Title: Time and Time Again
Author: Piper, H. Beam, 1904-1964
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Time and Time Again" ***


                          TIME AND TIME AGAIN

                            BY H. BEAM PIPER

                         Illustrated by Napoli

[Transcriber's note:  This etext was produced from Astounding Science
Fiction April 1947. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the copyright on this publication was renewed.]


     _To upset the stable, mighty stream of time would probably take an
     enormous concentration of energy. And it's not to be expected that
     a man would get a second chance at life. But an atomic might
     accomplish both--_


Blinded by the bomb-flash and numbed by the narcotic injection, he could
not estimate the extent of his injuries, but he knew that he was dying.
Around him, in the darkness, voices sounded as through a thick wall.

"They mighta left mosta these Joes where they was. Half of them won't
even last till the truck comes."

"No matter; so long as they're alive, they must be treated," another
voice, crisp and cultivated, rebuked. "Better start taking names, while
we're waiting."

"Yes, sir." Fingers fumbled at his identity badge. "Hartley, Allan;
Captain, G5, Chem. Research AN/73/D. Serial, SO-23869403J."

"Allan Hartley!" The medic officer spoke in shocked surprise. "Why, he's
the man who wrote 'Children of the Mist', 'Rose of Death', and
'Conqueror's Road'!"

He tried to speak, and must have stirred; the corpsman's voice
sharpened.

"Major, I think he's part conscious. Mebbe I better give him 'nother
shot."

"Yes, yes; by all means, sergeant."

Something jabbed Allan Hartley in the back of the neck. Soft billows of
oblivion closed in upon him, and all that remained to him was a tiny
spark of awareness, glowing alone and lost in a great darkness.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Spark grew brighter. He was more than a something that merely knew
that it existed. He was a man, and he had a name, and a military rank,
and memories. Memories of the searing blue-green flash, and of what he
had been doing outside the shelter the moment before, and memories of
the month-long siege, and of the retreat from the north, and memories of
the days before the War, back to the time when he had been little Allan
Hartley, a schoolboy, the son of a successful lawyer, in Williamsport,
Pennsylvania.

His mother he could not remember; there was only a vague impression of
the house full of people who had tried to comfort him for something he
could not understand. But he remembered the old German woman who had
kept house for his father, afterward, and he remembered his bedroom,
with its chintz-covered chairs, and the warm-colored patch quilt on the
old cherry bed, and the tan curtains at the windows, edged with dusky
red, and the morning sun shining through them. He could almost see them,
now.

He blinked. He _could_ see them!

       *       *       *       *       *

For a long time, he lay staring at them unbelievingly, and then he
deliberately closed his eyes and counted ten seconds, and as he counted,
terror gripped him. He was afraid to open them again, lest he find
himself blind, or gazing at the filth and wreckage of a blasted city,
but when he reached ten, he forced himself to look, and gave a sigh of
relief. The sunlit curtains and the sun-gilded mist outside were still
there.

He reached out to check one sense against another, feeling the rough
monk's cloth and the edging of maroon silk thread. They were tangible as
well as visible. Then he saw that the back of his hand was unscarred.
There should have been a scar, souvenir of a rough-and-tumble brawl of
his cub reporter days. He examined both hands closely. An instant later,
he had sat up in bed and thrown off the covers, partially removing his
pajamas and inspecting as much of his body as was visible.

It was the smooth body of a little boy.

That was ridiculous. He was a man of forty-three; an army officer, a
chemist, once a best-selling novelist. He had been married, and divorced
ten years ago. He looked again at his body. It was only twelve years
old. Fourteen, at the very oldest. His eyes swept the room, wide with
wonder. Every detail was familiar: the flower-splashed chair covers; the
table that served as desk and catch-all for his possessions; the
dresser, with its mirror stuck full of pictures of aircraft. It was the
bedroom of his childhood home. He swung his legs over the edge of the
bed. They were six inches too short to reach the floor.

For an instant, the room spun dizzily; and he was in the grip of utter
panic, all confidence in the evidence of his senses lost. Was he insane?
Or delirious? Or had the bomb really killed him; was this what death was
like? What was that thing, about "ye become as little children"? He
started to laugh, and his juvenile larynx made giggling sounds. They
seemed funny, too, and aggravated his mirth. For a little while, he was
on the edge of hysteria and then, when he managed to control his
laughter, he felt calmer. If he were dead, then he must be a discarnate
entity, and would be able to penetrate matter. To his relief, he was
unable to push his hand through the bed. So he was alive; he was also
fully awake, and, he hoped, rational. He rose to his feet and prowled
about the room, taking stock of its contents.

There was no calendar in sight, and he could find no newspapers or dated
periodicals, but he knew that it was prior to July 18, 1946. On that
day, his fourteenth birthday, his father had given him a light .22
rifle, and it had been hung on a pair of rustic forks on the wall. It
was not there now, nor ever had been. On the table, he saw a boys' book
of military aircraft, with a clean, new dustjacket; the flyleaf was
inscribed: _To Allan Hartley, from his father, on his thirteenth
birthday, 7/18 '45._ Glancing out the window at the foliage on the
trees, he estimated the date at late July or early August, 1945; that
would make him just thirteen.

His clothes were draped on a chair beside the bed. Stripping off his
pajamas, he donned shorts, then sat down and picked up a pair of
lemon-colored socks, which he regarded with disfavor. As he pulled one
on, a church bell began to clang. St. Boniface, up on the hill, ringing
for early Mass; so this was Sunday. He paused, the second sock in his
hand.

There was no question that his present environment was actual. Yet, on
the other hand, he possessed a set of memories completely at variance
with it. Now, suppose, since his environment were not an illusion,
everything else were? Suppose all these troublesome memories were no
more than a dream? Why, he was just little Allan Hartley, safe in his
room on a Sunday morning, badly scared by a nightmare! Too much science
fiction, Allan; too many comic books!

That was a wonderfully comforting thought, and he hugged it to him
contentedly. It lasted all the while he was buttoning up his shirt and
pulling on his pants, but when he reached for his shoes, it evaporated.
Ever since he had wakened, he realized, he had been occupied with
thoughts utterly incomprehensible to any thirteen-year-old; even
thinking in words that would have been so much Sanscrit to himself at
thirteen. He shook his head regretfully. The just-a-dream hypothesis
went by the deep six.

He picked up the second shoe and glared at it as though it were
responsible for his predicament. He was going to have to be careful. An
unexpected display of adult characteristics might give rise to some
questions he would find hard to answer credibly. Fortunately, he was an
only child; there would be no brothers or sisters to trip him up. Old
Mrs. Stauber, the housekeeper, wouldn't be much of a problem; even in
his normal childhood, he had bulked like an intellectual giant in
comparison to her. But his father--

Now, there the going would be tough. He knew that shrewd attorney's
mind, whetted keen on a generation of lying and reluctant witnesses.
Sooner or later, he would forget for an instant and betray himself. Then
he smiled, remembering the books he had discovered, in his late 'teens,
on his father's shelves and recalling the character of the openminded
agnostic lawyer. If he could only avoid the inevitable unmasking until
he had a plausible explanatory theory.

       *       *       *       *       *

Blake Hartley was leaving the bathroom as Allan Hartley opened his door
and stepped into the hall. The lawyer was bare-armed and in slippers; at
forty-eight, there was only a faint powdering of gray in his dark hair,
and not a gray thread in his clipped mustache. The old Merry Widower,
himself, Allan thought, grinning as he remembered the white-haired but
still vigorous man from whom he'd parted at the outbreak of the War.

"'Morning, Dad," he greeted.

"'Morning, son. You're up early. Going to Sunday school?"

Now there was the advantage of a father who'd cut his first intellectual
tooth on Tom Paine and Bob Ingersoll; attendance at divine services was
on a strictly voluntary basis.

"Why, I don't think so; I want to do some reading, this morning."

"That's always a good thing to do," Blake Hartley approved. "After
breakfast, suppose you take a walk down to the station and get me a
_Times_." He dug in his trouser pocket and came out with a half dollar.
"Get anything you want for yourself, while you're at it."

Allan thanked his father and pocketed the coin.

"Mrs. Stauber'll still be at Mass," he suggested. "Say I get the paper
now; breakfast won't be ready till she gets here."

"Good idea." Blake Hartley nodded, pleased. "You'll have three-quarters
of an hour, at least."

       *       *       *       *       *

So far, he congratulated himself, everything had gone smoothly.
Finishing his toilet, he went downstairs and onto the street, turning
left at Brandon to Campbell, and left again in the direction of the
station. Before he reached the underpass, a dozen half-forgotten
memories had revived. Here was a house that would, in a few years, be
gutted by fire. Here were four dwellings standing where he had last seen
a five-story apartment building. A gasoline station and a weed-grown lot
would shortly be replaced by a supermarket. The environs of the station
itself were a complete puzzle to him, until he oriented himself.

He bought a New York _Times_, glancing first of all at the date line.
Sunday, August 5, 1945; he'd estimated pretty closely. The battle of
Okinawa had been won. The Potsdam Conference had just ended. There were
still pictures of the B-25 crash against the Empire State Building, a
week ago Saturday. And Japan was still being pounded by bombs from the
air and shells from off-shore naval guns. Why, tomorrow, Hiroshima was
due for the Big Job! It amused him to reflect that he was probably the
only person in Williamsport who knew that.

On the way home, a boy, sitting on the top step of a front porch, hailed
him. Allan replied cordially, trying to remember who it was. Of course;
Larry Morton! He and Allan had been buddies. They probably had been
swimming, or playing Commandos and Germans, the afternoon before. Larry
had gone to Cornell the same year that Allan had gone to Penn State;
they had both graduated in 1954. Larry had gotten into some Government
bureau, and then he had married a Pittsburgh girl, and had become
twelfth vice-president of her father's firm. He had been killed, in
1968, in a plane crash.

"You gonna Sunday school?" Larry asked, mercifully unaware of the fate
Allan foresaw for him.

"Why, no. I have some things I want to do at home." He'd have to watch
himself. Larry would spot a difference quicker than any adult. "Heck
with it," he added.

"Golly, I wisht I c'ld stay home from Sunday school whenever I wanted
to," Larry envied. "How about us goin' swimmin', at the Canoe Club,
'safter?"

Allan thought fast. "Gee, I wisht I c'ld," he replied, lowering his
grammatical sights. "I gotta stay home, 'safter. We're expectin'
comp'ny; coupla aunts of mine. Dad wants me to stay home when they
come."

That went over all right. Anybody knew that there was no rational
accounting for the vagaries of the adult mind, and no appeal from adult
demands. The prospect of company at the Hartley home would keep Larry
away, that afternoon. He showed his disappointment.

"Aw, jeepers creepers!" he blasphemed euphemistically.

"Mebbe t'morrow," Allan said. "If I c'n make it. I gotta go, now; ain't
had breakfast yet." He scuffed his feet boyishly, exchanged so-longs
with his friend, and continued homeward.

       *       *       *       *       *

As he had hoped, the Sunday paper kept his father occupied at breakfast,
to the exclusion of any dangerous table talk. Blake Hartley was still
deep in the financial section when Allan left the table and went to the
library. There should be two books there to which he wanted badly to
refer. For a while, he was afraid that his father had not acquired them
prior to 1945, but he finally found them, and carried them onto the
front porch, along with a pencil and a ruled yellow scratch pad. In his
experienced future--or his past-to-come--Allan Hartley had been
accustomed to doing his thinking with a pencil. As reporter, as novelist
plotting his work, as amateur chemist in his home laboratory, as
scientific warfare research officer, his ideas had always been clarified
by making notes. He pushed a chair to the table and built up the seat
with cushions, wondering how soon he would become used to the
proportional disparity between himself and the furniture. As he opened
the books and took his pencil in his hand, there was one thing missing.
If he could only smoke a pipe, now!

His father came out and stretched in a wicker chair with the _Times_
book-review section. The morning hours passed. Allan Hartley leafed
through one book and then the other. His pencil moved rapidly at times;
at others, he doodled absently. There was no question, any more, in his
mind, as to what or who he was. He was Allan Hartley, a man of
forty-three, marooned in his own thirteen-year-old body, thirty years
back in his own past. That was, of course, against all common sense, but
he was easily able to ignore that objection. It had been made before:
against the astronomy of Copernicus, and the geography of Columbus, and
the biology of Darwin, and the industrial technology of Samuel Colt, and
the military doctrines of Charles de Gaulle. Today's common sense had a
habit of turning into tomorrow's utter nonsense. What he needed, right
now, but bad, was a theory that would explain what had happened to him.

Understanding was beginning to dawn when Mrs. Stauber came out to
announce midday dinner.

"I hope you von't mind haffin' it so early," she apologized. "Mein
sister, Jennie, offer in Nippenose, she iss sick; I vant to go see her,
dis afternoon, yet. I'll be back in blenty time to get supper, Mr.
Hartley."

"Hey, Dad!" Allan spoke up. "Why can't we get our own supper, and have a
picnic, like? That'd be fun, and Mrs. Stauber could stay as long as she
wanted to."

His father looked at him. Such consideration for others was a most
gratifying deviation from the juvenile norm; dawn of altruism, or
something. He gave hearty assent:

"Why, of course, Mrs. Stauber. Allan and I can shift for ourselves, this
evening; can't we, Allan? You needn't come back till tomorrow morning."

"_Ach_, t'ank you! T'ank you so mooch, Mr. Hartley."

At dinner, Allan got out from under the burden of conversation by
questioning his father about the War and luring him into a lengthy
dissertation on the difficulties of the forthcoming invasion of Japan.
In view of what he remembered of the next twenty-four hours, Allan was
secretly amused. His father was sure that the War would run on to
mid-1946.

After dinner, they returned to the porch, Hartley _père_ smoking a cigar
and carrying out several law books. He only glanced at these
occasionally; for the most part, he sat and blew smoke rings, and
watched them float away. Some thrice-guilty felon was about to be
triumphantly acquitted by a weeping jury; Allan could recognize a
courtroom masterpiece in the process of incubation.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was several hours later that the crunch of feet on the walk caused
father and son to look up simultaneously. The approaching visitor was a
tall man in a rumpled black suit; he had knobby wrists and big, awkward
hands; black hair flecked with gray, and a harsh, bigoted face. Allan
remembered him. Frank Gutchall. Lived on Campbell Street; a religious
fanatic, and some sort of lay preacher. Maybe he needed legal advice;
Allan could vaguely remember some incident--

"Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Gutchall. Lovely day, isn't it?" Blake Hartley
said.

Gutchall cleared his throat. "Mr. Hartley, I wonder if you could lend me
a gun and some bullets," he began, embarrassedly. "My little dog's been
hurt, and it's suffering something terrible. I want a gun, to put the
poor thing out of its pain."

"Why, yes; of course. How would a 20-gauge shotgun do?" Blake Hartley
asked. "You wouldn't want anything heavy."

Gutchall fidgeted. "Why, er, I was hoping you'd let me have a little
gun." He held his hands about six inches apart. "A pistol, that I could
put in my pocket. It wouldn't look right, to carry a hunting gun on the
Lord's day; people wouldn't understand that it was for a work of mercy."

The lawyer nodded. In view of Gutchall's religious beliefs, the
objection made sense.

"Well, I have a Colt .38-special," he said, "but you know, I belong to
this Auxiliary Police outfit. If I were called out for duty, this
evening, I'd need it. How soon could you bring it back?"

Something clicked in Allan Hartley's mind. He remembered, now, what that
incident had been. He knew, too, what he had to do.

"Dad, aren't there some cartridges left for the Luger?" he asked.

Blake Hartley snapped his fingers. "By George, yes! I have a German
automatic I can let you have, but I wish you'd bring it back as soon as
possible. I'll get it for you."

Before he could rise, Allan was on his feet.

"Sit still, Dad; I'll get it. I know where the cartridges are." With
that, he darted into the house and upstairs.

The Luger hung on the wall over his father's bed. Getting it down, he
dismounted it, working with rapid precision. He used the blade of his
pocketknife to unlock the endpiece of the breechblock, slipping out the
firing pin and buttoning it into his shirt pocket. Then he reassembled
the harmless pistol, and filled the clip with 9-millimeter cartridges
from the bureau drawer.

There was an extension telephone beside the bed. Finding Gutchall's
address in the directory, he lifted the telephone, and stretched his
handkerchief over the mouthpiece. Then he dialed Police Headquarters.

[Illustration]

"This is Blake Hartley," he lied, deepening his voice and copying his
father's tone. "Frank Gutchall, who lives at...take this down"--he gave
Gutchall's address--"has just borrowed a pistol from me, ostensibly to
shoot a dog. He has no dog. He intends shooting his wife. Don't argue
about how I know; there isn't time. Just take it for granted that I do.
I disabled the pistol--took out the firing pin--but if he finds out what
I did, he may get some other weapon. He's on his way home, but he's on
foot. If you hurry, you may get a man there before he arrives, and grab
him before he finds out the pistol won't shoot."

"O. K., Mr. Hartley. We'll take care of it. Thanks."

"And I wish you'd get my pistol back, as soon as you can. It's something
I brought home from the other War, and I shouldn't like to lose it."

"We'll take care of that, too. Thank you, Mr. Hartley."

He hung up, and carried the Luger and the loaded clip down to the porch.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Look, Mr. Gutchall; here's how it works," he said, showing it to the
visitor. Then he slapped in the clip and yanked up on the toggle loading
the chamber. "It's ready to shoot, now; this is the safety." He pushed
it on. "When you're ready to shoot, just shove it forward and up, and
then pull the trigger. You have to pull the trigger each time; it's
loaded for eight shots. And be sure to put the safety back when you're
through shooting."

"Did you load the chamber?" Blake Hartley demanded.

"Sure. It's on safe, now."

"Let me see." His father took the pistol, being careful to keep his
finger out of the trigger guard, and looked at it. "Yes, that's all
right." He repeated the instructions Allan had given, stressing the
importance of putting the safety on after using. "Understand how it
works, now?" he asked.

"Yes, I understand how it works. Thank you, Mr. Hartley. Thank you, too,
young man."

Gutchall put the Luger in his hip pocket, made sure it wouldn't fall
out, and took his departure.

"You shouldn't have loaded it," Hartley _père_ reproved, when he was
gone.

Allan sighed. This was it; the masquerade was over.

"I had to, to keep you from fooling with it," he said. "I didn't want
you finding out that I'd taken out the firing pin."

"You what?"

"Gutchall didn't want that gun to shoot a dog. He has no dog. He meant
to shoot his wife with it. He's a religious maniac; sees visions, hears
voices, receives revelations, talks with the Holy Ghost. The Holy Ghost
probably put him up to this caper. I'll submit that any man who holds
long conversations with the Deity isn't to be trusted with a gun, and
neither is any man who lies about why he wants one. And while I was at
it, I called the police, on the upstairs phone. I had to use your name;
I deepened my voice and talked through a handkerchief."

"You--" Blake Hartley jumped as though bee-stung. "Why did you have to
do that?"

"You know why. I couldn't have told them, 'This is little Allan Hartley,
just thirteen years old; please, Mr. Policeman, go and arrest Frank
Gutchall before he goes root-toot-toot at his wife with my pappa's
Luger.' That would have gone over big, now, wouldn't it?"

"And suppose he really wants to shoot a dog; what sort of a mess will I
be in?"

"No mess at all. If I'm wrong--which I'm not--I'll take the thump for
it, myself. It'll pass for a dumb kid trick, and nothing'll be done. But
if I'm right, you'll have to front for me. They'll keep your name out of
it, but they'd give me a lot of cheap boy-hero publicity, which I don't
want." He picked up his pencil again. "We should have the complete
returns in about twenty minutes."

       *       *       *       *       *

That was a ten-minute under-estimate, and it was another quarter-hour
before the detective-sergeant who returned the Luger had finished
congratulating Blake Hartley and giving him the thanks of the
Department. After he had gone, the lawyer picked up the Luger, withdrew
the clip, and ejected the round in the chamber.

"Well," he told his son, "you were right. You saved that woman's life."
He looked at the automatic, and then handed it across the table. "Now,
let's see you put that firing pin back."

Allan Hartley dismantled the weapon, inserted the missing part, and put
it together again, then snapped it experimentally and returned it to his
father. Blake Hartley looked at it again, and laid it on the table.

"Now, son, suppose we have a little talk," he said softly.

"But I explained everything." Allan objected innocently.

"You did not," his father retorted. "Yesterday you'd never have thought
of a trick like this; why, you wouldn't even have known how to take this
pistol apart. And at dinner, I caught you using language and expressing
ideas that were entirely outside anything you'd ever known before. Now,
I want to know--and I mean this literally."

Allan chuckled. "I hope you're not toying with the rather medieval
notion of obsession," he said.

Blake Hartley started. Something very like that must have been flitting
through his mind. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it
abruptly.

"The trouble is, I'm not sure you aren't right," his son continued. "You
say you find me--changed. When did you first notice a difference?"

"Last night, you were still my little boy. This morning--" Blake Hartley
was talking more to himself than to Allan. "I don't know. You were
unusually silent at breakfast. And come to think of it, there was
something ... something strange ... about you when I saw you in the
hall, upstairs.... Allan!" he burst out, vehemently. "What has happened
to you?"

Allan Hartley felt a twinge of pain. What his father was going through
was almost what he, himself, had endured, in the first few minutes after
waking.

"I wish I could be sure, myself, Dad," he said. "You see, when I woke,
this morning, I hadn't the least recollection of anything I'd done
yesterday. August 4, 1945, that is," he specified. "I was positively
convinced that I was a man of forty-three, and my last memory was of
lying on a stretcher, injured by a bomb explosion. And I was equally
convinced that this had happened in 1975."

"Huh?" His father straightened. "Did you say nineteen _seventy_-five?"
He thought for a moment. "That's right; in 1975, you will be
forty-three. A bomb, you say?"

Allan nodded. "During the siege of Buffalo, in the Third World War," he
said, "I was a captain in G5--Scientific Warfare, General Staff. There'd
been a transpolar air invasion of Canada, and I'd been sent to the front
to check on service failures of a new lubricating oil for combat
equipment. A week after I got there, Ottawa fell, and the retreat
started. We made a stand at Buffalo, and that was where I copped it. I
remember being picked up, and getting a narcotic injection. The next
thing I knew, I was in bed, upstairs, and it was 1945 again, and I was
back in my own little thirteen-year-old body."

"Oh, Allan, you just had a nightmare to end nightmares!" his father
assured him, laughing a trifle too heartily. "That's all!"

"That was one of the first things I thought of. I had to reject it; it
just wouldn't fit the facts. Look; a normal dream is part of the
dreamer's own physical brain, isn't it? Well, here is a part about two
thousand per cent greater than the whole from which it was taken. Which
is absurd."

"You mean all this Battle of Buffalo stuff? That's easy. All the radio
commentators have been harping on the horrors of World War III, and you
couldn't have avoided hearing some of it. You just have an undigested
chunk of H. V. Kaltenborn raising hell in your subconscious."

"It wasn't just World War III; it was everything. My four years at high
school, and my four years at Penn State, and my seven years as a
reporter on the Philadelphia Record. And my novels: '_Children of the
Mist_,' '_Rose of Death_,' '_Conqueror's Road_.' They were no kid stuff.
Why, yesterday I'd never even have thought of some of the ideas I used
in my detective stories, that I published under a _nom-de-plume_. And my
hobby, chemistry; I was pretty good at that. Patented a couple of
processes that made me as much money as my writing. You think a
thirteen-year-old just dreamed all that up? Or, here; you speak French,
don't you?" He switched languages and spoke at some length in good
conversational slang-spiced Parisian. "Too bad you don't speak Spanish,
too," he added, reverting to English. "Except for a Mexican accent you
could cut with a machete, I'm even better there than in French. And I
know some German, and a little Russian."

       *       *       *       *       *

Blake Hartley was staring at his son, stunned. It was some time before
he could make himself speak.

"I could barely keep up with you, in French," he admitted. "I can swear
that in the last thirteen years of your life, you had absolutely no
chance to learn it. All right; you lived till 1975, you say. Then, all
of a sudden, you found yourself back here, thirteen years old, in 1945.
I suppose you remember everything in between?" he asked. "Did you ever
read James Branch Cabell? Remember Florian de Puysange, in 'The High
Place'?"

"Yes. You find the same idea in 'Jurgen' too," Allan said. "You know,
I'm beginning to wonder if Cabell mightn't have known something he
didn't want to write."

"But it's impossible!" Blake Hartley hit the table with his hand, so
hard that the heavy pistol bounced. The loose round he had ejected from
the chamber toppled over and started to roll, falling off the edge. He
stooped and picked it up. "How can you go back, against time? And the
time you claim you came from doesn't exist, now; it hasn't happened
yet." He reached for the pistol magazine, to insert the cartridge, and
as he did, he saw the books in front of his son. "Dunne's 'Experiment
with Time,'" he commented. "And J. N. M. Tyrrell's 'Science and
Psychical Phenomena.' Are you trying to work out a theory?"

"Yes." It encouraged Allan to see that his father had unconsciously
adopted an adult-to-adult manner. "I think I'm getting somewhere, too.
You've read these books? Well, look, Dad; what's your attitude on
precognition? The ability of the human mind to exhibit real knowledge,
apart from logical inference, of future events? You think Dunne is
telling the truth about his experiences? Or that the cases in Tyrrell's
book are properly verified, and can't be explained away on the basis of
chance?"

Blake Hartley frowned. "I don't know," he confessed. "The evidence is
the sort that any court in the world would accept, if it concerned
ordinary, normal events. Especially the cases investigated by the
Society for Psychical Research: they _have_ been verified. But how can
anybody know of something that hasn't happened yet? If it hasn't
happened yet, it doesn't exist, and you can't have real knowledge of
something that has no real existence."

"Tyrrell discusses that dilemma, and doesn't dispose of it. I think I
can. If somebody has real knowledge of the future, then the future must
be available to the present mind. And if any moment other than the bare
present exists, then all time must be totally present; every moment must
be perpetually coexistent with every other moment," Allan said.

[Illustration]

"Yes. I think I see what you mean. That was Dunne's idea, wasn't it?"

"No. Dunne postulated an infinite series of time dimensions, the entire
extent of each being the bare present moment of the next. What I'm
postulating is the perpetual coexistence of every moment of time in this
dimension, just as every graduation on a yardstick exists equally with
every other graduation, but each at a different point in space."

"Well, as far as duration and sequence go, that's all right," the father
agreed. "But how about the 'Passage of Time'?"

"Well, time _does_ appear to pass. So does the landscape you see from a
moving car window. I'll suggest that both are illusions of the same
kind. We imagine time to be dynamic, because we've never viewed it from
a fixed point, but if it is totally present, then it must be static, and
in that case, we're moving through time."

"That seems all right. But what's your car window?"

"If all time is totally present, then you must exist simultaneously at
every moment along your individual life span," Allan said. "Your
physical body, and your mind, and all the thoughts contained in your
mind, each at its appropriate moment in sequence. But what is it that
exists only at the bare moment we think of as _now_?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Blake Hartley grinned. Already, he was accepting his small son as an
intellectual equal.

"Please, teacher; what?"

"Your consciousness. And don't say, 'What's that?' Teacher doesn't know.
But we're only conscious of one moment; the illusory now. This is 'now,'
and it was 'now' when you asked that question, and it'll be 'now' when I
stop talking, but each is a different moment. We imagine that all those
nows are rushing past us. Really, they're standing still, and our
consciousness is whizzing past them."

His father thought that over for some time. Then he sat up. "Hey!" he
cried, suddenly. "If some part of our ego is time-free and passes from
moment to moment, it must be extraphysical, because the physical body
exists at every moment through which the consciousness passes. And if
it's extraphysical, there's no reason whatever for assuming that it
passes out of existence when it reaches the moment of the death of the
body. Why, there's logical evidence for survival, independent of any
alleged spirit communication! You can toss out Patience Worth, and Mrs.
Osborne Leonard's Feda, and Sir Oliver Lodge's son, and Wilfred Brandon,
and all the other spirit-communicators, and you still have evidence."

"I hadn't thought of that," Allan confessed. "I think you're right.
Well, let's put that at the bottom of the agenda and get on with this
time business. You 'lose consciousness' as in sleep; where does your
consciousness go? I think it simply detaches from the moment at which
you go to sleep, and moves backward or forward along the line of
moment-sequence, to some prior or subsequent moment, attaching there."

"Well, why don't we know anything about that?" Blake Hartley asked. "It
never seems to happen. We go to sleep tonight, and it's always tomorrow
morning when we wake; never day-before-yesterday, or last month, or next
year."

"It never ... or almost never ... _seems_ to happen; you're right there.
Know why? Because if the consciousness goes forward, it attaches at a
moment when the physical brain contains memories of the previous,
consciously unexperienced, moment. You wake, remembering the evening
before, because that's the memory contained in your mind at that moment,
and back of it are memories of all the events in the interim. See?"

"Yes. But how about backward movement, like this experience of yours?"

"This experience of mine may not be unique, but I never heard of another
case like it. What usually happens is that the memories carried back by
the consciousness are buried in the subconscious mind. You know how
thick the wall between the subconscious and the conscious mind is. These
dreams of Dunne's, and the cases in Tyrrell's book, are leakage. That's
why precognitions are usually incomplete and distorted, and generally
trivial. The wonder isn't that good cases are so few; it's surprising
that there are any at all." Allan looked at the papers in front of him.
"I haven't begun to theorize about how I managed to remember everything.
It may have been the radiations from the bomb, or the effect of the
narcotic, or both together, or something at this end, or a combination
of all three. But the fact remains that my subconscious barrier didn't
function, and everything got through. So, you see, I am obsessed--by my
own future identity."

"And I'd been afraid that you'd been, well, taken-over by some ... some
outsider." Blake Hartley grinned weakly. "I don't mind admitting, Allan,
that what's happened has been a shock. But that other ... I just
couldn't have taken that."

       *       *       *       *       *

"No. Not and stayed sane. But really, I am your son; the same entity I
was yesterday. I've just had what you might call an educational short
cut."

"I'll say you have!" His father laughed in real amusement. He discovered
that his cigar had gone out, and re-lit it. "Here; if you can remember
the next thirty years, suppose you tell me when the War's going to end.
This one, I mean."

"The Japanese surrender will be announced at exactly 1901--7:01 P. M.
present style--on August 14. A week from Tuesday. Better make sure we
have plenty of grub in the house by then. Everything will be closed up
tight till Thursday morning; even the restaurants. I remember, we had
nothing to eat in the house but some scraps."

"Well! It is handy, having a prophet in the family! I'll see to it Mrs.
Stauber gets plenty of groceries in.... Tuesday a week? That's pretty
sudden, isn't it?"

"The Japs are going to think so," Allan replied. He went on to describe
what was going to happen.

His father swore softly. "You know, I've heard talk about atomic energy,
but I thought it was just Buck Rogers stuff. Was that the sort of bomb
that got you?"

"That was a firecracker to the bomb that got me. That thing exploded a
good ten miles away."

Blake Hartley whistled softly. "And that's going to happen in thirty
years! You know, son, if I were you, I wouldn't like to have to know
about a thing like that." He looked at Allan for a moment. "Please, if
you know, don't ever tell me when I'm going to die."

Allan smiled. "I can't. I had a letter from you just before I left for
the front. You were seventy-eight, then, and you were still hunting, and
fishing, and flying your own plane. But I'm not going to get killed in
any Battle of Buffalo, this time, and if I can prevent it, and I think I
can, there won't be any World War III."

"But--You say all time exists, perpetually coexistent and totally
present," his father said. "Then it's right there in front of you, and
you're getting closer to it, every watch tick."

Allan Hartley shook his head. "You know what I remembered, when Frank
Gutchall came to borrow a gun?" he asked. "Well, the other time, I
hadn't been home: I'd been swimming at the Canoe Club, with Larry
Morton. When I got home, about half an hour from now, I found the house
full of cops. Gutchall talked the .38 officers' model out of you, and
gone home; he'd shot his wife four times through the body, finished her
off with another one back of the ear, and then used his sixth shot to
blast his brains out. The cops traced the gun; they took a very poor
view of your lending it to him. You never got it back."

"Trust that gang to keep a good gun," the lawyer said.

"I didn't want us to lose it, this time, and I didn't want to see you
lose face around City Hall. Gutchalls, of course, are expendable," Allan
said. "But my main reason for fixing Frank Gutchall up with a padded
cell was that I wanted to know whether or not the future could be
altered. I have it on experimental authority that it can be. There must
be additional dimensions of time; lines of alternate probabilities.
Something like William Seabrook's witch-doctor friend's Fan-Shaped
_Destiny_. When I brought memories of the future back to the present, I
added certain factors to the causal chain. That set up an entirely new
line of probabilities. On no notice at all, I stopped a murder and a
suicide. With thirty years to work, I can stop a world war. I'll have
the means to do it, too."

"The means?"

"Unlimited wealth and influence. Here." Allan picked up a sheet and
handed it to his father. "Used properly, we can make two or three
million on that, alone. A list of all the Kentucky Derby, Preakness, and
Belmont winners to 1970. That'll furnish us primary capital. Then,
remember, I was something of a chemist. I took it up, originally, to get
background material for one of my detective stories; it fascinated me,
and I made it a hobby, and then a source of income. I'm thirty years
ahead of any chemist in the world, now. You remember _I. G.
Farbenindustrie_? Ten years from now, we'll make them look like pikers."

His father looked at the yellow sheet. "Assault, at eight to one," he
said. "I can scrape up about five thousand for that--Yes; in ten
years--Any other little operations you have in mind?" he asked.

"About 1950, we start building a political organization, here in
Pennsylvania. In 1960, I think we can elect you President. The world
situation will be crucial, by that time, and we had a good-natured
nonentity in the White House then, who let things go till war became
inevitable. I think President Hartley can be trusted to take a strong
line of policy. In the meantime, you can read Machiavelli."

"That's my little boy, talking!"

Blake Hartley said softly. "All right, son; I'll do just what you tell
me, and when you grow up, I'll be president.... Let's go get supper,
now."


THE END.





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