Time Travel Omnibus, page 509
“That’s good, Ed; don’t let them scare you!”
Old Max Pottgeiter, at least, was a friend.
“Doctor Whitburn, I’m asking you, and I expect an answer, why did you make such statements to the press, when you knew perfectly well that they were false?” Dacre demanded sharply.
“I knew nothing of the kind!” Whitburn blustered, showing, under the bluster, fear. “Yes, I demanded this man’s resignation on the morning of October Seventeenth, the day after this incident occurred. It had come to my attention on several occasions that he was making wild and unreasonable assertions in class, and subjecting himself, and with himself the whole faculty of this college, to student ridicule. Why, there was actually an editorial about it written by the student editor of the campus paper, the Black and Green. I managed to prevent its publication . . .” He went on at some length about that. “If I might be permitted access to the drawers of my own desk,” he added with elephantine sarcasm, “I could show you the editorial in question.”
“You needn’t bother; I have a carbon copy,” Dacre told him. “We’ve all read it. If you did, at the time you suppressed it, you should have known what Doctor Chalmers said in class.”
“I knew he’d talked a lot of poppycock about a man who was still living having been shot to death,” Whitburn retorted. “And if something of the sort actually happened, what of it? Somebody’s always taking a shot at one or another of these foreign dictators, and they can’t miss all the time.”
“You claim this was pure coincidence?” Fitch demanded. “A ten-point coincidence: Event of assassination, year of the event, place, circumstances, name of assassin, nationality of assassin, manner of killing, exact type of weapon used, guards killed and wounded along with Khalid, and fate of the assassin. If that’s a simple and plausible coincidence, so’s dealing ten royal flushes in succession in a poker game. Tom, you figured that out; what did you say the odds against it were?”
“Was all that actually stated by Doctor Chalmers a month ago?” one of the trustees asked, incredulously.
“It absolutely was. Look here, Mr. Dacre, gentlemen.” Fitch came forward, unzipping his briefcase and pulling out papers. “Here are the signed statements of each of Doctor Chalmers’ twenty-three Modern History Four students, all made and dated before the assassination. You can refer to them as you please; they’re in alphabetical order. And here.” He unfolded a sheet of graph paper a yard long and almost as wide. “Here’s a tabulated summary of the boys’ statements. All agreed on the first point, the fact of the assassination. All agreed that the time was sometime this year. Twenty out of twenty-three agreed on Basra as the place. Why, seven of them even remembered the name of the assassin. That in itself is remarkable; Doctor Chalmers has an extremely intelligent and attentive class.”
“They’re attentive because they know he’s always likely to do something crazy and make a circus out of himself,” Whitburn interjected.
“And this isn’t the only instance of Doctor Chalmers’ precognitive ability,” Fitch continued. “There have been a number of other cases . . .”
Chalmers jumped to his feet; Stanly Weill rose beside him, shoved the cased sound-recorder into his hands, and pushed him back into his seat.
“Gentlemen,” the lawyer began, quietly but firmly and clearly. “This is all getting pretty badly out of hand. After all, this isn’t an investigation of the actuality of precognition as a psychic phenomenon. What I’d like to hear, and what I haven’t heard yet, is Doctor Whitburn’s explanation of his contradictory statements that he knew about my client’s alleged remarks on the evening after they were supposed to have been made and that, at the same time, the whole thing was a hoax concocted by his students.”
“Are you implying that I’m a liar?” Whitburn bristled.
“I’m pointing out that you made a pair of contradictory statements, and I’m asking how you could do that knowingly and honestly,” Weill retorted.
“What I meant,” Whitburn began, with exaggerated slowness, as though speaking to an idiot, “was that yesterday, when those infernal reporters were badgering me, I really thought that some of Professor Chalmers’ students had gotten together and given the Valley Times an exaggerated story about his insane maunderings a month ago. I hadn’t imagined that a member of the faculty had been so lacking in loyalty to the college . . .”
“You couldn’t imagine anybody with any more intellectual integrity than you have!” Fitch fairly yelled at him.
“You’re as crazy as Chalmers!” Whitburn yelled back. He turned to the trustees. “You see the position I’m in, here, with this infernal Higher Education Faculty Tenure Act? I have a madman on my faculty, and can I get rid of him? No! I demand his resignation, and he laughs at me and goes running for his lawyer! And he is a madman! Nobody but a madman would talk the way he does. You think this Khalid ib’n Hussein business is the only time he’s done anything like this? Why, I have a list of a dozen occasions when he’s done something just as bad, only he didn’t have a lucky coincidence to back him up. Trying to get books that don’t exist out of the library, and then insisting that they’re standard textbooks. Talking about the revolt of the colonies on Mars and Venus. Talking about something he calls the Terran Federation, some kind of a world empire. Or something he calls Operation Triple Cross, that saved the country during some fantastic war he imagined . . .”
“What did you say?”
The question cracked out like a string of pistol shots. Everybody turned. The quiet man in the brown tweed suit had spoken; now he looked as though he were very much regretting it.
“Is there such a thing as Operation Triple Cross?” Fitch was asking.
“No, no. I never heard anything about that; that wasn’t what I meant. It was this Terran Federation thing,” the major said, a trifle too quickly and too smoothly. He turned to Chalmers. “You never did any work for PSPB; did you ever talk to anybody who did?” he asked.
“I don’t even know what the letters mean,” Chalmers replied.
“Politico-Strategic Planning Board. It’s all pretty hush-hush, but this term Terran Federation is a tentative name for a proposed organization to take the place of the U. N. if that organization breaks up. It’s nothing particularly important, and it only exists on paper.”
It won’t exist only on paper very long, Chalmers thought. He was wondering what Operation Triple Cross was; he had some notes on it, but he had forgotten what they were.
“Maybe he did pick that up from somebody who’d talked indiscreetly,” Whitburn conceded. “But the rest of this tommyrot! Why, he was talking about how the city of Reno had been destroyed by an explosion and fire, literally wiped off the map. There’s an example for you!”
He’d forgotten about that, too. It had been a relatively minor incident in the secret struggle of the Subwar; now he remembered having made a note about it. He was sure that it followed closely after the assassination of Khalid ib’n Hussein. He turned quickly to Weill.
“Didn’t you say you had to go to Reno in a day or so?” he asked.
Weill hushed him urgently, pointing with his free hand to the recorder. The exchange prevented him from noticing that Max Pottgeiter had risen, until the old man was speaking.
“Are you trying to tell these people that Professor Chalmers is crazy?” he was demanding. “Why, he has one of the best minds on the campus. I was talking to him only yesterday, in the back room at the Library. You know,” he went on apologetically, “my subject is Medieval History; I don’t pay much attention to what’s going on in the contemporary world, and I didn’t understand, really, what all this excitement was about. But he explained the whole thing to me, and did it in terms that I could grasp, drawing some excellent parallels with the Byzantine Empire and the Crusades. All about the revolt at Damascus, and the sack of Beirut, and the war between Jordan and Saudi Arabia, and how the Turkish army intervened, and the invasion of Pakistan . . .”
“When did all this happen?” one of the trustees demanded.
Pottgeiter started to explain; Chalmers realized, sickly, how much of his future history he had poured into the trusting ear of the old medievalist, the day before.
“Good Lord, man; don’t you read the papers at all?” another of the trustees asked.
“No! And I don’t read inside-dope magazines, or science fiction. I read carefully substantiated facts. And I know when I’m talking to a sane and reasonable man. It isn’t a common experience, around here.”
Dacre passed a hand over his face. “Doctor Whitburn,” he said, “I must admit that I came to this meeting strongly prejudiced against you, and I’ll further admit that your own behavior here has done very little to dispel that prejudice. But I’m beginning to get some idea of what you have to contend with, here at Blanley, and I find that I must make a lot of allowances. I had no idea . . . Simply no idea at all.”
“Look, you’re getting a completely distorted picture of this, Mr. Dacre,” Fitch broke in. “It’s precisely as I believed; Doctor Chalmers is an unusually gifted precognitive percipient. You’ve seen, gentlemen, how his complicated chain of precognitions about the death of Khalid has been proven veridical; I’d stake my life that every one of these precognitions will be similarly verified. And I’ll stake my professional reputation that the man is perfectly sane. Of course, abnormal psychology and psychopathology aren’t my subjects, but . . .”
“They’re not my subjects, either,” Whitburn retorted, “but I know a lunatic by his ravings.”
“Doctor Fitch is taking an entirely proper attitude,” Pottgeiter said, “in pointing out that abnormal psychology is a specialized branch, outside his own field. I wouldn’t dream, myself, of trying to offer a decisive opinion on some point of Roman, or Babylonian, history. Well, if the question of Doctor Chalmers’ sanity is at issue here, let’s consult somebody who specializes in insanity. I don’t believe that anybody here is qualified even to express an opinion on that subject, Doctor Whitburn least of all.”
Whitburn turned on him angrily. “Oh, shut up, you doddering old fool!” he shouted. “Look; there’s another of them!” he told the trustees. “Another deadhead on the faculty that this Tenure Law keeps me from getting rid of. He’s as bad as Chalmers, himself. You just heard that string of nonsense he was spouting. Why, his courses have been noted among the students for years as snap courses in which nobody ever has to do any work . . .”
Chalmers was on his feet again, thoroughly angry. Abuse of himself he could take; talking that way about gentle, learned, old Pottgeiter was something else.
“I think Doctor Pottgeiter’s said the most reasonable thing I’ve heard since I came in here,” he declared. “If my sanity is to be questioned, I insist that it be questioned by somebody qualified to do so.”
Weill set his recorder on the floor and jumped up beside him, trying to haul him back into his seat.
“For God’s sake, man! Sit down and shut up!” he hissed.
Chalmers shook off his hand. “No, I won’t shut up! This is the only way to settle this, once and for all. And when my sanity’s been vindicated, I’m going to sue this fellow . . .”
Whitburn started to make some retort, then stopped short. After a moment, he smiled nastily.
“Do I understand, Doctor Chalmers, that you would be willing to submit to psychiatric examination?” he asked.
“Don’t agree; you’re putting your foot in a trap!” Weill told him urgently.
“Of course, I agree, as long as the examination is conducted by a properly qualified psychiatrist.”
“How about Doctor Hauserman at Northern State Mental Hospital?” Whitburn asked quickly. “Would you agree to an examination by him?”
“Excellent!” Fitch exclaimed. “One of the best men in the field. I’d accept his opinion unreservedly.”
Weill started to object again; Chalmers cut him off. “Doctor Hauserman will be quite satisfactory to me. The only question is, would he be available?”
“I think he would,” Dacre said, glancing at his watch. “I wonder if he could be reached now.” He got to his feet. “Telephone in your outer office, Doctor Whitburn? Fine. If you gentlemen will excuse me . . .”
It was a good fifteen minutes before he returned, smiling.
“Well, gentlemen, it’s all arranged,” he said. “Doctor Hauserman is quite willing to examine Doctor Chalmers—with the latter’s consent, of course.”
“He’ll have it. In writing, if he wishes.”
“Yes, I assured him on that point. He’ll be here about noon tomorrow—it’s a hundred and fifty miles from the hospital, but the doctor flies his own plane—and the examination can start at two in the afternoon. He seems familiar with the facilities of the psychology department, here; I assured him that they were at his disposal. Will that be satisfactory to you, Doctor Chalmers?”
“I have a class at that time, but one of the instructors can take it over—if holding classes will be possible around here tomorrow,” he said. “Now, if you gentlemen will pardon me, I think I’ll go home and get some sleep.”
Weill came up to the apartment with him. He mixed a couple of drinks and they went into the living room with them.
“Just in case you don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into,” Weill said, “this Hauserman isn’t any ordinary couch-pilot; he’s the state psychiatrist. If he gets the idea you aren’t sane, he can commit you to a hospital, and I’ll bet that’s exactly what Whitburn had in mind when he suggested him. And I don’t trust this man Dacre. I thought he was on our side, at the start, but that was before your friends got into the act.” He frowned into his drink. “And I don’t like the way that Intelligence major was acting, toward the last. If he thinks you know something you are not supposed to, a mental hospital may be his idea of a good place to put you away.”
“You don’t think this man Hauserman would allow himself to be influenced . . .? No. You just don’t think I’m sane. Do you?”
“I know what Hauserman’ll think. He’ll think this future history business is a classical case of systematized schizoid delusion. I wish I’d never gotten into this case. I wish I’d never even heard of you! And another thing; in case you get past Hauserman all right, you can forget about that damage-suit bluff of mine. You would not stand a chance with it in court.”
“In spite of what happened to Khalid?”
“After tomorrow, I won’t stay in the same room with anybody who even mentions that name to me. Well, win or lose, it’ll be over tomorrow and then I can leave here.”
“Did you tell me you were going to Reno?” Chalmers asked. “Don’t do it. You remember Whitburn mentioning how I spoke about an explosion there? It happened just a couple of days after the murder of Khalid. There was—will be—a trainload of high explosives in the railroad yard; it’ll be the biggest non-nuclear explosion since the Mont Blanc blew up in Halifax harbor in World War One . . .”
Weill threw his drink into the fire; he must have avoided throwing the glass in with it by a last-second exercise of self-control.
“Well,” he said, after a brief struggle to master himself. “One thing about the legal profession; you do hear the damnedest things! . . . Good night, Professor. And try—please try, for the sake of your poor harried lawyer—to keep your mouth shut about things like that, at least till after you get through with Hauserman. And when you’re talking to him, don’t, don’t, for heaven’s sake, don’t, volunteer anything!”
The room was a pleasant, warmly-colored, place. There was a desk, much like the ones in the classrooms, and six or seven wicker armchairs. A lot of apparatus had been pushed back along the walls; the dust-covers were gay cretonne. There was a couch, with more apparatus, similarly covered, beside it. Hauserman was seated at the desk when Chalmers entered.
He rose, and they shook hands. A man of about his own age, smooth-faced, partially bald. Chalmers tried to guess something of the man’s nature from his face, but could read nothing. A face well trained to keep its owner’s secrets.
“Something to smoke, Professor,” he began, offering his cigarette case.
“My pipe, if you don’t mind.” He got it out and filled it.
“Any of those chairs,” Hauserman said, gesturing toward them.
They were all arranged to face the desk. He sat down, lighting his pipe. Hauserman nodded approvingly; he was behaving calmly, and didn’t need being put at ease. They talked at random—at least, Hauserman tried to make it seem so—for some time about his work, his book about the French Revolution, current events. He picked his way carefully through the conversation, alert for traps which the psychiatrist might be laying for him. Finally, Hauserman said:
“Would you mind telling me just why you felt it advisable to request a psychiatric examination, Professor?”
“I didn’t request it. But when the suggestion was made, by one of my friends, in reply to some aspersions of my sanity, I agreed to it.”
“Good distinction. And why was your sanity questioned? I won’t deny that I had heard of this affair, here, before Mr. Dacre called me, last evening, but I’d like to hear your version of it.”
He went into that, from the original incident in Modern History IV, choosing every word carefully, trying to concentrate on making a good impression upon Hauserman, and at the same time finding that more “memories” of the future were beginning to seep past the barrier of his consciousness. He tried to dam them back; when he could not, he spoke with greater and greater care lest they leak into his speech.
