added.
“Through that,” answered the stranger, hooking a thumb toward the circle. Wilson noticed it for the first time, blinked his eyes and looked again. There it hung between them and the wall, a great disk of nothing, of the color one sees when the eyes are shut tight.
Wilson shook his head vigorously. The circle remained. “Gosh,” he thought, “I was right the first time. I wonder when I slipped my trolley?” He advanced toward the disk, put out a hand to touch it.
“Don’t!” snapped the stranger.
“Why not?” said Wilson edgily. Nevertheless he paused.
“I’ll explain. But let’s have a drink first.” He walked directly to the wardrobe, opened it, reached in and took out the bottle of gin without looking.
“Hey!” yelled Wilson. “What are you doing there? That’s my liquor.”
“Your liquor—” The stranger paused for a moment. “Sorry. You don’t mind if I have a drink, do you?”
“I suppose not,” Bob Wilson conceded in a surly tone. “Pour me one while you’re about it.”
“O.K.,” agreed the stranger, “then I’ll explain.”
“It had better be good,” Wilson said ominously. Nevertheless he drank his drink and looked the stranger over.
He saw a chap about the same size as himself and much the same age—perhaps a little older, though a three-day growth of beard may have accounted for that impression. The stranger had a black eye and a freshly cut and badly swollen upper lip. Wilson decided he did not like the chap’s face. Still, there was something familiar about the face; he felt that he should have recognized it, that he had seen it many times before under different circumstances.
“Who are you?” he asked suddenly.
“Me?” said his guest. “Don’t you recognize me?”
“I’m not sure,” admitted Wilson. “Have I ever seen you before?”
“Well—not exactly,” the other temporized. “Skip it—you wouldn’t know about it.”
“What’s your name?”
“My name? Uh . . . just call me Joe.”
Wilson set down his glass. “O.K., Joe Whatever-your-name-is, trot out that explanation and make it snappy.”
“I’ll do that,” agreed Joe. “That dingus I came through”—he pointed to the circle—“that’s a Time Gate.”
“A what?”
“A Time Gate. Time flows along side by side on each side of the Gate, but some thousands of years apart—just how many thousands I don’t know. But for the next couple of hours that Gate is open. You can walk into the future just by stepping through that circle.” The stranger paused.
Bob drummed on the desk. “Go ahead. I’m listening. It’s a nice story.”
“You don’t believe me, do you? I’ll show you.” Joe got up, went again to the wardrobe and obtained Bob’s hat, his prized and only hat, which he had mistreated into its present battered grandeur through six years of undergraduate and graduate life. Joe chucked it toward the impalpable disk.
It struck the surface, went on through with no apparent resistance, disappeared from sight.
Wilson got up, walked carefully around the circle, and examined the bare floor. “A neat trick,” he conceded. “Now I’ll thank you to return to me my hat.”
The stranger shook his head. “You can get it yourself when you pass through.”
“Huh?”
“That’s right. Listen—” Briefly the stranger repeated his explanation about the Time Gate. Wilson, he insisted, had an opportunity that comes once in a millennium—if he would only hurry up and climb through that circle. Furthermore, though Joe could not explain in detail at the moment, it was very important that Wilson go through.
Bob Wilson helped himself to a second drink, and then a third. He was beginning to feel both good and argumentative. “Why?” he said flatly.
Joe looked exasperate. “Dammit, if you’d just step through once, explanations wouldn’t be necessary. However—” According to Joe, there was an old guy on the other side who needed Wilson’s help. With Wilson’s help the three of them would run the country. The exact nature of the help Joe could not or would not specify. Instead he bore down on the unique possibilities for high adventure. “You don’t want to slave your life away teaching numskulls in some freshwater college,” he insisted. “This is your chance. Grab it!”
Bob Wilson admitted to himself that a Ph.D. and an appointment as an instructor was not his ideal of existence. Still, it beat working for a living. His eye fell on the gin bottle, its level now deplorably lowered. That explained it. He got up unsteadily.
“No, my dear fellow,” h
e stated, “I’m not going to climb on your merry-go-round. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m drunk, that’s why. You’re not there at all. That ain’t there.” He gestured widely at the circle. “There ain’t anybody here but me, and I’m drunk. Been working too hard,” he added apologetically. “I’m goin’ to bed.”
“You’re not drunk.”
“I am drunk. Peter Piper pepped a pick of pippered peckles.” He moved toward his bed.
Joe grabbed his arm. “You can’t do that,” he said.
“Let him alone!”
They both swung around. Facing them, standing directly in front of the circle, was a third man. Bob looked at the newcomer, looked back at Joe, blinked his eyes and tried to focus them. The two looked a good bit alike, he thought, enough alike to be brothers. Or maybe lie was seeing double. Bad stuff, gin. Should’ve switched to rum a long time ago. Good stuff, rum. You could drink it, or take a bath in it. No, that was gin—he meant Joe.
How silly! Joe was the one with the black eye. He wondered why he had ever been confused.
Then who was this other lug? Couldn’t a couple of friends have a quiet drink together without people butting in?
“Who are you?” he said with quiet dignity.
The newcomer turned his head, then looked at Joe. “He knows me,” he said meaningly.
Joe looked him over slowly. “Yes,” he said, “yes, I suppose I do. But what the deuce are you here for? And why are you trying to bust up the plan?”
“No time for long-winded explanations. I know more about it than you do—you’ll concede that—and my judgment is bound to be better than yours. He doesn’t go through the Gate.”
“I don’t concede anything of the sort—”
The telephone rang.
“Answer it!” snapped the newcomer.
Bob was about to protest the peremptory tone, but decided he wouldn’t. He lacked the phlegmatic temperament necessary to ignore a ringing telephone. “Hello?”
“Hello,” he was answered. “Is that Bob Wilson?”
