"How in the world would I know, H.H.? They— well, they acted like a bunch of storm troopers. I— I got the feeling they were after somebody, or something. They were awfully business-like, H.H. I wouldn't want to tangle with them again. In fact, I think we'd better get out of here."

  "Sit down, stupid! This is the chance of a millennium. Do you realize that we might pick up some information from them, some gadget, some technical hint that could make multi-millionaires of us both?"

  Ben Farlan was on his feet. "We'd more likely pick up a couple of holes in our heads. I tell you those characters are secret police or some such, H.H. Let's get out and get to the cops before they—!"

  "Nonsense! Sit down." H.H. didn't take his own advice. He began prancing the floor. He stopped suddenly, snapped his fingers, and turned to Ben. He pointed a plump forefinger. "Benjamin, I have it. You'll have to go through the closet and down that hallway and see what you can find. Pick up anything not nailed down. Bring it back! "

  "Ha ha," Ben said with less than warmth.

  "It's the chance of a millennium. Heavens knows what you'll find. Good God!" His eyes goggled happily. "Just think what we'd be able to do with the results of research four, five hundred years in the future!"

  "Fine, you go. I'm leaving before those bruisers get back."

  H.H. shot despairing eyes up at the ceiling. "Protect us all from wishy-washy lab managers," he prayed. Then, "I can't afford it, but your salary is doubled. Do you have a rope?"

  "What for?" Ben Farlan was weakening; a doubled salary he could use. He said cautiously, "And a three-week vacation instead of two?"

  "You're a robber, but all right. To tie around your waist so I can pull you back in an emergency."

  "What— what kind of an emergency?" Ben Farlan stammered hesitantly. He looked at the closet door with suspicion. "There's a piece of clothesline in the kitchen, I think."

  "How would I know what kind of an emergency?" H.H. went into the kitchen and within minutes returned bearing the rope. "Here, tie this around yourself." He loped the rope around his lab manager's middle.

  Ben Farlan's courage was slipping again "What do you expect me to find, H.H.?"

  "How would I know?" Something that'll give us a chance to make a fast buck or two. Go through, walk down that hall, find anything you can. Be careful. Don't stick your neck out, understand? If everything goes right, we'll go through again, maybe me the second time— maybe." The owner of the Johnston Research Laboratories was propelling Ben toward the closet.

  "If I yell," Ben Farlan was sputtering, "you start pulling."

  "All right, get in there."

  Ben pushed his way through the clothes hanging in the closet, mentally noting that he was going to have a king-size pressing bill on his hands when all of this was over. He emerged into the hallway the boss had described.

  It was alien all right, all right. It was from the future, or the past, or from some other universe. Ben didn't know, and frankly, he didn't care too much right now. Already he was wondering how he had let H.H. talk him into this.

  That was H.H. for you. Always ready to take the long chance— if it was somebody else's neck or bankroll.

  The hall was possibly twenty feet long, barren and frighteningly quiet. Ben Farlan's pace slowed considerably as he approached the door at the far end. He almost didn't make it.

  There was no knob, but the door was slightly ajar. Ben couldn't decide at first if he was happy about that or not. He summoned his courage and peered through the crack, then jerked his head back again.

  On the other side of the door was a large room. Ben Farlan had spent his adult years working for laboratories. He could recognize one. Possibly not a single item of equipment on the other side of the door corresponded to that in the Johnston Research Laboratories, but there could be no doubt he was looking at a lab.

  He had only a glimpse, but he had seen the figure of an elderly man, dressed in a uniform. Bent over a desk, writing instrument in hand, the man was rapidly jotting down figures of some sort.

  "What the devil do I do now?" Ben Farlan muttered peevishly. He couldn't go further without attracting the other's attention.

  He peeked again. The elderly man, his face twisted in a nervous scowl, was on his feet and glaring up at what appeared to be a timepiece on the wall. He suddenly tossed his writing tool to the desk, spun on his heel, and hurried toward a further door.

  There was no time to lose. Every motion of the man suggested that he was leaving the room for only a short period of time and would probably hurry back. Ben Farlan darted from his hiding place, feeling like the protagonist in Jack and the Beanstalk.

  On the far side of the laboratory was a large window. He allowed himself one quick look through it and then began to stuff his pockets with small instruments, a pamphlet he saw, the writing instrument.

  Through the window he had seen a large city. A city of tomorrow, there was no doubt about that. He had spied flying craft, large and small, with no visible propellers, jets, or other means of propulsion; buildings based on no system of architecture known to or dreamed of by such as Ben Farlan; hordes of people, tall, husky, all uniformed.

  He was halfway back to the protection of his hallway when he heard a stirring at the other door. Someone was entering the room! He dashed through his door, closed it quickly behind him, and bolted for the entrance to his closet.

  He had just made it when he heard a voice behind him shout, "No, schtop! Please scbtop!"

  "Like hell I'll schtop," he muttered, pushing himself anxiously through pants, suits, and overcoats, and hauling his clothesline behind him. He burst into his living room.

  H.H. was waiting for him, rope end in hand, eyes on wristwatch. "What took you so long?" he demanded. "What'd you see in there?"

  Ben Hung himself down on the couch to catch his breath. "Maybe they're after me," he gasped. "We'll have to get out of here. I picked up a whole lot of stuff from a laboratory."

  "A lab!" H.H.'s eyes gleamed. He darted a quick look into the closet. "Huh," he snorted. "No need to worry about that. The hole is closed. What'd you get? What'd you see?"

  "Wait'll J get my breath, H.H. I'm bushed."

  The front door opened and Number One stepped in, his face dark and dangerous. He glanced at the two of them quickly, his eyebrows going up at the sight of Ben Farlan. Then he flicked his head to those behind him and his two companions entered the room after him.

  They looked less fearsome than they had when leaving the apartment an hour or two before. Number One's coat was torn, Number Three's tie was missing, Number Two had a rapidly flowering black eye. Their slippers were wet and in rags. None of their equipment was evident.

  "You should be dead," Number One said accusingly to Ben Farlan. "Who is this?" He indicated H.H.

  Ben said weakly, "He's my boss."

  "We'll have to eliminate them both," Number Two growled. "The psycho-gun evidently doesn't work on them. Not mentally developed sufficiently to be affected." He looked down at his tattered and wet slippers. "It will be a pleasure to dispose of the small one by more primitive methods."

  "Clothed for the street," Number One said. "Ha!"

  "Medium of exchange," Number Three growled. "Three pounds of it wasn't enough to buy a ride across town in a taxi."

  "If I had my needle gun I'd let them both have it now," Number Two snarled.

  "Both of you be quiet," Number One ordered. "This is serious. We've failed in our mission." He turned to Number Three. "But that brings up a point. What happened to the needle gun— and all the rest of our equipment for that matter? It was their loss that prevented us from breaking through the watchmen and achieving our goal."

  Number Three said blankly, "I don't know. It seems incredible, but they disappeared spontaneously."

  "Gentlemen," H.H. began mildly, "could I ask a few questions?"

  "Quiet!" Number Two roared.

  Number One had opened the closet door and pushed his way through the clothing. He reversed his steps, his face white. "Closed," he croaked.

  His companions spun on him.

  "The entrance is closed," he repeated.

  Number Three blurted, "Something temporary. It will open again. The Govitor is on the other side waiting for us."

  Number One turned accusingly to Ben Farlan and H.H. "What did you two do while we were gone?" he snapped.

  H.H. faced up to him with a pleased smirk. "We went through the entrance," he said.

  "We, he says," Ben muttered, from where he was crouched on the sofa. Number One was aghast. "What -what in the name of the holies did you do there?" He stared down at Ben.

  Ben cringed further back into his pillows. "I-I picked up half a dozen odds and ends, including a pamphlet. Then I came back and the entrance closed behind me."

  Number Two slumped down into a chair, his face drained. Number Three sat down at the tiny telephone desk and put his head on his arms.

  Finally, in a small voice, Number One said to Number Three, "Then why are we still here?"

  Number Three shook his head. "I don't know." He looked up at Ben. "What did you take, exactly?"

  Ben was taken aback. "I-I don't know. I don't remember. I guess I was too excited to recall. "He reached into his pockets. There was nothing there. He said blankly, "I must have lost them."

  "What!" H.H. snorted.

  "Ha!" Number Three said bitterly. "Lost them, he says."

  H.H. turned on the three intruders. They were now considerably milder in mien than they had been. "It's time you started answering some questions. Just where are you from?"

  Number One said weakly, "Nowhere. We're from nowhere."

  "Don't be silly," H.H. snapped, rapidly taking command of the situation.

  Number Three said, "We were from the future. But now you've changed it. What the new future will be like, I don't know. But it won't be the one we came from."

  "Make sense," H.H. snapped. "How did we change the future?"

  Number One indicated Ben. "When your friend brought back the things he did from our era, he was so able to change the past that the future altered."

  Ben blinked at him. "I didn't bring back anything. I-I lost the things I took."

  Number Three explained wearily. "No. You brought them back and utilized them and in so doing you changed your present and in so doing changed our present. In changing our present you wiped out your future which you had visited. This, of course, eliminated those articles which you brought back with you. They never existed. Do I make myself clear?"

  "No," H.H. and Ben said simultaneously.

  "Go over that again," H.H. demanded.

  "No," Number Three refused. "It gives me a headache and I almost understand it."

  "Don't be fantastic," H.H. snapped. "How can you be from a future that doesn't exist? You claim that the articles Benjamin, eh, acquired from your era disappeared upon the changing of the future as did the devices you brought with you. Why didn't you disappear as well?" Number One looked at Number Three. Number Three said dejectedly, "An unexplained paradox."

  "Paradox is right," H.H. snorted. "An absolute impossibility."

  Number Three was in no frame of mind to argue. "Nothing is impossible, although some things, admittedly, are extremely improbable. This situation is extremely improbable, but here we are."

  "I don't believe it," H.H. snorted. Number Three said impatiently, "There have been paradoxes before. Remember the Dichotomy of Zeno, the Greek philosopher? Several thousand years before you were born proved with his paradox that motion was impossible. He argued that to get from one point to another you had to cover half the distance, then ' you covered half the remaining distance, then you covered half of the remaining distance. Obviously, you never got to your destination, since half of the remaining distance always remained."

  "Now I'm getting the headache," Ben Farlan said.

  "What's your point?" H.H. said, puffing out his cheeks. He was in his usual position of complete control of the situation now.

  Number Three explained. "Zeno proved to the satisfaction of the best minds of his day and two thousand years following that motion was impossible. But does that mean that the Greeks no longer went from place to place? They couldn't explain the paradox, but they went on utilizing motion."

  "Get to the point, confound it," H.H. sputtered.

  "That is the point. Just because there are paradoxes involved in time travel, paradoxes we don't as yet understand, it doesn't mean we can't utilize it. Here is the proof of the pudding. We're here."

  Number Two sobbed, "And we'll never get back. There's ho back to get to."

  H.H. said slowly, "So now you gentlemen are without a country, without even an era to which to return."

  They said nothing. "Hmmmm," H.H. said, his voice deceptively mild. "You'll be in a rather bad spot."

  "We can adapt," Number One said defiantly. "After all, you know, we're from several hundred years in your future."

  "Ah, ha. So you are," H.H. murmured, his little eyes beginning to gleam. "So you are. I assume you gentlemen have social security cards?"

  Three said, "Huh?"

  "Or at least birth certificates?"

  Two said, "Certificates?"

  "Or, at the very least, passports from a nation recognized by Uncle Sam and a certain Senator?"

  One said, "Uncle who?"

  Ben listened as H.H. got down to business.

  "Gentlemen," H.H. said, "obviously what you need is an employer who, in return for a thirty-year contract, will see you through the unfortunate situation you find yourselves in. Now, happily, we're a bit short at the laboratory and I could use three men. Of course, your experience in the labs of this era is somewhat limited, so I'm afraid I can offer only a nominal salary. Quite nominal."

  Ben blinked and sat up straighter on the couch. "You mean they'd be working under me, H.H.?" The prospect didn't displease him.

  "Well, gentlemen, take it or leave it," H.H. snapped.

  Number One looked at his companions and they looked back. "I suppose it's all we can do," he said.

  "Call me sir" H.H. snapped.

  "Yes, sir," Number One said brightly.

  H.H. scowled at them. "Only one other thing," he said. "What did you three come back for? What was your, eh, mission? I believe you called it that."

  Number Three sighed deeply. "Our psycho-physicists discovered that there was a possibility— a possibility that's now come true— of our whole space-time continuum being destroyed by some alterations in the time stream. Govitor Mardn traced it to this period. Our assignment was to find the man responsible for the alterations and to destroy him."

  H.H. said, "That sounds like a lot of gobbledygook. Make it simpler."

  Number Three shrugged his shoulders dejectedly. "Afraid I can't, sir. All wrapped up in paradoxes again."

  A light was beginning to flicker in Ben Farlan's mind. "Listen," he said, "who was this man you were CO eliminate?"

  Number One said, "The owner of a certain research laboratory, a Mr. Hugh H. Johnston. According to the Govitor's research, he was to revolutionize scientific progress and completely disorder the—."

  H.H. said, "Who, me?"

  Number Two jumped to his feet with a wail of anguish. "You mean you are Hugh H. Johnston and that now we're forced to go to work for you?"

  "Shut up!" Little Ben Farlan roared. "And I want you all three to be at the laboratory promptly at eight in the morning!"

  The end

  About the Author

  Dallas McCord Reynolds (1917-1983 )also wrote under the pseudonyms of Dallas Ross , Mark Mallory , Clark Collins , Dallas Rose , Guy McCord , Maxine Reynolds , and Bob Belmont.

  Most of Reynolds' stories took place in Utopian societies, many of which fulfilled L. L. Zamenhof's dream of Esperanto used worldwide as a universal second language. His novels predicted many things which have come to pass, including pocket computers and a worldwide computer network with information available at one's fingertips.

  Many of his novels were written within the context of a highly mobile society in which few people maintained a fixed residence, leading to "mobile voting" laws which allowed someone living out of the equivalent of a motor home to vote when and where they chose.

  Reynolds was also the first author to write an original novel based upon the 1966-1969 NBC television series Star Trek. The book, Mission to Horatius (1968), was aimed at young readers. In 1972, he used the name 'Maxine Reynolds' on two romantic suspense novels, House in the Kasbah and Home of the Inquisitor.

 

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