Time and Again

by Jack Finney

  He looked at me, blinking, then said, "Because there's something doesn't jibe, Si. In the debriefing, I mean. He named a friend he went to college with: Knox College in Galesburg, Illinois. Ted's seen him a few times since. He lives in Philadelphia where Ted does; listed in the phone book there. Except that now he isn't. No one ever heard of him at the place he worked. He is unlisted in Social Security records. There is no record of him at Knox. He doesn't exist, you see." Oscar kept his voice matter-of-fact. "Except in Ted's memory, and Ted's alone. Because whatever Ted did and saw and however circumspectly in Denver, Colorado, in midwinter of 1901, it affected an event or events there: Something changed, and therefore so did subsequent events deriving from it." Oscar shrugged a little. "So that now that particular guy was never born, that's all. As for what else may have changed, what else may be different about these times now, things Ted Brietel doesn't happen to know about—well, who can say? Maybe a lot, maybe nothing else at all." We sat staring at each other for a moment or so; then Oscar stood up abruptly. "That's what the meeting is all about; come on."

  People glanced up at us when we entered the big conference room; it was crowded now, nearly every chair filled. Some nodded at me abstractedly, smiling a little, but immediately returning their attention to Dr. Danziger, who was speaking quietly. I watched him, too, as Oscar and I pulled out chairs and sat down. He looked at ease, which is more than most of the others did; most coats were off, most ties pulled down, people weren't bothering to try not looking tired, and there was a lot of smoking, a lot of doodling on scratch pads. But Danziger sat well back in his chair, his brown double-breasted suit coat open, his tan sweater-vest buttoned, legs crossed comfortably, one arm resting on his chair back, his big veined hand dangling limp and relaxed. "...knowledge we now have susceptible of prolonged study," he was saying. "You don't have to bring up the entire bottom of the ocean and into the laboratory. To fully analyze the core from a single boring and consider the implications of that analysis takes months, even years. This is how we must treat the knowledge, the borings if you will, of our three successful attempts. They'll be studied and can yield new knowledge for years. But there can be no more of them"—his posture didn't change but his voice deepened into a tone of authority I wouldn't have cared to challenge—"because it is not true, it is simply not true, that we ought to continue doing something just because we've discovered we can. It is becoming more and more certain, as science uses an almost brand-new ability to pull apart the deepest puzzles of the universe, that we need not and should not necessarily do something only because we've learned how. In company such as this I don't have to spell out obvious examples and consequences of failing to understand that. The lesson is clear. And the danger of even one more attempt is just as clear. We dare not ever again step into the past. We dare not ever again interfere with it in any least possible way. Because we don't know what is the least possible way. We don't yet know the consequences of Mr. Morley's most recent visit, but if we should seem to have escaped any very serious consequences of the few cautious successes we've had, it's only blind good luck. A man of no apparent importance, though I'm sure he was important to himself, no longer exists. Never did exist, in a very strange yet true sense." The tall bald man came in, actually tiptoeing. Colonel Esterhazy saw him right away, raised his arm, and the man walked quickly to him, handed him a little sheaf of paper, murmured something into Esterhazy's ear, who nodded, and the man tiptoed out again. Danziger continued. "Otherwise our world seems essentially unchanged. But next time might be different; unimaginably, catastrophically different. To continue this project would be the grossest kind of utterly selfish and reckless irresponsibility. I think we had to have this meeting; we had to talk this out in absolutely full detail. But there can be no question of our decision; there is no choice to be made."

  He stopped, and looked around the table as though wondering if, although doubting, there might be a question. Half the table's length away a man started to raise his hand, lowered it, then lifted it again. I'd forgotten his name; it was the young history professor from one of the eastern universities who looked more like a television comic to me. Danziger nodded at him, frowning, and the man's face pinkened. Sounding like a professor, at least, he said, "Of course you are entirely right, Dr. Danziger. And I certainly don't dispute it. I haven't attended all these meetings, haven't been able to, and I don't pretend to understand a great deal of what we've done. I am only wondering—I really hate to give this up, if this is at all possible—if a way couldn't be found to introduce what I'd call the absolute spectator. Unknown, unseen, affecting no event whatsoever. A man hidden, utterly concealed, at the first performance of Hamlet; my God. Concealed far in advance of audience and actors, remaining hidden long afterward. Or an absolute spectator at—well, there's at least one of Disraeli's meetings with his Cabinet that I'd give my soul to know all about; no one really knows, and it's important. Could this possibility of the absolute spectator be studied, is all I'm asking. In search of a way..."

  But Danziger had begun shaking his head slowly, and the man's voice trailed off. Danziger said, "I understand what you're saying. And I understand the temptation because I feel it, too. But there could be no concealment that was absolutely certain; I'm sure you see that. And if it isn't absolutely certain, the risk is still there. And the risk can't be taken; we have learned that, and it can't be argued away." He sat waiting. But no one else said anything, and presently Esterhazy spoke in a mild conversational way.

  He said, "I think I could almost repeat word for word what Dr. Danziger has said; that's how closely I've listened. As I hope all of you have. The wisdom of Dr. Danziger's advice simply isn't debatable." He made an apologetic little gesture with his hand. "We haven't quite talked this out, though," he said as though hating to contradict Dr. Danziger about even this small point. "Not in full detail yet. Because I have some information now we didn't have a few moments ago." Rube was sitting beside Esterhazy, in a white shirt, his tie pulled down. He had the typed pages that had been brought in a few minutes ago, and was reading them, slumped in his chair, and Esterhazy nodded at the typescript, saying, "We've just received the report of Mr. Morley's debriefing: both a full summary of what happened, which is absolutely fascinating, and of the test result. The carbon is being Xeroxed now, and we'll soon have copies for everyone. Meanwhile, and this is what's important, we know the full result of his debriefing analysis. Mr. Morley was gone not just for hours this time, but during two days, and this time his contacts were far more than casual and momentary. It was a calculated risk; we took it, and now we have the result." Rube glanced up at him, and Esterhazy nodded to him. Rube glanced down at the typescript in his hand, then summarized what it said.

  "No change whatsoever," he said in a flat, factual monotone. "Absolutely everything checks out okay."

  Esterhazy nodded almost imperceptibly, and almost a little sadly; it was a gesture suggesting that facts being facts, neither of his making nor within his control, there was nothing he could do but accept them. "That being so," he said in a voice to match the gesture, "I'm sure it's plain that we simply wouldn't be doing our full duty—to Dr. Danziger, to the project itself, nor to anyone—if we didn't also discuss the meaning of that." He glanced around the table as though inviting discussion, and Rube spoke immediately.

  "Okay," he said as though accepting an invitation to start things off, "what are the facts? No result, no changes, no harm from what we think was a visit, however brief, to the city—the village, I suppose—of Paris, in 1451. And if any chain of events had been altered, it's had a long time to grow. No result, no changes, no harm from Si Morley's first brief visit. None from his second visit which was quite extensive, involving a trip half the length of the city and on which he had company. And now: no result, no changes, no harm at all from a visit of two days during which he lived in a house full of people, and not only interfered with but actually precipitated events which"—he nodded at the typescript on the table—"I'd find hard
to believe if I didn't know what feeble powers of invention he has." He grinned down the table at me, and there was a murmur of mild laughter.

  His grin fading, Rube shrugged the big muscled hump of one shoulder, and said, "To sum up: Brietel caused a change, yes. But a slight one." He looked quickly over at Danziger. "Important to the man it affected, certainly, but—"

  "And who was not consulted," Danziger said, "about whether he cared to make the sacrifice."

  "That's true, and I'm sorry. But compared with the potentially enormous benefit to the rest of the world, I repeat—and I think it's realistic—the change was slight. Even more important, the effect of all of our other successful attempts, of far longer duration and involvement, was zero. Nil. Suggesting that Brietel's result was simply a long-shot accident. So that in considering whether to continue, and with absolute respect for Dr. Danziger's opinions, I suggest that a case can also be made out for the calculated risk."

  "God damn it!" Danziger's fist slammed down onto the tabletop and an ashtray jumped, made a half turn in the air, and fell face down on the table, scattering butts and ashes and spinning like a coin till it clanked to a stop. Over its sound Danziger was saying, "What calculation! I despise the phrase! Risk, hell, yes! Plenty of risk!" He swung around in his chair to glare at Rube, leaning far over the tabletop toward him. "But show me your calculations!" There was a long silent pause, Danziger glaring at Rube, during which Rube did not turn away or avert his eyes, but he blinked benignly several times to show no hostility and that he wasn't in a contest to stare Danziger down. Then Danziger leaned back and said quietly, "What do we know? We know that in one out of four or possibly five successes we have affected the past. And therefore the present. And that is all we know. That next attempt could be disastrous. There is no case at all, Rube, for a calculated risk. Because there is no calculation, but only risk. Who has given us the right to decide for the entire world that it should be taken?" He stared at Rube for a moment longer, then looked slowly around the table as he spoke. "As the head of this project and as its originator, I say—I'll order it if I have to—the project must be discontinued, except for study of what we already have. There is no one who could possibly hate this necessity more than I do. But it must and it is to be done."

  There had to be a pretty long silence after that, and there was. When Esterhazy finally spoke it was so tentatively and regretfully that it clearly seemed very painful to him. He said, "I..." and stopped, swallowing. "I...simply cannot bring myself to dispute anything at all that Dr. Danziger might have to say about this project. The urge to suggest that we adjourn for a time, and think about all this, reflect on it, is strong. But many of you have come a long way. And no one expected to have to spend this additional day; I don't think we can wait. And so, since this has been brought to a head, I'm obliged to, not dispute but remind you—I have to do this, Dr. Danziger!—that any vital decision affecting the project must be made by a majority of four senior members of this board, the President himself casting a fifth deciding vote if necessary. Of these four members Dr. Danziger is, of course, the first, the others being Mr. Prien, Mr. Fessenden, the Presidential representative, and myself. I'm certainly not going to make any sort of formal issue of this, but of course it's clear what Dr. Danziger feels, just as clear what Mr. Prien and I think. So, Mr. Fessenden, what about you? Have you reached a decision yet?"

  I didn't know who he was till he spoke, or rather cleared his throat preparatorily. He was about fifty years old, pretty bald, though with a skein of gray-brown hair combed straight over the top of his head from the side, concealing the baldness from himself, at least. His face was pretty full below the cheekbones, and he wore glasses with metal rims so thin they almost looked rimless. If I'd ever seen him before, he'd made no impression on my memory. He said, "I'd want to consider my vote, if it ever came to that. At length. Sleep on it. But in fairness, I ought to say that I feel I would join with you."

  Esterhazy opened his mouth to say something, but Danziger spoke first. "That's it, then? That's the decision?"

  Esterhazy began, "I don't think there's any formal—" but Danziger cut him off, brusquely, rudely. "Quit fooling around; that's the decision!" He waited a moment, then barked out the word. "Well?"

  Esterhazy pressed his lips together and shook his head; a painful moment. "It has to be, Doctor. It simply has—"

  "I resign." Danziger stood up, turning to shove his chair back so he could get away from the table.

  "Wait!" Esterhazy stood up. "We simply can't let this happen this way. I want to talk to you. Alone. In just a few minutes."

  I had to give the old man credit: I hadn't ever seen him in an undignified moment, and I didn't now. No stalking out, no violent refusal; that kind of drama was distasteful to him. He did hesitate for a moment, then he said, "Of course. But it has already happened: No one will change or go back. I'll wait for you in my office, Colonel." Then in a complete silence he walked to the door and was gone.

  "I don't like it," said a voice down the table, and we all turned to look at him. It was a young but plump and bald man, from one of the California universities, I thought I remembered. He looked intelligent, and he looked mad. He said, "I don't have a vote, much of a voice, or even much of a stake in this; I'm a meteorologist, here mainly to report to my own university. But I'm not going to leave without asking how we have the nerve to do anything but accept Dr. Danziger's opinion and decision."

  "Hear, hear! As the British say," someone else called out, his voice sounding pleased, the kind of guy who really enjoys a fight as long as it's between two other guys.

  I'd thought Colonel Esterhazy would reply but Rube stood up; slowly, entirely at ease and taking his time, and completely—this popped up in my mind—in command. He said, "How? Because you don't turn back. Not ever. You don't spend billions preparing to send a man to the moon, and then decide not to. Or invent the airplane, look it over, and decide to uninvent it because someday someone might use it to drop a bomb. You just don't stop something as enormous as this; the human race never has. Risk? Yes, maybe. Yes, certainly. But who did that ever stop? Anyone whose birthday has become a national holiday? We are going ahead. We—"

  "Who's 'we'?" an angry voice called out; I never did know who.

  "All of us," Rube said quietly, leaning forward over the table, supporting his weight on his knuckles, "who have put in endless time and enormous effort on this: an important part of our lives. Think, goddammit! Can you actually imagine this being stopped? Dropped? Forgotten? It just ain't gonna happen, gents. So why sit around and clatter our teeth about it?"

  That ended it, really, though the talking went on for a while. Copies of my report and test result arrived, and were passed out; each one was numbered, and had to be read and returned before the board left the room. A fair number of people glanced up from their copies to look at me, smile, and shake their heads in amazement, and I managed to grin back at them. The discussion continued through this, some agreeing that the project should be cautiously continued, some questioning or at least wondering aloud about it. I think more than one man there hadn't previously understood how little his presence on the board had to do with making its policies. The meeting ended with Esterhazy reminding the members, most tactfully, that everything they knew about the project was very strictly classified information. They'd be notified, he said, when the next meeting was to take place; meanwhile he thanked them for coming.

  Rube knew I had a decision to make, and he was right at my elbow when I left the conference room. In the corridor he invited me to come out to a bar on Sixth Avenue we'd been in once or twice, and where we could get some lunch. I said I wanted to see Dr. Danziger first, and we walked along together to his office. But Danziger's girl said Colonel Esterhazy was in with him, which I don't think surprised Rube, and that it looked as though he'd be there for quite a while. I was starved, so I went out with Rube, and we had lunch: a big bowl of vegetable soup and a pastrami sandwich each, with a couple of steins of
beer. We sat in the last booth in the back corner, a brick wall beside and behind us, no one near enough to overhear.

  I won't detail every word we said. We gave our orders, and then Rube pointed out very factually and low-key that while they hoped I'd continue with the project—new candidates weren't easy to come by, and training them was a long slow job—I was nevertheless not essential to the project. If I didn't continue, it would distress them but I could eventually be replaced. I knew that, of course. At least I knew it was a real possibility, if not quite the certainty Rube was trying to make it sound. And it gave me a little chill to hear it said, because there was no way I could deny to myself that the thought of never going back would be hard to accept. But all I did was nod and say, Sure, but that continuing with the project wouldn't help my conscience if I decided it was wrong.

  Our sandwiches came, we began to eat, and Rube was halfway through his and enjoying it, before he put it down on the cardboard plate, and leaned over the table to answer me. His voice inaudible a yard away, he said, "Si, Dr. Danziger is an old man. Recognize that. And what's happened so far on the project is enough—for him. For him it's a culmination; he achieved what he set out to do. And if that should be all there is, he could be content. I love him; I really do. But he's an old man obsessed with risk. Listen to him long enough, and you'll think that if you sneezed too loud back in January 1882, you might somehow set off a chain of events that could blow up the world. But it wouldn't; it would have no more effect than it would right here and now. Try it, Si!" He grinned at me, and picked up his sandwich again. "Go ahead! There are a couple of dozen people in here; sneeze. And not a goddam thing will happen. Hell, people don't get married or not married or do anything else of any importance because of the routine trivial action of some stranger. You didn't even set off this guy Pickering. That's obviously his nature, it's how he acts, and he'd behave accordingly with or without you. And it doesn't matter anyway; really important events aren't casually brought about. They're the result of so many intertwined important forces that they're inevitable, no one thing causing them. Unless you went back and deliberately did something so vital that it had to alter a large event, you aren't going to affect much of anything. You want some dessert?"