Time Travel Omnibus, page 531
“No,” she whispered. “I don’t need anything.” She arose in a kind of nightmare and left.
Timmie, she thought, you will not die. You will not die.
IT was all very well to hold tensely to the thought that Timmie must not die, but how was that to be arranged? In the first weeks, Miss Fellowes clung only to the hope that the attempt to bring forward a man from the 14th century would fail completely. Hoskins’ theories might be wrong or his practice defective. Then things could go on as before.
Certainly, that was not the hope of the rest of the world and, irrationally, Miss Fellowes hated the world for it. “Project Middle Ages” reached a climax of white-hot publicity. The press and the public had hungered for something like this. Stasis, Inc., had lacked the necessary sensation for a long time now. A new rock or another ancient fish failed to stir them. But this did.
A historical human, an adult speaking a known language, someone who could open a new page of history to the scholar.
Zero hour was coming and now it was not a question of three onlookers from a balcony. This time there would be a worldwide audience. This time the technicians of Stasis, Inc., would play their role before nearly all of mankind.
Miss Fellowes was herself all but savage with waiting. When young Jerry Hoskins showed up for his scheduled playtime with Timmie, she scarcely recognized him. He was not the one she was waiting for.
(The secretary who brought him left hurriedly after the barest nod for Miss Fellowes. She was rushing for a good place from which to watch the climax of Project Middle Ages. And so ought Miss Fellowes with far better reason, she thought bitterly, if only that stupid girl would arrive.)
Jerry Hoskins sidled toward her, embarrassed. “Miss Fellowes?” He took the reproduction of a news strip out of his pocket.
“Yes? What is it, Jerry?”
“Is this a picture of Timmie?”
Miss Fellowes stared at him, then snatched the strip from Jerry’s hand. The excitement of Project Middle Ages had brought about a pale revival of interest in Timmie on the part of the press.
Jerry watched her narrowly, then said, “It says Timmie is an apeboy. What does that mean?”
Miss Fellowes caught the youngster’s wrist and repressed the impulse to shake him. “Never say that, Jerry. Never, do you understand? It is a nasty word and you mustn’t use it.”
Jerry struggled out of her grip, frightened.
Miss Fellowes tore up the news strip with a vicious twist of the wrist. “Now go inside and play with Timmie. He’s got a new book to show you.”
And then, at last, the girl appeared. Miss Fellowes did not know her. None of the usual stand-ins she had used when business took her elsewhere was available now, not with Project Middle Ages at climax, but Hoskins’ secretary had promised to find someone and this must be the girl.
Miss Fellowes tried to keep querulousness out of her voice. “Are you the girl assigned to Stasis Section One?”
“Yes, I’m Mandy Terris. You’re Miss Fellowes, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m sorry I’m late. There’s so much excitement.”
“I know. Now I want you—” Mandy said, “You’ll be watching, I suppose.” Her vacuously pretty face filled with envy.
“Never mind that. Now I want you to come inside and meet Timmie and Jerry. They will be playing for the next two hours, so they’ll be giving you no trouble. They’ve got milk handy and plenty of toys. In fact, it will be better if you leave them alone as much as possible. Now I’ll show you where everything is located and—”
“Is it Timmie that’s the ape—”
“Timmie is the Stasis subject.”
“I mean he’s the one who’s not supposed to get out, is that right?”
“Yes. Now come in. There isn’t much time.”
And when she finally left, Mandy Terris called after her shrilly, “I hope you get a good seat and, golly, I sure hope it works.”
Miss Fellowes did not trust herself to make a reasonable response. She hurried on without looking back.
BUT the delay meant she did not get a good seat. She got no nearer than the wall viewing-plate in the assembly hall. Bitterly, she regretted that. If she could have been on the spot, if she could somehow have reached out for some sensitive portion of the instrumentation, if she were in some way able to wreck the experiment—She found the strength to beat down her madness. Simple destruction would have done no good. They would have rebuilt and made the effort again. And she would never be allowed to return to Timmie.
Nothing would help. Nothing but that the experiment itself fail, that it break down irretrievably.
So she waited through the countdown, watching every move on the giant screen, scanning the faces of the technicians as the focus shifted from one to the other, watching for the look of worry and uncertainty that would mark something going unexpectedly wrong; watching, watching—
The count reached zero and very quietly, very unassumingly, the experiment succeeded.
In the new Stasis that had been established, there stood a bearded, stoop-shouldered peasant of indeterminate age, in ragged, dirty clothing and wooden shoes, storing in dull horror at the sudden mad change that had flung itself over him.
And while the world went wild with jubilation, Miss Fellowes stood frozen in sorrow, jostled and pushed, all but trampled; surrounded by triumph while bowed down with defeat.
And when the loudspeaker called her name with strident force, it sounded it three times before she responded.
“Miss Fellowes. Miss Fellowes. You are wanted in Stasis Section One immediately. Miss Fellowes. Miss Fell— ”
“Let me through!” she cried breathlessly, while the loudspeaker continued its repetitions without pause. She forced her way through the crowd with fierce energy, beating at it, striking out with closed fists, flailing, moving toward the door in a nightmare slowness.
MANDY Terris was in tears. I don’t know how it happened. I just went down to the edge of the corridor to watch a pocket viewing-plate they had put up. Just for a minute, and then, before I could move or do anything—” She cried out in sudden accusation, “You said they would make no trouble; you said to leave them alone—”
Miss Fellowes, disheveled and trembling uncontrollably, glared at her. “Where’s Timmie?”
A nurse was swabbing the arm of a wailing Jerry with disinfectant and another was preparing an anti-tetanus shot. There was blood on Jerry’s clothes.
“He bit me, Miss Fellowes,” Jerry cried. “He bit me.”
But Miss Fellowes didn’t even see him.
“What did you do with Timmie?” she rapped out.
“I locked him in the bathroom,” said Mandy. “I just threw the little monster in there and locked him in.”
Miss Fellowes ran into the dollhouse. She fumbled at the bathroom door. It took an eternity to get it open and to find the ugly little boy cowering in the corner.
“Don’t whip me, Miss Fellowes,” he whispered. His eyes were red. His lips were quivering. “I didn’t mean to do it.”
“Oh, Timmie, who told you about whips?” She caught him to her, hugging him wildly.
“She said with a long rope. She said you would hit me and hit me.”
“She was wicked to say so. But what happened? What happened?”
“He called me an apeboy. He said I wasn’t a real boy. He said I was an animal.” Timmie dissolved in a flood of tears. “He said he wasn’t going to play with a monkey any more. I said I wasn’t a monkey! I wasn’t a monkey. He said I was all funny-looking. He said I was horrible ugly. He kept saying and saying and I bit him.”
They were both crying now.
Miss Fellowes sobbed, “But it isn’t true. You know that, Timmie. You’re a real boy. You’re a dear, real boy and the best boy in the world. And no one—no one will ever take you away from me.”
IT was easy to make up her mind now, easy to know what to do. Only it had to be done quickly. Hoskins wouldn’t wait much longer, with his own son mangled—
No, it would have to be done tonight, this night; with the place four-fifths asleep and the remaining fifth intellectually drunk over Project Middle Ages.
It would be an unusual time for her to return, but not an unheard-of one. The guard knew her well and would not dream of questioning her. He would think nothing of her carrying a suitcase. She rehearsed the noncommital phrase: “Games for the boy,” and the calm smile.
Why shouldn’t he believe that?
When she entered the dollhouse again, Timmie woke and ran to her and she maintained a desperate normality to avoid frightening him. She talked about his dreams with him and listened to him ask wistfully after Jerry.
There would be few to see her afterward, none to question the bundle she would be carrying. Timmie would be very quiet and then it would be done and what would be the use of trying to undo it? They would let her be. They would let them both be.
She opened the suitcase, took out the overcoat, the woolen cap with the earflaps and the rest.
Timmie said, with the beginning of alarm, “Why are you putting all these clothes on me, Miss Fellowes?”
She said, “I am going to take you outside, Timmie. To where your dreams are.”
“My dreams?” His face twisted in sudden yearning, yet fear was there, too.
“You won’t be afraid. You’ll be with me. You won’t be afraid if you’re with me, will you, Timmie?”
“No, Miss Fellowes.” He buried his little misshapen head against her side, and under her enclosing arm she could feel his small heart thud.
It was midnight and she lifted him into her arms. She disconnected the alarm and opened the door softly.
And she screamed, for facing her across the open door was Hoskins.
THERE were two men with him and he stared at her, as astonished as she.
Miss Fellowes recovered first by a second and make a quick attempt to push past him; but even with the second’s delay, he had time. He caught her roughly and hurled her back against a chest of drawers. He waved the men in and confronted her, blocking the door.
“I didn’t expect this. Are you completely insane?”
She had managed to interpose her shoulder so that it, rather than Timmie, had struck the chest. She said pleadingly, “What harm can it do if I take him, Dr. Hoskins? You can’t put energy loss ahead of a human life!”
Firmly, Dr. Hoskins took Timmie out of her arms. “An energy loss that size would mean millions of dollars lost out of the pockets of investors. It would mean a terrible setback for Stasis. Inc. It would mean eventual publicity about a sentimental nurse destroying all that for the sake of an apeboy.”
“Apeboy!” said Miss Fellowes, in helpless fury.
“That’s what the reporters would call him,” said Hoskins.
One of the men emerged now, looping a nylon rope through eyelets along the upper portion of the wall.
Miss Fellowes remembered the rope that Hoskins had pulled outside the room containing Professor Ademewski’s rock specimen so long ago.
She cried out, “No!”
But Hoskins put Timmie down and gently removed the overcoat he was wearing. “You stay here, Timmie. Nothing will happen to you. We’re just going outside for a moment. All right?”
Timmie, white and wordless, managed to nod.
Hoskins steered Miss Fellowes out the dollhouse ahead of himself. For the moment, Miss Fellowes was beyond resistance. Dully, she noticed the hand-pull being adjusted outside the dollhouse.
“I’m sorry, Miss Fellowes,” said Hoskins. “I would have spared you this. I planned it for the night so that you would know only when it was over.”
She said in a weary whisper, “Because your son was hurt. Because he tormented this child into striking out at him.”
“No. Believe me. I understand about the incident today and I know it was Jerry’s fault. But the story has leaked out. It would have to, with the press surrounding us on this day of all days. I can’t risk having a distorted story about negligence and savage Neanderthalers, so-called, distract from the success of Project Middle Ages. Timmie has to go soon anyway; he might as well go now and give the sensationalists as small a peg as possible on which to hang their trash.”
“It’s not like sending a rock back. You’ll be killing a human being!”
“Not killing. There’ll be no sensation. He’ll be simply a Neanderthal boy in a Neanderthal world. He will no longer be a prisoner and alien. He will have a chance at a free life.”
“What chance? He’s only seven years old, used to being taken care of, fed, clothed, sheltered. He will be alone. His tribe may not be anywhere near where you snatched him from—that was over three years ago! And even if they were, they would never recognize him! He will have to take care of himself. How will he know how?”
Hoskins shook his head in hopeless negative. “Miss Fellowes, do you think we haven’t thought of that? Do you think we would have brought in a child if it weren’t that it was the first successful fix of a human or near-human we made, and that we did not dare to take the chance of unfixing him and finding another fix as good? Why do you suppose we kept Timmie as long as we did, if it were not for our reluctance to send a child back into the past?”
His voice took on a desperate urgency. “It’s just that we can wait no longer. Timmie stands in the way of expansion; Timmie is a source of possible bad publicity; we are on the threshold of great things and I’m sorry, Miss Fellowes, but we can’t let Timmie block us.”
“Well, then,” said Miss Fellowes sadly, “let me say good-by. Spare me that much. Only five minutes to say good-by.”
Hoskins hesitated. “All right. Go ahead.”
FOR the last time, Timmie ran to her, and for the last time, Miss Fellowes clasped him in her arms.
She hugged him blindly. She caught at a chair with the toe of one foot, moved it against the wall and sat down.
“Don’t be afraid, Timmie.”
“I’m not afraid if you’re here, Miss Fellowes. Is that man mad at me, the man out there?”
“No, he isn’t. He just doesn’t understand about us. Timmie, do you know what a mother is?”
“Like Jerry’s mother?”
“Did he tell you about his mother?”
“Sometimes. I think maybe a mother is a lady who takes care of you and who’s very nice to you and who does good things.”
“That’s right. Have you ever wanted a mother of your very own, Timmie?”
Timmie pulled his head away from her so that he could look into her face. Slowly, he put his hand to her cheek and hair and stroked her, as long, long ago she had stroked him.
He said, “Aren’t you my mother?”
“Oh, Timmie!”
“Are you angry because I asked?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Because I know your name is Miss Fellowes; but—but sometimes I call you mother inside. Is that all right?”
“Yes, yes. It’s all right. And I won’t leave you any more and nothing will hurt you. I’ll be with you, to care for you always. Call me mother so I can hear you.”
“Mother,” said Timmie contentedly, leaning his cheek against hers.
She rose and, still holding him, stepped up on the chair. The sudden beginning of a shout from outside went unheard; with her free hand, she hauled with all her weight at the stout nylon cord where it hung suspended between two eyelets.
And Stasis was punctured and the room was empty.
THE MEN WHO MURDERED MOHAMMED
Alfred Bester
THERE WAS A MAN WHO MUTILAITED history. He toppled empires and uprooted dynasties. Because of him, Mount Vernon should not be a national shrine, and Columbus, Ohio should be called Cabot, Ohio. Because of him the name of Mane Curie should be cursed in France, and no one should swear by the beard of the Prophet. Actually, these realities did not happen, because he was a mad professor; or, to put it another way, he only succeeded in making them unreal for himself.
Now the patient reader is too familiar with the conventional mad professor, undersized and over-browed, creating monsters in his laboratory which invariably turn on their maker and menace his lovely daughter. This story isn’t about that sort of make-believe man. It’s about Henry Hassel, a genuine mad professor in a class with such better known men as Ludwig Boltzmann (See “Ideal Gas Law”), Jacques Charles, and Andre Marie Ampere (1775-1836).
Everyone ought to know that the electrical ampere was so named in honor of Ampere. Ludwig Boltzmann was a distinguished Austrian physicist, as famous for his research on black-body radiation as Ideal Gases. You can look him up in Volume 3 of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, BALT to BRAI. Jacques Alexandre Cesar Charles was the first mathematician to become interested in flight, and he invented the hydrogen balloon. These were real men.
They were also real mad professors. Ampere, for example, was on his way to an important meeting of scientists in Paris. In his taxi he got a brilliant idea (of an electrical nature, I assume) and whipped out a pencil and jotted the equation on the wall of the honsom cab. Roughly, it was: dH=ipdl/r2 in which p is the perpendicular distance from P to the line of the element dl; or dH=I sin ∅ dl/r2. This is sometimes known as Laplace’s Law, although he wasn’t at the meeting.
Anyway, the cab arrived at the Academie. Ampere jumped out, paid the driver, and rushed into the meeting to tell everybody about his idea. Then he realized he didn’t have the note on him, remembered where he’d left it, and had to chase through the streets of Paris after the taxi to recover his runaway equation. Sometimes I imagine that’s how Fermat lost his famous “Last Theorem,” although Fermat wasn’t at the meeting either, having died some two hundred years earlier.
Or take Boltzmann. Giving a course in Advanced Ideal Gases, he peppered his lectures with involved calculus which he worked out quickly and casually in his head. He had that kind of head. His students had so much trouble trying to puzzle out the math by ear that they couldn’t keep up with the lectures, and they begged Boltzmann to work out his equations on the blackboard.
Boltzmann apologized and promised to be more helpful in the future. At the next lecture he began: “Gentlemen, combining Boyle’s Law with the Law of Charles, we arrive at the equation pv = p0v0 (1+at). Now obviously if aSb=f(x)dx∅(a), then pv=RT and VS f(x,y,z) dV=0. It’s as simple as two plus two equals four.” At this point Boltzmann remembered his promise. He turned to the blackboard, conscientiously chalked 2+2=4, and then breezed on, casually doing the complicated calculus in his head.
