The End of Eternity (17 page)

Finge shouted when the report was done, “Now, then, go to the Council. I’ve put no block in Time. I wouldn’t know how. And don’t think they’re unconcerned about the matter. You said I spoke to Twissell yesterday. You’re right. But I didn’t call him; he called me. So go; ask Twissell. Tell them what an important Technician you are. And if you want to shoot me first; shoot and to Time with you.”

Harlan could not miss the actual exultation in the Computer’s voice. At that moment he obviously felt enough the victor to believe that even a neuronic whipping would leave him on the profit side of the ledger.

Why? Was the breaking of Harlan so dear to his heart? Was his jealousy over Noÿs so all-consuming a passion?

Harlan did scarcely more than formulate the questions in his mind, and then the whole matter, Finge and all, seemed suddenly meaningless to him.

He pocketed his weapon, whirled out the door, and toward the nearest kettle shaft.

It was the Council, then, or Twissell, at the very least. He was afraid of none of them, nor of all put together.

With each passing day of the last unbelievable month he had grown more convinced of his own indispensability. The Council, even the Allwhen Council itself, would have no choice but to come to terms when it was a choice of bartering one girl for the existence of all of Eternity.

It was with a dull surprise that Technician Andrew Harlan, on bursting into the 575th, found himself in the night shift. The passing of the physiohours had gone unnoticed during his wild streaks along the kettle shafts. He stared hollowly at the dimmed corridors, the occasional evidence of the thinned-out night force at work.

But in the continued grip of his rage Harlan did not pause long to watch uselessly. He turned toward personal quarters. He would find Twissell’s room on Computer Level as he had found Finge’s and he had as little fear of being noticed or stopped.

The neuronic whip was still hard against his elbow as he stopped before Twissell’s door (the nameplate upon it advertising the fact in clear, inlaid lettering).

Harlan activated the door signal brashly on the buzzer level. He shorted the contact with a damp palm and let the sound become continuous. He could hear it dimly.

A step sounded lightly behind him and he ignored it in the sure knowledge that the man, whoever he was, would ignore him. (Oh, rose-red Technician’s patch!)

But the sound of steps halted and a voice said, “Technician Harlan?”

Harlan whirled. It was a Junior Computer, relatively new to the Section. Harlan raged inwardly. This was not quite the 482nd. Here he was not merely a Technician, he was Twissell’s Technician, and the younger Computers, in their anxiety to ingratiate themselves with the great Twissell, would extend a minimum civility to his Technician.

The Computer said, “Do you wish to see Senior Computer Twissell?”

Harlan fidgeted and said, “Yes, sir.” (The fool! What did he think anyone would be standing signaling at a man’s door for? To catch a kettle?)

“I’m afraid you can’t,” said the Computer.

“This is important enough to wake him,” said Harlan.

“Maybe so,” said the other, “but he’s outwhen. He’s not in the 575th.”

“Exactly when is he, then?” asked Harlan impatiently.

The Computer’s glance became a supercilious stare. “I wouldn’t know.”

Harlan said, “But I have an important appointment first thing in the morning.”

“
You
have,” said the Computer, and Harlan was at a loss to account for his obvious amusement at the thought.

The Computer went on, even smiling now, “You’re a little early, aren’t you?”

“But I must see him.”

“I’m sure he’ll be here in the morning.” The smile broadened.

“But—”

The Computer passed by Harlan, carefully avoiding any contact, even of garments.

Harlan’s fists clenched and unclenched. He stared helplessly after the Computer and then, simply because there
was nothing else to do, he walked slowly, and without full consciousness of his surroundings, back to his own room.

Harlan slept fitfully. He told himself he needed sleep. He tried to relax by main force, and, of course, failed. His sleep period was a succession of futile thought.

First of all, there was Noÿs.

They would not dare harm her, he thought feverishly. They could not send her back to Time without first calculating the effect on Reality and that would take days, probably weeks. As an alternative, they might do to her what Finge had threatened for him; place her in the path of an untraceable accident.

He did not take that into serious consideration. There was no necessity for drastic action such as that. They would not risk Harlan’s displeasure by doing it. (In the quiet of a darkened sleeping room, and in that phase of half-sleep where things often grew queerly disproportionate in thought, Harlan found nothing grotesque in his sure opinion that the Allwhen Council would not dare risk a Technician’s displeasure.)

Of course, there were uses to which a woman in captivity might be put. A beautiful woman from a hedonistic Reality . . .

Resolutely Harlan put the thought away as often as it returned. It was at once more likely and more unthinkable than death, and he would have none of it.

He thought of Twissell.

The old man was out of the 575th. Where was he during hours when he should have been asleep? An old man needs his sleep. Harlan was sure of the answer. There were Council consultations going on. About Harlan. About Noÿs. About what to do with an indispensable Technician one dared not touch.

Harlan’s lips drew back. If Finge reported Harlan’s assault of that evening, it would not affect their considerations in the least. His crimes could scarcely be worsened by it. His indispensability would certainly not be lessened.

And Harlan was by no means certain that Finge
would
report him. To admit having been forced to cringe before a Technician would put an Assistant Computer in a ridiculous light, and Finge might not choose to do so.

Harlan thought of Technicians as a group, which, of late, he had done rarely. His own somewhat anomalous position as Twissell’s man and as half an Educator had kept him too far apart from other Technicians. But Technicians lacked solidarity anyway. Why should that be?

Did he have to go through the 575th and the 482nd rarely seeing or speaking to another Technician? Did they have to avoid even one another? Did they have to act as though they accepted the status into which the superstition of others forced them?

In his mind he had already forced the capitulation of the Council as far as Noÿs was concerned, and now he was making further demands. The Technicians were to be allowed an organization of their own, regular meetings—more friendship—better treatment from the others.

His final thought of himself was as a heroic social revolutionary, with Noÿs at his side, when he sank finally into a dreamless sleep. . . .

The door signal awoke him. It whispered at him with hoarse impatience. He collected his thoughts to the point of being able to look at the small clock beside his bed and groaned inwardly.

Father Time! After all that he had overslept.

He managed to reach the proper button from bed and the view-square high on the door grew transparent. He did
not recognize the face, but it carried authority whoever it was.

He opened the door and the man, wearing the orange patch of Administration, stepped in.

“Technician Andrew Harlan?”

“Yes, Administrator? You have business with me?”

The Administrator seemed in no wise discommoded at the sharp belligerence of the question. He said, “You have an appointment with Senior Computer Twissell?”

“Well?”

“I am here to inform you that you are late.”

Harlan stared at him. “What’s this all about? You’re not from the 575th, are you?”

“The 222nd is my station,” said the other frigidly. “Assistant Administrator Arbut Lemm. I’m in charge of the arrangements and I’m trying to avoid undue excitement by bypassing official notification over the Communiplate.”

“What arrangements? What excitement? What’s it all about? Listen, I’ve had conferences with Twissell before. He’s my superior. There’s no excitement involved.”

A look of surprise passed momentarily over the studious lack of expression the Administrator had so far kept on his face. “You haven’t been informed?”

“About what?”

“Why, that a subcommittee of the Allwhen Council is holding session here at the 575th. This place, I am told, has been alive with the news for hours.”

“And they want to see me?” As soon as he asked that, Harlan thought: Of course they want to see me. What else could the session be about but me?

And he understood the amusement of the Junior Computer last night outside Twissell’s room. The Computer knew of the projected committee meeting and it amused him to think that a Technician could possibly expect to see Twissell at a time like that. Very amusing, thought Harlan bitterly.

The Administrator said, “I have my orders. I know nothing more.” Then, still surprised, “You’ve heard nothing of this?”

“Technicians,” said Harlan sarcastically, “lead sheltered lives.”

Five besides Twissell! Senior Computers all, none less than thirty-five years an Eternal.

Six weeks earlier Harlan would have been overwhelmed by the honor of sitting at lunch with such a group, tongue-tied by the combination of responsibility and power they represented. They would have seemed twice life-size to him.

But now they were antagonists of his, worse still, judges. He had no time to be impressed. He had to plan his strategy.

They might not know that he was aware they had Noÿs. They could not know unless Finge told them of his last meeting with Harlan. In the clear light of day, however, he was more than ever convinced that Finge was not the man to broadcast publicly the fact that he had been browbeaten and insulted by a Technician.

It seemed advisable, then, for Harlan to nurse this possible advantage for the time being, to let
them
make the first move, say the first sentence that would join actual combat.

They seemed in no hurry. They stared at him placidly over an abstemious lunch as though he were an interesting specimen spread-eagled against a plane of force by mild repulsors. In desperation Harlan stared back.

He knew all of them by reputation and by trimensional reproduction in the physiomonthly orientation films. The films coordinated developments throughout the various Sections of Eternity and were required viewing for all Eternals with rating from Observer up.

August Sennor, the bald one (not even eyebrows or
eyelashes), of course attracted Harlan most. First, because the odd appearance of those dark, staring eyes against bare eyelids and forehead was remarkably greater in person than it had ever seemed in trimension. Second, because of his knowledge of past collisions of view between Sennor and Twissell. Finally, because Sennor did not confine himself to watching Harlan. He shot questions at him in a sharp voice.

For the most part his questions were unanswerable, such as: “How did you first come to be interested in Primitive times, young man?” “Do you find the study rewarding, young man?”

Finally, he seemed to settle himself in his seat. He pushed his plate casually onto the disposal chute and clasped his thick fingers lightly before him. (There was no hair on the back of the hands, Harlan noticed.)

Sennor said, “There is something I have always wanted to know. Perhaps you can help me.”

Harlan thought: All right, now, this is it.

Aloud he said, “If I can, sir.”

“Some of us here in Eternity—I won’t say all, or even enough” (and he cast a quick glance at Twissell’s tired face, while the others drew closer to listen) “but some, at any rate—are interested in the philosophy of Time. Perhaps you know what I mean.”

“The paradoxes of Time-travel, sir?”

“Well, if you want to put it melodramatically, yes. But that’s not all, of course. There is the question of the true nature of Reality, the question of the conservation of mass-energy during Reality Change and so on. Now we in Eternity are influenced in our consideration of such things by knowing the facts of Time-travel. Your creatures of the Primitive era, however, knew nothing of Time-travel. What were
their
views on the matter?”

Twissell’s whisper carried the length of the table. “Cobwebs!”

But Sennor ignored that. He said, “Would you answer my question, Technician?”

Harlan said, “The Primitives gave virtually no thought to Time-travel, Computer.”

“Did not consider it possible, eh?”

“I believe that’s right.”

“Did not even speculate?”

“Well, as to that,” said Harlan uncertainly, “I believe there were speculations of sorts in some types of escape literature. I am not well acquainted with these, but I believe a recurrent theme was that of the man who returned in Time to kill his own grandfather as a child.”

Sennor seemed delighted. “Wonderful! Wonderful! After all, that is at least an expression of the basic paradox of Time-travel, if we assume an indeviant Reality, eh? Now your Primitives, I’ll venture to state, never assumed anything
but
an indeviant Reality. Am I right?”

Harlan waited to answer. He did not see where the conversation was aiming or what Sennor’s deeper purposes were, and it unnerved him. He said, “I don’t know enough to answer you with certainty, sir. I believe there may have been speculations as to alternate paths of time or planes of existence. I don’t know.”

Sennor thrust out a lower lip. “I’m sure you’re wrong. You may have been misled by reading your own knowledge into various ambiguities you may have come across. No, without actual experience of Time-travel, the philosophic intricacies of Reality would be quite beyond the human mind. For instance, why does Reality possess inertia? We all know that it does. Any alteration in its flow must reach a certain magnitude before a Change, a true Change, is effected. Even then, Reality has a tendency to flow back to its original position.