tantaliz (35 page)

"Now wait a minute! I've been there before," Gansy said. "Why send me? I've already told you what it's like."

"Perhaps we would like you to tell us again," Mr. Ciano silkily replied. "To personally show us how it works."

"Huh? Look . . ." Gansy took in the circle of faces. "Be reasonable, I've been already. I know it's all right. What's the point of me going again? What'll it prove?"

"We wish to witness the sequence, the procedure. I think you might satisfactorily play this role."

Gansy's hands fussed at his belt. "I don't see it. It would be better for Seffan to ... to check. You can take my word for it—you've got that already. It. . . needs somebody else."

"We're not calling you a liar, Mr. Gansy," Mr. Ciano reproved him. "We believe you. Why be so troubled about going again? It will only be for a few hours."

Gansy wiped at his face. "It doesn't make sense." He smiled weakly. "
I've
been. It'd be better for someone else to go." He appealed to Dr. Leigher. "Wouldn't it be more logical for . . . for Carl, or Seffan to go? I mean. . ."

"I couldn't care less, quite frankly," Leigher informed him crisply. "You can sort it out amongst yourselves. And when you have decided you can let me know."

Gansy did a re-take of his "friends." "Well," he wasn't really happy, but he gave in, "I think it's crazy. But if that's the way you want it, it's O.K. by me. But," he made a firm stand, "I'm taking no poison."

"But you must," Mr. Ciano said pleasantly. "It guarantees your safe return."

"I don't need it!" Gansy began to pop sweat all over again at the thought of what he was doing. "I... I came back last time, didn't I? It doesn't affect me. I don't
want
to stay in the past"

"In that case to come back for the antidote will put little strain on your wishes, even should you meet a fair damsel," Mr. Ciano observed. "It is an innocent precaution against temptation—for your own security. I don't see that you can have any objection."

"I refuse to take poison!" Gansy said loudly.

There came disagreeable
cluck-snack
noises from a couple of handguns in the room, and Mr. Ciano's henchmen eased out to give Gansy meaningful attention.

Gansy slowly rubbed his hands over his hip pockets. "No," he protested feebly. "No."

But he was outvoted.

The recall outfit was a light metallic band that fitted over the forehead, with leads trailing to a button-signaler strapped tightly to the chest A few more leads led to thin metallic anklets. The unfortunate Gansy was ready to be positioned in the space/time-transposer chamber.

The polarity is important," Leigher was saying. The frequency differential between the composition of these metals is known, and is unique. They don't look much, perhaps, but they form the identity location marker in time and space." He took Gansy's elbow. "Come."

They stepped into the tubular chamber. Gansy shone with perspiration.

"Now. In the center, near enough. Feet together, stand upright The distance between the contact bands is important," Leigher explained to his audience. "Around the ankles below, or even worn stirrup-fashion. And on the head worn," he smiled bleakly, "like a laurel wreath. The distance between the two is vital. On no account, when being sent or recalled, should one set, or the other, be held in the hands. And neither should the body be bent in a position to bring the head and feet closer together. This would foreshorten the field, with possibly disastrous results. No one seems to have tried it so far, and it is not recommended that anyone do so.

"These bands are tougher than they look, and collapse to quite a small package that can be carried in a pocket with no inconvenience. This," Leigher pointed to the small matchbox-size button-box, "is the recall signaler. On arriving at the destination, open the front and press the button once. This will indicate intact arrival, and that circumstances are satisfactory. Pressing the button twice will indicate that the time and/or place of arrival is inopportune, at which the traveler may be immediately carried forward to another date and alternative venue.

"After arriving satisfactorily, the double signal may be employed in order to jump from one week to the next. But if more than three such jumps are attempted, there will be an extra fee to pay, and the fourth double signal will be interpreted as a triple signal—the recall advice."

Critically Leigher looked Gansy over, and found everything wanting but his equipment "To press the button three times in succession is the triple signal that requests recall. Be sure that the bands are in place and that the bodily stance is that of one standing at attention—thus to keep well within the bounds of safety. That way there is nothing to fear."

Leigher produced a small oxygen mask, gave it to Gansy who, without enthusiasm, tied it over his nose and mouth.

There is some risk of breathlessness on the journey, although it doesn't take long in subjective time. To counter this there is this mask and miniature oxy-tube, which is more than adequate to serve its purpose. It is not absolutely essential, and if it gets lost, recall without it should not be a serious threat. Everything is here to resuscitate the needy in the unlikely event that a mishap should occur."

"Right, Mr. Gansy, you are ready? Good. Come, gentlemen, stand clear of the chamber, please."

Leigher moved out and over to his console. With its cover removed, it was a gleamingly impressive long, low computerlike instrumentation. Leigher threw switches, and a light bleeped red-red-red. He scanned his illuminated inlay chart of the counties in South-east England, brought in a blowup of North Middlesex.
Flick, flick, tuck, tock, tock, tock
. Unhesitating, efficient, sure of himself. In went the main power gate.

Sss-sook
. The curved door to the transposer-chamber slid closed, shutting off Gansy's damp and rigidly upright figure, and from somewhere came a hum that rose to become hard for human ears to bear.

Leigher was absorbed in his function, checking this dial and that, making an adjustment here, moderating there, flicking switches, closing a second power gate. He raised his eyes and screwed around to regard the festoon of insulators and boosters worn like a crown by the high dome of the chamber. He saw the flash, the confirming trigger, and he closed the major circuit

There was a
bang
that made everybody but Leigher jump, and the humming dropped sharply to become a steady purr.

Mr. Ciano gawked at the time-indicator that he had found, saw the day-wheel become a blur, the month-indicator nipping by, the year slot jitter to: 1948 — 1947 — 1946 — 45 — 44 — 43 — 42 — 41 —, faster and faster, in seconds to become a blank shimmering with speed.

Leigher had half his attention on the Southern Counties map, bringing a small bright dot to the north of Middlesex, cutting to the blowup again, timing a dial with one hand, sliding a knob through a gradated slot with the other, keeping an eye on the pre-selector, quick of movement, certain.

The date-recorder slowed, slowed, rapidly — 1683 — 1682 — December — November — October — September — August — 22 — 21 — 20 — 19 —18 — 17 — 16 —. . .

Leigher's hands flew,
click, tuck, tuck, poomp, poomp
. August 3rd crept over to become August 2nd. Moments hung poised. Leigher slammed over a lever. His eyes went to a thick and oddly coiled aerial at the back of the console. Its tip burst into a bright orange glow. Once. Twice.

"Damn!" Leigher re-opened the channel, re-tuned the locator, made fresh adjustments.

Mr. Ciano saw the date revolve—August 3rd, 4th, 5th, through to 10th. Again Leigher slammed the lever to positive.

He watched for the orange light It came. Once.

"Ah." Leigher relaxed. "Good." He went over his bank of buttons, cutting-out, locking-on, setting the recall on auto.

Sssss-sook
, the curved door of the transposer-chamber slid open.

Seffan went over to take a look. There was a peculiar smell. There was no sign of Gansy. Seffan felt his skin prickle. It was queer. He shook off the feeling and went over to listen-in on some of the technical data that Mr. Ciano was gleaning from Leigher.

Gansy got mud on his shoes. His feet were soaking wet and even his pants cuffs were soggy. Mud. He'd get it on the rest of his clothes. He swore silently to himself. He didn't like this poison-antidote business. If something went wrong . . . He didn't entirely trust Leigher.

Four whole hours poking around—what was he supposed to do? This coat he'd got was not a very good fit. Still it was better than nothing—this place was like a freezer. He looked about him. What a great century to be in. Anything was possible here. These people would believe anything. There was a fortune to be made.

Four hours. Not much longer. Four. Old Ciano worried him. It
would
have been nice not to have to show up to see
him
again. Dr. Leigher could have him. For keeps.

Gansy squirmed his toes. He'd have to get back shortly.

"You can see what straits I'm under." Leigher had mellowed somewhat, had his guests drinking coffee from assorted not-very-hygienic drinking vessels. "By the time my initial, ah, appropriations came to an end, the bulk of my work here was finished— that is to say, the installation. But lately lack of funds has been most aggravating. There is equipment I need in order to bring about refinements, and I must admit that I'm glad to see some real cash at last The other fellows that have been here seemed to think this place was a free soup kitchen. Promises, nothing but promises."

"Who were they?" Mr. Ciano inquired. "Do you remember their names?"

"I have a list somewhere," Leigher said. "I can't remember them all. William Clayfield, I think, and, uh, Sydney Finebaum was one. And then there was a fellow called Gatniche, and, ah, that escaped prisoner, what was his name? Felch? Or Velch?"

"Sidney Winebaum?" Mr. Ciano was surprised. "So this is where he's been!"

"Mr. Winebaum? Yes. I did a special routing for him, to pre-Revolution France." Leigher curled a disdainful hp. "My reward for my services was those two Louis XIV chairs over there."

"And Willy The Chopper," Carl asked, "what happened to him?"

"Willy The Who?"

"Clayfield, Willy Clayfield. Where did he go?"

"Oh, yes, him. He was the one that wanted a hiding place. Till the, ah, "heat was off, was the way he put it I think."

"What about his roll, did he take that with him?"

"He
did
have a bag with him. He was one of the few who gave me some recompense. He swore on oath that he would return in a couple of weeks and pay me the balance, but he never did."

"Where did he go?"

"To somewhere around 1350. He's still there."

"Tell me," Mr. Ciano said, "I've been thinking—why do we have to wait the time here the same time that a person has there? Like Gansy, why can't you just pick him up four hours ahead and bring him straight back?"

"I don't know," Leigher confessed. "It's one of the problems I'm working on. It would seem simple, but there is an unavoidable and inseparable relationship between the passage of subjective time for the transposer and for its user. Thus, to enjoy four hours there means to wait four hours here. This is one thing I wish to research further. Another is to obtain greater precision that I might not merely strike the correct month in the right year, but the very exact right minute upon a certain defined day. And in exactly the right place."

Leigher's eyes began to glow. "I need a lot more autocontrols and relays. And I need fully variable wall charts of the entire world, with a delineation-enlarger capacity that any point may be brought to at least one-to-ten, with full gravitational compensation and terrain evaluation, with the known characteristics at any period."

"The possibilities are tremendous, Mr. Ciano." Leigher for a moment had the shining vision before his eyes. He had the radiance of a dedicated fanatic. "A man could see the last stone being placed upon the pyramids, stand on the heights and see Rome burn, watch the Huns sacking and looting, see Michelangelo himself put the finishing touches to his David, see the Battle of Waterloo, see Prince Ferdinand assassinated. So many things, to be there, to see the things that made history! On the spot, authentic, no time wasted! To be there, just for the few minutes!"

Leigher paused, his face flushed, his glasses full of eyes.

There was an impressive silence.

Leigher became aware that they were all looking at him in the same strange manner. His radiance faded and died, and his face reverted to its acid cast.

Seffan sipped his dubious coffee. "Sounds like it could be a sound commercial proposition," he said.

Ssss-sook
, the chamber door closed. The orange light pulsed one-two-three. Five seconds. One-two-three—Five seconds. One-two-three—

Leigher went to the console, busied himself verifying that the auto-recall cycle was perfect. The date began to climb: 1690— 1691-1692-93-94-

The constant hum that had been with them again began to rise in pitch. The high whine sang inside their skulls and squinched their eyes . . . then mercifully descended the scale, like a jet engine being throttled back.

The sound died to a low throb, a green flasher ticked. All eyes turned to the chamber door.

Flash, flash, flash. The suspense mounted as they waited for the door to open.

A long minute went by. A second minute started.

"What's going on?" Mr. Ciano cried. "Why doesn't it open up?"

"When going back into the past, arriving at a precise second is not essential," Leigher said, "but on recall it is vital to connect with the exact split second of present time. To be out of phase causes disturbance. It is something like an elevator slowing to match floor levels. Ah!" Sssss-sdok. The door opened.

Gansy tore off his face mask. He looked relieved. He couldn't limp out of the chamber fast enough. "The antidote, give me the antidote. I'm getting dizzy."

They gave Gansy a Louis XIV chair, and he slumped into it Dr. Leigher calmly prepared the hypodermic.