Andersen’s jaw dropped, but he said nothing; he continued to stare.
Donald Nils, notorious murderer, sat at the single table in the reference room of the Emigration Bureau’s interstellar speed-of-light ship and computed that he was, in Earth figures, an inch high. Bitterly, he cursed. “It’s cruel and unusual punishment,” he grated aloud. “It’s against the Constitution.” And then he remembered that he had volunteered, in order to get out of Nachbaren Slager. That goddam hole, he said to himself. Anyhow, I’m out of there.
And, he said to himself, even if I’m only an inch high I’ve still made myself captain of this lousy ship, and if it ever gets to Proxima I’ll be captain of the entire lousy Proxima System. I didn’t study with Gutman himself for nothing. And if that don’t beat Nachbaren Slager, I don’t know what does…
His second-in-command, Pete Bailly, stuck his head into the reference room. “Hey, Nils, I have been looking over the micro-repro of this particular old pre-cog journal Astounding like you told me, this Venus Equilateral article about matter transmission, and I mean even though I was the top vid repairman in New York City that don’t mean I can build one of these things.” He glared at Nils. “That’s asking a lot.”
Nils said tightly, “We’ve got to get back to Earth.”
“You’re out of luck,” Bailly told him. “Better settle for Prox.”
Furiously, Nils swept the micro-reproductions from the table, onto the floor of the ship. “That damn Bureau of Emigration! They tricked us!”
Bailly shrugged. “Anyhow we got plenty to eat and a good reference library and 3-D movies every night.”
“By the time we get to Prox,” Nils snarled, “we’ll have seen every movie—” He calculated. “Two thousand times.”
“Well, then don’t watch. Or we can run them backwards. How’s your research coming?”
“I got going the micro of an article in Space Science Fiction” Nils said thoughtfully, “called The Variable Man. It tells about faster-than-light transmission. You disappear and then reappear. Sonic guy named Cole is going to perfect it, according to the old-time pre-cog who wrote it.” He brooded about that. “If we could build a faster-than-light ship we could return to Earth. We could take over.”
“That’s crazy talk,” Bailly said.
Nils regarded him. “I’m in command.”
“Then,” Bailly said, “we got a nut in command. There’s no returning to Terra; we better build our lives on Proxima’s planets and forget forever about our home. Thank God we got women aboard. My God, even if we did get back… what could one-inch high people accomplish? We’d be jeered at.”
“Nobody jeers at me,” Nils said quietly.
But he knew Bailly was right. They’d be lucky if they could research the micros of the old pre-cog journals in the ship’s reference room and develop for themselves a way of landing safely on Proxima’s planets… even that was asking a lot.
We’ll succeed, Nils said to himself. As long as everyone obeys me, does exactly as I tell them, with no dumb questions.
Bending, he activated the spool of the December 1962 If. There was an article in it that particularly interested him ... and he had four years ahead of him in which to read, understand, and finally apply it.
Fermeti said, “Surely your pre-cog ability helped prepare you for this, Mr. Anderson.” His voice faltered with nervous strain, despite his efforts to control it.
“How about taking me back now?” Anderson said. He sounded almost calm.
Fermeti, after shooting a swift glance at Tozzo and Gilly, said to Anderson, “We have a technical problem, you see. That’s why we brought you here to our own time-continuum. You see—”
“I think you had better, um, take me back,” Anderson broke in. “Karen’ll get worried.” He craned his neck, peering in all directions. “I knew it would be somewhat on this order,” he murmured. His face twitched. “Not too different from what I expected… what’s that tall thing over there? Looks like what the old blimps used to catch onto.”
“That,” Tozzo said, “is a prayer tower.”
“Our problem,” Fermeti said patiently, “is dealt with in your article Night Flight in the August 1955 If. We’ve been able to deprive an interstellar vehicle of its mass, but so far restoration of mass has—”
“Uh, oh, yes,” Anderson said, in a preoccupied way. “I’m working on that yarn right now. Should have that off to Scott in another couple of weeks.” He explained, “My agent.”
Fermeti considered a moment and then said, “Can you give us the formula for mass-restoration, Mr. Anderson?”
“Um,” Poul Anderson said slowly, “Yes, I guess that would be the correct term. Mass-restoration… I could go along with that.” He nodded. “I haven’t worked out any formula; I didn’t want to make the yarn too technical. I guess I could make one up, if that’s what they wanted.” He was silent, then, apparently having withdrawn into a world of his own; the three men waited, but Anderson said nothing more.
“Your pre-cog ability,” Fermeti said.
“Pardon?” Anderson said, cupping his ear. “Pre-cog?” He smiled shyly. “Oh, uh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. I know John believes in all that, but I can’t say as I consider a few experiments at Duke University as proof.”
Fermeti stared at Anderson a long time. “Take the first article in the January 1953 Galaxy” he said quietly. “The Defenders… about the people living beneath the surface and the robots up above, pretending to fight the war but actually not, actually faking the reports so interestingly that the people—”
“I read that,” Poul Anderson agreed. “Very good, I thought, except for the ending. I didn’t care too much for the ending.”
Fermeti said, “You understand, don’t you, that those exact conditions came to pass in 1996, during World War Three? That by means of the article we were able to penetrate the deception carried on by our surface robots? That virtually every word of that article was exactly prophetic—”
“Phil Dick wrote that,” Anderson said. “The Defenders?’
“Do you know him?” Tozzo inquired.
“Met him yesterday at the Convention,” Anderson said. “For the first time. Very nervous fellow, was almost afraid to come in.”
Fermeti said, “Am I to understand that none of you are aware that you are pre-cogs?” His voice shook, completely out of control now.
“Well,” Anderson said slowly, “some sf writers believe in it. I think Alf Van Vogt does,” He smiled at Fermeti.
“But don’t you understand?” Fermeti demanded. “You described us in an article—you accurately described our Bureau and its interstellar Project!”
After a pause, Anderson murmured, “Gosh, I’ll be darned. No, I didn’t know that. Um, thanks a lot for telling me.”
Turning to Tozzo, Fermeti said, “Obviously we’ll have to recast our entire concept of the mid twentieth century.” He looked weary.
Tozzo said, “For our purposes their ignorance doesn’t matter. Because the pre-cognitive ability was there anyhow, whether they recognized it or not.” That, to him, was perfectly clear.
Anderson, meanwhile, had wandered off a little and stood now inspecting the display window of a nearby gift store. “Interesting bric-a-brac in there. I ought to pick up something for Karen while I’m here. Would it be all right—” He turned questioningly to Fermeti. “Could I step in there for a moment and look around?”
“Yes, yes,” Fermeti said irritably.
Poul Anderson disappeared inside the gift shop, leaving the three of them to argue the meaning of their discovery.
“What we’ve got to do,” Fermeti said, “is sit him down in the situation familiar to him: before a typewriter. We must persuade him to compose an article on deprivation of mass and its subsequent restoration. Whether he himself takes the article to be factual or not has no bearing; it still will be. The Smithsonian must have a workable twentieth century typewriter and 8 1/2 by 11 white sheets of paper. Do you agree?
”
Tozzo, meditating, said, “I’ll tell you what I think. It was a cardinal error to permit him to go into that gift shop.”
“Why is that?” Fermeti said.
“I see his point,” Gilly said excitedly. “We’ll never see Anderson again; he’s skipped out on us through the pretext of gift-shopping for his wife.”
Ashen-faced, Fermeti turned and raced into the gift ship. Tozzo and Gilly followed.
The store was empty. Anderson had eluded them; he was gone.
As he loped silently out the back door of the gift shop, Poul Anderson thought to himself, I don’t believe they’ll get me. At least not right away. I’ve got too much to do while I’m here, he realized. What an opportunity! When I’m an old man I can tell Astrid’s children about this.
Thinking of his daughter Astrid reminded him of one very simple fact, however. Eventually he had to go back to 1954. Because of Karen and the baby. No matter what he found here—for him it was temporary.
But meanwhile… first I’ll go to the library, any library, he decided. And get a good look at history books that’ll tell me what took place in the intervening years between 1954 and now.
I’d like to know, he said to himself, about the Cold War, how the U.S. and Russia came out. And—space explorations. I’ll bet they put a man on Luna by 1975. Certainly, they’re exploring space now; heck, they even have a time-dredge so they must have that.
Ahead Poul Anderson saw a doorway. It was open and without hesitation he plunged into it. Another shop of some kind, but this one larger than the gift shop.
“Yes sir,” a voice said, and a bald-headed man—they all seemed to be bald-headed here—approached him. The man glanced at Anderson’s hair, his clothes… however the clerk was polite; he made no comment. “May I help you?” he asked.
“Um,” Anderson said, stalling. What did this place sell, anyhow? He glanced around. Gleaming electronic objects of some sort. But what did they do?
The clerk said, “Haven’t you been nuzzled lately, sir?”
“What’s that?” Anderson said. Nuzzled?
“The new spring nuzzlers have arrived, you know,” the clerk said, moving toward the gleaming spherical machine nearest him. “Yes,” he said to Poul, “you do strike me as very, very faintly introve—no offense meant, sir, I mean, it’s legal to be introved.” The clerk chuckled. “For instance, your rather odd clothing… made it yourself, I take it? I must say, sir, to make your own clothing is highly introve. Did you weave it?” The clerk grimaced as if tasting something bad.
“No,” Poul said, “as a matter of fact it’s my best suit.”
“Heh, heh,” the clerk said. “I share the joke, sir; quite witty. But what about your head? You haven’t shaved your head in weeks.”
“Nope,” Anderson admitted. “Well, maybe I do need a nuzzler.” Evidently everyone in this century had one; like a TV set in his own time, it was a necessity, in order for one to be part of the culture.
“How many in your family?” the clerk said. Bringing out a measuring tape, he measured the length of Poul’s sleeve.
“Three,” Poul answered, baffled.
“How old is the youngest?”
“Just born,” Poul said.
The clerk’s face lost all its color. “Get out of here,” he said quietly. “Before I call for the polpol.”
“Um, what’s that? Pardon?” Poul said, cupping his ear and trying to hear, not certain he had understood.
“You’re a criminal,” the clerk mumbled. “You ought to be in Nachbaren Slager.”
“Well, thanks anyhow,” Poul said, and backed out of the store, onto the sidewalk; his last glimpse was of the clerk still staring at him.
“Are you a foreigner?” a voice asked, a woman’s voice. At the curb she had halted her vehicle. It looked to Poul like a bed; in fact, he realized, it was a bed. The woman regarded him with astute calm, her eyes dark and intense. Although her glistening shaved head somewhat upset him, he could see that she was attractive.
“I’m from another culture,” Poul said, finding himself unable to keep his eyes from her figure. Did all the women dress like this here in this society? Bare shoulders, he could understand. But not—
And the bed. The combination of the two was too much for him. What kind of business was she in, anyhow? And in public. What a society this was… morals had changed since his own time.
“I’m looking for the library,” Poul said, not coming too close to the vehicle which was a bed with motor and wheels, a tiller for steering.
The woman said, “The library is one bight from here.”
“Um,” Poul said, “what’s a ‘bight’?”
“Obviously, you’re wanging me,” the woman said. All visible parts of her flushed a dark red. “It’s not funny. Any more than your disgustingly hairy head is. Really, both your wanging and your head are not amusing, at least not to me.” And yet she did not go on; she remained where she was, regarding him somberly. “Perhaps you need help,” she decided. “Perhaps I should pity you. You know of course that the polpol could pick you up any time they want.”
Poul said, “Could I, um, buy you a cup of coffee somewhere and we could talk? I’m really anxious to find the library.”
“I’ll go with you,” the woman agreed. “Although I have no idea what ‘coffee’ is. If you touch me I’ll nilp at once.”
“Don’t do that,” Poul said, “it’s unnecessary; all I want to do is look up some historical material.” And then it occurred to him that he could make good use of any technical data he could get his hands on.
What one volume might he smuggle back to 1954 which would be of great value? He racked his brains. An almanac. A dictionary… a school text on science which surveyed all the fields for laymen; yes, that would do it. A seventh grade text or a high school text. He could rip the covers off, throw them away, put the pages inside his coat.
Poul said, “Where’s a school? The closest school.” He felt the urgency of it, now. He had no doubt that they were after him, close behind.
“What is a ‘school’?” the woman asked.
“Where your children go,” Poul said.
The woman said quietly, “You poor sick man.”
V
For a time Tozzo and Fermeti and Gilly stood in silence. And then Tozzo said in a carefully controlled voice, “You know what’s going to happen to him, of course. Polpol will pick him up and mono-express him to Nachbaren Slager. Because of his appearance. He may even be there already.”
Fermeti sprinted at once for the nearest vidphone. “I’m going to contact the authorities at Nachbaren Slager. I’ll talk to Potter; we can trust him, I think.”
Presently Major Potter’s heavy, dark features formed on the vidscreen. “Oh, hello, Fermeti. You want more convicts, do you?” He chuckled. “You use them up even faster than we do.”
Behind Potter, Fermeti caught a glimpse of the open recreation area of the giant internment camp. Criminals, both political and nonpol, could be seen roaming about, stretching their legs, some of them playing dull, pointless games which, he knew, went on and on, sometimes for months, each time they were out of their work-cells.
“What we want,” Fermeti said, “is to prevent an individual being brought to you at all.” He described Poul Anderson. “If he’s monoed there, call me at once. And don’t harm him. You understand? We want him back safe.”
“Sure,” Potter said easily. “Just a minute; I’ll have a scan put on our new admissions.” He touched a button to his right and a 315—R computer came on; Fermeti heard its low hum. Potter touched buttons and then said, “This’ll pick him out if he’s monoed here. Our admissions-circuit is prepared to reject him.”
“No sign yet?” Fermeti asked tensely.
“Nope,” Potter said, and purposefully yawned.
Fermeti broke the connection.
“Now what?” Tozzo said. “We could possibly trace him by means of a Ganymedean sniffer-sponge.” They were a repellent l
ife form, though; if one managed to find its quarry it fastened at once to its blood system leech-wise. “Or do it mechanically,” he added. “With a detec beam. We have a print of Anderson’s EEG pattern, don’t we? But that would really bring in the polpol.” The detec beam by law belonged only to the polpol; after all, it was the artifact which had, at last, tracked down Gutman himself.
Fermeti said bluntly, “I’m for broadcasting a planet-wide Type II alert. That’ll activate the citizenry, the average informer. They’ll know there’s an automatic reward for any Type II found.”
“But he could be manhandled that way,” Gilly pointed out. “By a mob. Let’s think this through.”
After a pause Tozzo said, “How about trying it from a purely cerebral standpoint? If you had been transported from the mid twentieth century to our continuum, what would you want to do? Where would you go?”
Quietly, Fermeti said, “To the nearest spaceport, of course. To buy a ticket to Mars or the outplanets—routine in our age but utterly out of the question at mid twentieth century.” They looked at one another.
“But Anderson doesn’t know where the spaceport is,” Gilly said. “It’ll take him valuable time to orient himself. We can go there directly by express subsurface mono.”
A moment later the three Bureau of Emigration men were on their way. “A fascinating situation,” Gilly said, as they rode along, jiggling up and down, facing one another in the monorail first-class compartment. “We totally misjudged the mid twentieth century mind; it should be a lesson to us. Once we’ve regained possession of Anderson we should make further inquiries. For instance, the Poltergeist Effect. What was their interpretation of it? And table-tapping—did they recognize it for what it was? Or did they merely consign it to the realm of the so-called ‘occult’ and let it go at that?”
“Anderson may hold the clue to these questions and many others,” Fermeti said. “But our central problem remains the same. We must induce him to complete the mass-restoration formula in precise mathematical terms, rather than vague, poetic allusions.”
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