The End of Eternity (6 page)

So even while Harlan bent before the force of the angry blast that struck him, he had room in his mind to be amazed at the fact that Twissell could display anger. He wondered if Twissell would be mortified in some calmer aftermath to realize that his hand-computer heart had betrayed him by exposing itself as only a poor thing of muscle and valves subject to the twists of emotion.

Twissell said, in part, his old voice creaking, “Father Time, boy, are you on the Allwhen Council? Do you give the orders around here? Do you tell me what to do or do I tell you what to do? Are you making arrangements for all kettle trips now?”

He interrupted himself with occasional exclamations of “Answer me,” then continued pouring more questions into the boiling interrogative caldron.

He said finally, “If you ever get above yourself this way
again, I’ll have you on plumbing repair and for good. Do you understand me?”

Harlan, pale with his own gathering embarrassment, said, “I was never told that Cub Cooper was not to be taken on the kettle.”

The explanation did not act as an emollient. “What kind of an excuse is a double negative, boy? You were never told not to get him drunk. You were never told not to shave him bald. You were never told not to skewer him with a fine-edged Tav curve. Father Time, boy, what
were
you told to do with him?”

“I was told to teach him Primitive history.”

“Then do so. Do nothing more than that.” Twissell dropped his cigarette and ground it savagely underfoot as though it were the face of a lifelong enemy.

“I’d like to point out, Computer,” said Harlan, “that many Centuries under the current Reality somewhat resemble specific eras of Primitive history in one or more respects. It had been my intention to take him out to those Times, under careful spatio-temporal charting, of course, as a form of field trip.”

“What? Listen, you chucklehead, don’t you ever intend to ask my permission for
anything
? That’s out. Just teach him Primitive history. No field trips. No laboratory experiments, either. Next you’ll be changing Reality just to show him how.”

Harlan licked his dry lips with a dry tongue, muttered a resentful acquiescence, and, eventually, was allowed to leave.

It took weeks for his hurt feelings to heal over somewhat.

Harlan had been two years a Technician when he reentered the 482nd for the first time since leaving with Twissell. He found it almost unrecognizable.

It had not changed. He had.

Two years of Technicianhood had meant a number of things. In one sense it had increased his feeling of stability. He had no longer to learn a new language, get used to new styles of clothing and new ways of life with every new Observation project. On the other hand, it had resulted in a withdrawal on his own part. He had almost forgotten now the camaraderie that united all the rest of the Specialists in Eternity.

Most of all, he had developed the feeling of the
power
of being a Technician. He held the fate of millions in his fingertips, and if one must walk lonely because of it, one could also walk proudly.

So he could stare coldly at the Communications man behind the entry desk of the 482nd and announce himself in clipped syllables: “Andrew Harlan, Technician, reporting to Computer Finge for temporary assignment to the 482nd,” disregarding the quick glance from the middle-aged man he faced.

It was what some people called the “Technician glance,” a quick, involuntary sidelong peek at the rose-red shoulder emblem of the Technician, then an elaborate attempt not to look at it again.

Harlan stared at the other’s shoulder emblem. It was not the yellow of the Computer, the green of the Life-Plotter, the blue of the Sociologist, or the white of the Observer. It was not the Specialist’s solid color at all. It was simply a blue bar on white. The man was Communications, a subbranch of Maintenance, not a Specialist at all.

And
he
gave the “Technician glance” too.

Harlan said a little sadly, “Well?”

Communications said quickly, “I’m ringing Computer Finge, sir.”

Harlan remembered the 482nd as solid and massive, but now it seemed almost squalid.

Harlan had grown used to the glass and porcelain of the 575th, to its fetish of cleanliness. He had grown accustomed to a world of whiteness and clarity, broken by sparse patches of light pastel.

The heavy plaster swirls of the 482nd, its splashy pigments, its areas of painted metal were almost repulsive.

Even Finge seemed different, less than life-size, somewhat. Two years earlier, to Observer Harlan, Finge’s every gesture had seemed sinister and powerful.

Now, from the lofty and isolated heights of Technicianhood, the man seemed pathetic and lost. Harlan watched him as he leafed through a sheaf of foils and got ready to look up, with the air of someone who is beginning to think he has made his visitor wait the duly required amount of time.

Finge was from an energy-centered Century in the 600’s. Twissell had told him that and it explained a good deal. Finge’s flashes of ill-temper could easily be the result of the natural insecurity of a heavy man used to the firmness of field-forces and unhappy to be dealing with nothing more
than flimsy matter. His tiptoeing walk (Harlan remembered Finge’s catlike tread well; often he would look up from his desk, see Finge standing there staring at him, his approach having been unheard) was no longer something sly and sneaking, but rather the fearful and reluctant tread of one who lives in the constant, if unconscious, fear that the flooring would break under his weight.

Harlan thought, with a pleasant condescension: The man is poorly adjusted to the Section. Reassignment is probably the only thing that would help him.

Finge said, “Greetings, Technician Harlan.”

“Greetings, Computer,” said Harlan.

Finge said, “It seems that in the two years since—”

“Two physioyears,” said Harlan.

Finge looked up in surprise. “Two physioyears, of course.”

In Eternity there was no Time as one ordinarily thought of Time in the universe outside, but men’s bodies grew older and that was the unavoidable measure of Time even in the absence of meaningful physical phenomena. Physiologically Time passed, and in a physioyear within Eternity a man grew as much older as he would have in an ordinary year in Time.

Yet even the most pedantic Eternal remembered the distinction only rarely. It was too convenient to say, “See you tomorrow,” or “I missed you yesterday,” or “I will see you next week,” as though there were a tomorrow or a yesterday or a last week in any but a physiological sense. And the instincts of humanity were catered to by having the activities of Eternity tailored to an arbitrary twenty-four “physiohour” day, with a solemn assumption of day and night, today and tomorrow.

Finge said, “In the two
physioyears
since you left, a crisis has gradually gathered about the 482nd. A rather peculiar one. A delicate one. Almost unprecedented. We need accurate Observation now as we never have needed it before.”

“And you want me to Observe?”

“Yes. In a way, it’s a waste of talent to ask a Technician to do a job of Observation, but your previous Observations, for clarity and insight, were perfect. We need that again. Now I’ll just sketch in a few details. . . .”

What those details were Harlan was not to find out just then. Finge spoke, but the door opened, and Harlan did not hear him.

He stared at the person who entered.

It was not that Harlan had never seen a girl in Eternity before. Never was too strong a word. Rarely, yes, but not never.

But a girl such as
this
! And in
Eternity
!

Harlan had seen many women in his passages through Time, but in Time they were only objects to him, like walls and balls, barrows and harrows, kittens and mittens. They were facts to be Observed.

In Eternity a girl was a different matter. And one like
this
!

She was dressed in the style of the upper classes of the 482nd, which meant transparent sheathing and not very much else above the waist, and flimsy, knee-length trousers below. The latter, while opaque enough, hinted delicately at gluteal curves.

Her hair was glossily dark and shoulder length, her lips redly penciled thin above and full below in an exaggerated pout. Her upper eyelids and her earlobes were tinted a pale rose and the rest of her youthful (almost girlish) face was a startlingly milky white. Jeweled pendants descended forward from mid-shoulder to tinkle now this side, now that of the graceful breasts to which they drew attention.

She took her seat at a desk in the corner of Finge’s office, lifting her eyelashes only once to sweep her dark glance across Harlan’s face.

When Harlan heard Finge’s voice again, the Computer
was saying, “You’ll get all this in an official report and meanwhile you can have your old office and sleeping quarters.”

Harlan found himself outside Finge’s office without quite remembering the details of his leaving. Presumably he had walked out.

The emotion within him that was easiest to recognize was anger.
By Time
, Finge ought not to be allowed to do this. It was bad for morale. It made a mockery—

He stopped himself, unclenched his fist, unclamped his jaw. Let’s see, now! His footsteps sounded sharply in his own ear as he strode firmly toward the Communications man behind the desk.

Communications looked up, without quite meeting his eye, and said cautiously, “Yes, sir.”

Harlan said, “There’s a woman at a desk in Computer Finge’s office. Is she new here?”

He had meant to ask it casually. He had meant to make it a bored, indifferent question. It rang out, instead, like a pair of cymbals clashing.

But it roused Communications. The look in his eye became something that made all men kin. It even embraced the Technician, drew him in as a fellow. Communications said, “You mean the babe? Wow! Isn’t she built like a force-field latrine, though?”

Harlan stammered a bit. “Just answer my question.”

Communications stared and some of his steam evaporated. He said, “She’s new. She’s a Timer.”

“What’s her job?”

A slow smile crept over Communications’ face and grew into a leer. “She’s supposed to be the boss’s secretary. Her name is Noÿs Lambent.”

“All right.” Harlan turned on his heel and left.

Harlan’s first Observation trip into the 482nd came the next day, but it lasted for thirty minutes only. It was obviously only an orientation trip, intended to get him into the feel of
things. He entered it for an hour and a half the next day and not at all on the third.

He occupied his time in working his way through his original reports, relearning his own knowledge, brushing up on the language system of the time, accustoming himself to the local costumes again.

One Reality Change had hit the 482nd, but it was very minor. A political clique that had been In was now Out, but there seemed no change in the society otherwise.

Without quite realizing it he slipped into the habit of searching his old reports for information on the aristocracy. Surely he had made Observations.

He had, but they were impersonal, from a distance. His data concerned them as a class, not as individuals.

Of course his spatio-temporal charts had never demanded or even permitted him to observe the aristocracy from within. What the reasons for that might have been was beyond the purview of an Observer. He was impatient with himself at feeling curiosity concerning that now.

During those three days he had caught glimpses of the girl, Noÿs Lambent, four times. At first he had been aware only of her clothes and her ornaments. Now he noticed that she was five feet six in height, half a head shorter than himself, yet slim enough and with a carriage erect and graceful enough to give an impression of height. She was older than she first seemed, approaching thirty perhaps, certainly over twenty-five.

She was quiet and reserved, smiled at him once when he passed her in the corridor, then lowered her eyes. Harlan drew aside to avoid touching her, then walked on feeling angry.

By the close of the third day Harlan was beginning to feel that his duty as an Eternal left him only one course of action. Doubtless her position was a comfortable one for herself. Doubtless Finge was within the letter of the law. Yet Finge’s indiscretion in the matter, his carelessness certainly went
against the spirit of the law, and something should be done about it.

Harlan decided that, after all, there wasn’t a man in Eternity he disliked quite as much as Finge. The excuses he had found for the man only a few days before vanished.

On the morning of the fourth day Harlan asked for and received permission to see Finge privately. He walked in with a determined step and, to his own surprise, made his point instantly. “Computer Finge, I suggest that Miss Lambent be returned to Time.”

Finge’s eyes narrowed. He nodded toward a chair, placed clasped hands under his soft, round chin, and showed some of his teeth. “Well, sit down. Sit down. You find Miss Lambent incompetent? Unsuitable?”

“As to her incompetence and unsuitability, Computer, I cannot say. It depends on the uses to which she is put, and I have put her to none. But you must realize that she is bad for the morale of this Section.”

Finge stared at him distantly as though his Computer’s mind were weighing abstractions beyond the reach of an ordinary Eternal. “In what way is she hurting morale, Technician?”

“There’s no real necessity for you to ask,” said Harlan, his anger deepening. “Her costume is exhibitionistic. Her—”

“Wait, wait. Now wait a while, Harlan. You’ve been an Observer in this era. You know her clothes are standard costume for the 482nd.”

“In her own surroundings, in her own cultural milieu, I would have no fault to find, though I’ll say right now that her costume is extreme even for the 482nd. You’ll allow me to be the judge of that. Here in Eternity, a person such as she is certainly out of place.”

Finge nodded his head slowly. He actually seemed to be enjoying himself. Harlan stiffened.