The Time Travel Megapack: 26 Modern and Classic Science Fiction Stories Read online

  After Pottgeiter had gone Chalmers opened a book—he didn’t notice what it was—and sat staring unseeing at the pages. So the moving knife-edge had come down on the end of Khalid ib’n Hussein’s life; what were the events in the next segment of time, and the segments to follow? There would be bloody fighting all over the Middle East—with consternation, he remembered that he had been talking about that to Pottgeiter. The Turkish army would move in and try to restore order. There would be more trouble in northern Iran, the Indian Communists would invade Eastern Pakistan, and then the general war, so long dreaded, would come. How far in the future that was he could not “remember,” nor how the nuclear-weapons stalemate that had so far prevented it would be broken. He knew that today, and for years before, nobody had dared start an all-out atomic war. Wars, now, were marginal skirmishes, like the one in Indonesia, or the steady underground conflict of subversion and sabotage that had come to be called the Subwar. And with the United States already in possession of a powerful Lunar base.… He wished he could “remember” how events between the murder of Khalid and the Thirty Day’s War had been spaced chronologically. Something of that had come to him, after the incident in Modern History IV, and he had driven it from his consciousness.

  * * * *

  He didn’t dare go home where the reporters would be sure to find him. He simply left the college, at the end of the school-day, and walked without conscious direction until darkness gathered. This morning, when he had seen the paper, he had said, and had actually believed, that the news of the murder in Basra would put an end to the trouble that had started a month ago in the Modern History class. It hadn’t: the trouble, it seemed, was only beginning. And with the newspapers, and Whitburn, and Fitch, it could go on forever.…

  It was fully dark, now; his shadow fell ahead of him on the sidewalk, lengthening as he passed under and beyond a street-light, vanishing as he entered the stronger light of the one ahead. The windows of a cheap cafe reminded him that he was hungry, and he entered, going to a table and ordering something absently. There was a television screen over the combination bar and lunch-counter. Some kind of a comedy programme, at which an invisible studio-audience was laughing immoderately and without apparent cause. The roughly dressed customers along the counter didn’t seem to see any more humor in it than he did. Then his food arrived on the table and he began to eat without really tasting it.

  After a while, an alteration in the noises from the television penetrated his consciousness; a news-program had come on, and he raised his head. The screen showed a square in an Eastern city; the voice was saying:

  “…Basra, where Khalid ib’n Hussein was assassinated early this morning—early afternoon, local time. This is the scene of the crime; the body of the murderer has been removed, but you can still see the stones with which he was pelted to death by the mob.…”

  A close-up of the square, still littered with torn-up paving-stones. A Caliphate army officer, displaying the weapon—it was an old M3, all right; Chalmers had used one of those things, himself, thirty years before, and he and his contemporaries had called it a “grease-gun.” There were some recent pictures of Khalid, including one taken as he left the plane on his return from Ankara. He watched, absorbed; it was all exactly as he had “remembered” a month ago. It gratified him to see that his future “memories” were reliable in detail as well as generality.

  “But the most amazing part of the story comes, not from Basra, but from Blanley College, in California,” the commentator was saying, “where, it is revealed, the murder of Khalid was foretold, with uncanny accuracy, a month ago, by a history professor, Doctor Edward Chalmers.…”

  There was a picture of himself, in hat and overcoat, perfectly motionless, as though a brief moving glimpse were being prolonged. A glance at the background told him when and where it had been taken—a year and a half ago, at a convention at Harvard. These telecast people must save up every inch of old news-film they ever took. There were views of Blanley campus, and interviews with some of the Modern History IV boys, including Dacre and Kendrick. That was one of the things they’d been doing with that jeep-mounted sound-camera, this afternoon, then. The boys, some brashly, some embarrassedly, were substantiating the fact that he had, a month ago, described yesterday’s event in detail. There was an interview with Leonard Fitch; the psychology professor was trying to explain the phenomenon of precognition in layman’s terms, and making heavy going of it. And there was the mobbing of Whitburn in front of Administration Center. The college president was shouting denials of every question asked him, and as he turned and fled, the guffaws of the reporters were plainly audible.

  An argument broke out along the counter.

  “I don’t believe it! How could anybody know all that about something before it happened?”

  “Well, you heard that-there professor, what was his name. An’ you heard all them boys.…”

  “Ah, college-boys; they’ll do anything for a joke!”

  “After refusing to be interviewed for telecast, the president of Blanley College finally consented to hold a press conference in his office, from which telecast cameras were barred. He denied the whole story categorically and stated that the boys in Professor Chalmers’ class had concocted the whole thing as a hoax.…”

  “There! See what I told you!”

  “…stating that Professor Chalmers is mentally unsound, and that he has been trying for years to oust him from his position on the Blanley faculty but has been unable to do so because of the provisions of the Faculty Tenure Act of 1963. Most of his remarks were in the nature of a polemic against this law, generally regarded as the college professors’ bill of rights. It is to be stated here that other members of the Blanley faculty have unconditionally confirmed the fact that Doctor Chalmers did make the statements attributed to him a month ago, long before the death of Khalid ib’n Hussein.…”

  “Yah! How about that, now? How’ya gonna get around that?”

  Beckoning the waitress, he paid his check and hurried out. Before he reached the door, he heard a voice, almost stuttering with excitement:

  “Hey! Look! That’s him!”

  He began to run. He was two blocks from the cafe before he slowed to a walk again.

  That night, he needed three shots of whiskey before he could get to sleep.

  * * * *

  A delegation from the American Institute of Psionics and Parapsychology reached Blanley that morning, having taken a strato-plane from the East Coast. They had academic titles and degrees that even Lloyd Whitburn couldn’t ignore. They talked with Leonard Fitch, and with the students from Modern History IV, and took statements. It wasn’t until after General European History II that they caught up with Chalmers—an elderly man, with white hair and a ruddy face; a young man who looked like a heavy-weight boxer; a middle-aged man in tweeds who smoked a pipe and looked as though he ought to be more interested in grouse-shooting and flower-gardening than in clairvoyance and telepathy. The names of the first two meant nothing to Chalmers. They were important names in their own field, but it was not his field. The name of the third, who listened silently, he did not catch.

  “You understand, gentlemen, that I’m having some difficulties with the college administration about this,” he told them. “President Whitburn has even gone so far as to challenge my fitness to hold a position here.”

  “We’ve talked to him,” the elderly man said. “It was not a very satisfactory discussion.”

  “President Whitburn’s fitness to hold his own position could very easily be challenged,” the young man added pugnaciously.

  “Well, then, you see what my position is. I’ve consulted my attorney, Mr. Weill and he has advised me to make absolutely no statements of any sort about the matter.”

  “I understand,” the eldest of the trio said. “But we’re not the press, or anything like that. We can assure you that anything you tell us will be absolutely confidential.” He looked inquiringly at the middle-aged man in tweeds, wh
o nodded silently. “We can understand that the students in your modern history class are telling what is substantially the truth?”

  “If you’re thinking about that hoax statement of Whitburn’s, that’s a lot of idiotic drivel!” he said angrily. “I heard some of those boys on the telecast, last night; except for a few details in which they were confused, they all stated exactly what they heard me say in class a month ago.”

  “And we assume,”—again he glanced at the man in tweeds—“that you had no opportunity of knowing anything, at the time, about any actual plot against Khalid’s life?”

  The man in tweeds broke silence for the first time. “You can assume that. I don’t even think this fellow Noureed knew anything about it, then.”

  “Well, we’d like to know, as nearly as you’re able to tell us, just how you became the percipient of this knowledge of the future event of the death of Khalid ib’n Hussein,” the young man began. “Was it through a dream, or a waking experience; did you visualize, or have an auditory impression, or did it simply come into your mind.…”

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen.” He looked at his watch. “I have to be going somewhere, at once. In any case, I simply can’t discuss the matter with you. I appreciate your position; I know how I’d feel if data of historical importance were being withheld from me. However, I trust that you will appreciate my position and spare me any further questioning.”

  That was all he allowed them to get out of him. They spent another few minutes being polite to one another; he invited them to lunch at the Faculty Club, and learned that they were lunching there as Fitch’s guests. They went away trying to hide their disappointment.

  * * * *

  The Psionics and Parapsychology people weren’t the only delegation to reach Blanley that day. Enough of the trustees of the college lived in the San Francisco area to muster a quorum for a meeting the evening before; a committee, including James Dacre, the father of the boy in Modern History IV, was appointed to get the facts at first hand; they arrived about noon. They talked to some of the students, spent some time closeted with Whitburn, and were seen crossing the campus with the Parapsychology people. They didn’t talk to Chalmers or Fitch. In the afternoon, Marjorie Fenner told Chalmers that his presence at a meeting, to be held that evening in Whitburn’s office, was requested. The request, she said, had come from the trustees’ committee, not from Whitburn; she also told him that Fitch would be there. Chalmers promptly phoned Stanly Weill.

  “I’ll be there along with you,” the lawyer said. “If this trustees’ committee is running it, they’ll realize that this is a matter in which you’re entitled to legal advice. I’ll stop by your place and pick you up.… You haven’t been doing any talking, have you?”

  He described the interview with the Psionics and Parapsychology people.

  “That was all right.… Was there a man with a mustache, in a brown tweed suit, with them?”

  “Yes. I didn’t catch his name.…”

  “It’s Cutler. He’s an Army major; Central Intelligence. His crowd’s interested in whether you had any real advance information on this. He was in to see me, just a while ago. I have the impression he’d like to see this whole thing played down, so he’ll be on our side, more or less and for the time being. I’ll be around to your place about eight; in the meantime, don’t do any more talking than you have to. I hope we can get this straightened out, this evening. I’ll have to go to Reno in a day or so to see a client there.…”

  * * * *

  The meeting in Whitburn’s office had been set for eight-thirty; Weill saw to it that they arrived exactly on time. As they got out of his car at Administration Center and crossed to the steps, Chalmers had the feeling of going to a duel, accompanied by his second. The briefcase Weill was carrying may have given him the idea; it was flat and square-cornered, the size and shape of an old case of dueling pistols. He commented on it.

  “Sound recorder,” Weill said. “Loaded with a four-hour spool. No matter how long this thing lasts, I’ll have a record of it, if I want to produce one in court.”

  Another party was arriving at the same time—the two Psionics and Parapsychology people and the Intelligence major, who seemed to have formed a working partnership. They all entered together, after a brief and guardedly polite exchange of greetings. There were voices raised in argument inside when they came to Whitburn’s office. The college president was trying to keep Handley, Tom Smith, and Max Pottgeiter from entering his private room in the rear.

  “It certainly is!” Handley was saying. “As faculty members, any controversy involving establishment of standards of fitness to teach under a tenure-contract concerns all of us, because any action taken in this case may establish a precedent which could affect the validity of our own contracts.”

  A big man with iron-gray hair appeared in the doorway of the private office behind Whitburn; James Dacre.

  “These gentlemen have a substantial interest in this, Doctor Whitburn,” he said. “If they’re here as representatives of the college faculty, they have every right to be present.”

  Whitburn stood aside. Handley, Smith and Pottgeiter went through the door; the others followed. The other three members of the trustees’ committee were already in the room. A few minutes later, Leonard Fitch arrived, also carrying a briefcase.

  “Well, everybody seems to be here,” Whitburn said, starting toward his chair behind the desk. “We might as well get this started.”

  “Yes. If you’ll excuse me, Doctor.” Dacre stepped in front of him and sat down at the desk. “I’ve been selected as chairman of this committee; I believe I’m presiding here. Start the recorder, somebody.”

  One of the other trustees went to the sound recorder beside the desk—a larger but probably not more efficient instrument than the one Weill had concealed in his briefcase—and flipped a switch. Then he and his companions dragged up chairs to flank Dacre’s, and the rest seated themselves around the room. Old Pottgeiter took a seat next to Chalmers. Weill opened the case on his lap, reached inside, and closed it again.

  “What are they trying to do, Ed?” Pottgeiter asked, in a loud whisper. “Throw you off the faculty? They can’t do that, can they?”

  “I don’t know, Max. We’ll see.…”

  “This isn’t any formal hearing, and nobody’s on trial here,” Dacre was saying. “Any action will have to be taken by the board of trustees as a whole, at a regularly scheduled meeting. All we’re trying to do is find out just what’s happened here, and who, if anybody, is responsible.…”

  “Well, there’s the man who’s responsible!” Whitburn cried, pointing at Chalmers. “This whole thing grew out of his behavior in class a month ago, and I’ll remind you that at the time I demanded his resignation!”

  “I thought it was Doctor Fitch, here, who gave the story to the newspapers,” one of the trustees, a man with red hair and a thin, eyeglassed face, objected.

  “Doctor Fitch acted as any scientist should, in making public what he believed to be an important scientific discovery,” the elder of the two Parapsychology men said. “He believed, and so do we, that he had discovered a significant instance of precognition—a case of real prior knowledge of a future event. He made a careful and systematic record of Professor Chalmers’ statements, at least two weeks before the occurrence of the event to which they referred. It is entirely due to him that we know exactly what Professor Chalmers said and when he said it.”

  “Yes,” his younger colleague added, “and in all my experience I’ve never heard anything more preposterous than this man Whitburn’s attempt, yesterday, to deny the fact.”

  “Well, we’re convinced that Doctor Chalmers did in fact say what he’s alleged to have said, last month,” Dacre began.

  “Jim, I think we ought to get that established, for the record,” another of the trustees put in. “Doctor Chalmers, is it true that you spoke, in the past tense, about the death of Khalid ib’n Hussein in one of your classes on the sixteenth of last
month?”

  Chalmers rose. “Yes, it is. And the next day, I was called into this room by Doctor Whitburn, who demanded my resignation from the faculty of this college because of it. Now, what I’d like to know is, why did Doctor Whitburn, in this same room, deny, yesterday, that I’d said anything of the sort, and accuse my students of concocting the story after the event as a hoax.”

  “One of them being my son,” Dacre added. “I’d like to hear an answer to that, myself.”

  “So would I,” Stanly Weill chimed in. “You know, my client has a good case against Doctor Whitburn for libel.”

  Chalmers looked around the room. Of the thirteen men around him, only Whitburn was an enemy. Some of the others were on his side, for one reason or another, but none of them were friends. Weill was his lawyer, obeying an obligation to a client which, at bottom, was an obligation to his own conscience. Handley was afraid of the possibility that a precedent might be established which would impair his own tenure-contract. Fitch, and the two men from the Institute of Psionics and Parapsychology were interested in him as a source of study-material. Dacre resented a slur upon his son; he and the others were interested in Blanley College as an institution, almost an abstraction. And the major in mufti was probably worrying about the consequences to military security of having a prophet at large. Then a hand gripped his shoulder, and a voice whispered in his ear:

  “That’s good, Ed; don’t let them scare you!”

  Old Max Pottgeiter, at least, was a friend.

  “Doctor Whitburn, I’m asking you, and I expect an answer, why did you make such statements to the press, when you knew perfectly well that they were false?” Dacre demanded sharply.