H L Gold (ed), page 7
“I see, I guess,” Joggy whispered. “But if the hole works for light, why can’t the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world?”
“Why—er—you see, Joggy—”
The interpreter took over. “The holes are one-way for light, but no-way for matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked toward you, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on the opposite side of the bubble it would be obvious that he had walked away along the vista down which they are peering.”
As if to provide an example, a figure suddenly materialized on their side of the bubble. The wolflike dogs bared their fangs. For an instant, there was only an eerie, distorted, rapidly growing silhouette, changing from blood-red to black as the boundary of the bubble cross-sectioned the intruding figure. Then they recognized the back of another long-haired warrior and realized that the audience on the other side of the bubble had probably seen him approaching for some time.
He bowed to the hooded figure and handed him a small bag.
“More atavistic cubs, big and littlel Hold still, Cynthia,” a new voice cut in.
Hal turned and saw that two cold-eyed girls had been ushered into the cubicle. One was wiping her close-cropped hair with one hand while mopping a green stain from her friend’s back with the other.
Hal nudged Joggy and whispered: “Butch!”
But Joggy was still hypnotized by the Time Bubble.
“Then how is it, Hal,” he asked, “that light comes out of the bubble, if the people don’t? What I mean is, if one of the people walks toward us, he shrinks to a red blot and disappears. Why doesn’t the light coming our way disappear, too?”
“Well—you see, Joggy, it isn’t real light. It’s—”
Once more the interpreter helped him out.
“The light that comes from the bubble is an isotope. Like atoms of one element, photons of a single frequency also have isotopes. It’s more than a matter of polarization. One of these isotopes of light tends to leak futureward through holes in space-time. Most of the light goes down the vistas visible to the other side of the audience. But one isotope is diverted through the walls of the bubble into the Time Theater. Perhaps, because of the intense darkness of the theater, you haven’t realized how dimly lit the scene is. That’s because we’re getting only a single isotope of the original light. Incidentally, no isotopes have been discovered that leak past-ward, though attempts are being made to synthesize them.” “Oh, explanationsl” murmured one of the newly arrived girls. “The cubs are always angling for them. Apple-pol-ishers!”
“I like this show,” a familiar voice announced serenely. “They cut anybody yet with those choppers?”
Hal looked down beside him. “ButchI How did you manage to get in?”
“I don’t see any blood. Where’s the bodies?”
“But how did you get in—Butcher?”
The Butcher replied airily: “A red-headed man talked to me and said it certainly was sad for a future dictator not to be able to enjoy scenes of carnage in his youth, so I told him I’d been inside the Time Theater and just come out to get a drink of water and go to the eliminator, but then my sprained ankle had got worse—I kind of tried to get up and fell down again—so he picked me up and carried me right through the usher.”
“Butcher, that wasn’t honest,” Hal said a little worriedly. “You tricked him into thinking you were older and his brain waves blanketed yours, going through the usher. I really have heard it’s dangerous for you under-fives to be in here.”
“The way those cubs beg for babying and get itl” one of the girls commented. “Talk about sex favoritism!” She and her companion withdrew to the far end of the cubicle.
The Butcher grinned at them briefly and concentrated his attention on the scene in the Time Bubble.
“Those big dogs—” he began suddenly. “Brute must have smelled ’em.”
“Don’t be silly,” Hal said. “Smells can’t come out of the Time Bubble. Smells haven’t any isotopes and—”
“I don’t care,” the Butcher asserted. “I bet somebody’ll figure out someday how to use the bubble for time traveling.”
“You can’t travel in a point of view,” Hal contradicted, “and that’s all the bubble is. Besides, some scientists think the bubble isn’t real at all, but a—uh—”
“I believe,” the interpreter cut in smoothly, “that you’re thinking of the theory that the Time Bubble operates by hyper-memory. Some scientists would have us believe that all memory is time traveling and that the basic location of the bubble is not space-time at all, but ever-present eternity. Some of them go so far as to state that it is only a mental inability that prevents the Time Bubble from being used for time traveling—just as it may be a similar disability that keeps a robot with the same or even more scopeful memories from being a real man or animal.
“It is because of this minority theory that under-age individuals and other beings with impulsive mentalities are barred from the Time Theater. But do not be alarmed. Even if the minority theory should prove true—and no evidence for it has ever appeared—there are automatically operating safeguards to protect the audience from any harmful consequences of time traveling (almost certainly impossible, remember) in either direction.”
“Sissies!” was the Butcher’s comment.
“You’re rather young to be here, aren’t you?” the interpreter inquired.
The Butcher folded his arms and scowled.
The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through a quarter-million microtapes. “Well, you wouldn’t have got in unless a qualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself.”
There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubble had acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking up their swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back, revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to be looking straight out of the bubble at the future.
“This is getting good,” the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge of his seat.
“Stop being an impulsive mentality,” Hal warned him a little nervously.
“Hah!”
The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud of smoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand waved wildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. The warriors stared uncompre-hendingly, which seemed to exasperate the sorcerer.
“That’s right,” the Butcher approved loudly. “Sock it to
I »»
eml
“Butcher!” Hal admonished.
Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shone forth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down.
“A viewing anomaly has occurred,” the interpreter announced. “It may be necessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period.”
In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushed at one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment he must cross-section.
“Attaboy!” the Butcher encouraged.
Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward the shadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs.
“Oh, boy!" the Butcher cheered in ecstasy.
“Butcher, you’ve done it!” Hal said, aghast.
“I sure did,” the Butcher agreed blandly, “but that old guy in the bubble helped me. Must take two to work it.”
“Keep your seats!” the interpreter said loudly. “We are energizing the safeguards!”
The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after the one who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about, pushing them in his direction.
Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emerged from the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth.
“The safeguards are now energized,” the interpreter said.
A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front row of the audience.
The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant step forward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over his left shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in his right hand.
“I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!” the interpreter enjoined.
In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but the Butcher yelled a “Hey!” of disapproval, snatched up something from the floor, and darted out through the sphincter.
Here and there in the audience other adults stood up. The emerged warriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Between their legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled. Then the warriors began to fan out.
“There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards,” the interpreter said. “Please be patient.”
At that moment the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing a levitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. At his heels five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilization voice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: “Hey, you! You quit that!”
The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake to quiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple his sword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range. Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc.
Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staring at him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisible an arm’s length above the gnome-like creature’s head. The warrior backed a step.
The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat and digging for something in his pocket. But he didn’t stay quiet. “Sic ’em, Brute!” he shrilled. “Sic ’em, Darter! Sic ’em, Pinkie and Whitie and Blue!” Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth.
Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselves forward and closed with the warrior’s wolflike dogs. At the first encounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, and tossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. But then Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight—and suddenly the face of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked and touched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror.
The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. But already the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter had the advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so many foxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninj clamped on a throat, that throat was tom out.
Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all the warriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully. That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, hand clenching the levitator above his head.
“Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady!”
The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately, a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher.
“We are working to energize the safeguards,” the interpreter said in mechanical panic. “Remain patient and in your seats.”
The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur than flesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. They came yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior’s ankle. He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out a screech.
Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which the Butcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drew back, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs. At their leader’s screech, they broke and plunged back into the Time Bubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wasted no time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, and no repulsor field stayed them.
“Brute, come back!” the Butcher yelled.
The gray uninj let go his hold on the leader’s ankle and scampered out of the Time Bubble, which swiftly dimmed to its original light intensity and then winked out.
For once in their very mature lives, all of the adults in the auditorium began to jabber at each other simultaneously.
“We are sorry, but the anomaly has made it necessary to collapse the Time Bubble,” the interpreter said. “There will be no viewing until further announcement. Thank you for your patience.”
Hal and Joggy caught up with the Butcher just as Brute jumped into his arms and the woman in gold picked him up' and hugged him fiercely. The Butcher started to pull away, then grudgingly submitted.
“Cubs!” came a small cold voice from behind Hal and Joggy. “Always playing hero! Say, what’s that awful smell, Cynthia? It must have come from those dirty past men.”
Hal and Joggy were shouting at the Butcher, but he wasn’t listening to them or to the older voices clamoring about “revised theories of reality” and other important things. He didn’t even squirm as Brute licked his cheek and the woman in gold planted a big kiss practically on his mouth.
He smiled dreamily and stroked Brute’s muzzle and murmured softly: “We came, we saw, we conquered, didn’t we, Brute?”
Help! I Am Dr. Morris Goldpepper
BY AVRAM DAVIDSON
Physicists and engineers cant help—only my colleagues can bridge the interstellar cavity to yank me out of my aching plight!
Four of the men, Weinroth, McAllister, Danbourge, and Smith, sat at the table under the cold blue lighting tubes. One of them, Rorke, was in a corner speaking quietly into a telephone, and one, Fadderman, stood staring out the window at the lights of the city. One, Hansen, had yet to arrive.
Fadderman spoke without turning his head. He was the oldest of those present—the Big Seven, as they were often called.
“Lights,” he said. “So many lights. Down here.” He waved his hand toward the city. “Up there.” He gestured toward the sky. “Even with our much-vaunted knowledge, what,” he asked, “do we know?” He turned his head. “Perhaps this is too big for us. In the light of the problem, can we really hope to accomplish anything?”
Heavy-set Danbourge frowned grimly. “We have received the suffrage of our fellow scientists, Doctor. We can but try.” Lithe, handsome McAllister, the youngest officer of the Association, nodded. “The problem is certainly not greater than that which faced our late, great colleague, the immortal Morton.” He pointed to a picture on the paneled wall. “And we all know what he accomplished.”
Fadderman went over and took his hand. “Your words fill me with courage.”
McAllister flushed with pleasure.
“I am an old man,” Fadderman added falteringly. “Forgive my lack of spirit, Doctor.” He sat down, sighed, shook
Tiis head slowly. Weinroth, burly and red-haired, patted him gently on the back. Natty, silvery-haired little Smith smiled at him consolingly.
A buzzer sounded. Rorke hung up the telephone, flipped a switch on the wall intercom. "Headquarters here,” he said crisply.
“Dr. Carl T. Hansen has arrived,” a voice informed him. “Bring him up at once,” he directed. “And, Nickerson—” “Yes, Dr. Rorke?”
“Let no one else into the building. No one.”
They sat in silence. After a moment or two, they heard the approach of the elevator, heard the doors slide open, slide shut, heard the elevator descend. Heavy, steady footsteps approached; knuckles rapped on the opaque glass door.
Rorke went over to the door, said, “A conscientious and diligent scientist—”
“—must remain a continual student,” a deep voice finished the quotation.
Rorke unlocked the door, peered out into the corridor, admitted Hansen, locked the door.
“I would have been here sooner, but another emergency interposed,” Hansen said. “A certain political figure—ethics prevent my being more specific—suffered an oral hemorrhage following an altercation with a woman who shall be nameless, but, boy, did she pack a wallop! A so-called Specialist, gentlemen, with offices on Park Avenue, had been, as he called it, ‘applying pressure’ with a gauze pad. I merely used a little Gelfoam as a coagulant agent and the hemorrhage stopped almost at once. When will the public learn, eh, gentlemen?” Faint smiles played upon the faces of the assembled scientists. Hansen took his seat. Rorke bent down and lifted two tape-recording devices to the table, set them both in motion. The faces of the men became serious, grim.
“This is an emergency session of the Steering Committee of the Executive Committee of the American Dental Association,” Rorke said, “called to discuss measures of dealing with the case of Dr. Morris Goldpepper. One tape will be deposited in the vaults of the Chase Manhattan Bank in New York; the other will be similarly secured in the vaults of the Wells Fargo and Union Trust Company Bank in San Francisco. Present at this session are Doctors Rorke, Weinroth and Smith—President, First and Second Vice-presidents, respectively—Fadderman, Past President, McAllister, Public Information, Danbourge, Legal, and Hansen, Policy.”
He looked around at the set, tense faces.
“Doctors,” he went on, “I think I may well say that humanity is, as of this moment, face to face with a great danger, and it is a bitter jest that it is not to the engineers or the astronomers, not to medicine nor yet to nuclear nor any other kind of physics, that humanity must now look for salvation—but to the members of the dental profession!”
His voice rose. “Yes—to the practitioners of what has become perhaps the least regarded of all the learned sciencesl It is indeed ironical. We may at this juncture consider the comments of the now deceased Professor Earnest Hooton, the Harvard anthropologist, who observed with a sorrow which did him credit that his famed University, instead of assisting its Dental School as it ought, treated it—and I quote his exact words—‘Like a yellow dog.’ ” His voice trembled.
McAllister’s clean-cut face flushed an angry red. Weinroth growled. Danbourge’s fist hit the table and stayed there, clenched. Fadderman gave a soft, broken sigh.
