The Project Gutenberg EBook of Time and Time Again, by Henry Beam Piper

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Title: Time and Time Again

Author: Henry Beam Piper

Illustrator: Napoli

Release Date: July 15, 2006 [EBook #18831]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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                TIME AND TIME AGAIN
                           BY H. BEAM PIPER
                                       Illustrated by Napoli

[Transcriber's note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction April 1947. Extensive
research did not uncover any evidence that the copyright on this publication was renewed.]

To upset the stable, mighty stream of time would probably take an enormous concentration of
energy. And it's not to be expected that a man would get a second chance at life. But an atomic
might accomplish both—

Blinded by the bomb-flash and numbed by the narcotic injection, he could not estimate the extent of his
injuries, but he knew that he was dying. Around him, in the darkness, voices sounded as through a thick
wall.

"They mighta left mosta these Joes where they was. Half of them won't even last till the truck comes."

"No matter; so long as they're alive, they must be treated," another voice, crisp and cultivated, rebuked.
"Better start taking names, while we're waiting."

"Yes, sir." Fingers fumbled at his identity badge. "Hartley, Allan; Captain, G5, Chem. Research
AN/73/D. Serial, SO-23869403J."

"Allan Hartley!" The medic officer spoke in shocked surprise. "Why, he's the man who wrote 'Children of
the Mist', 'Rose of Death', and 'Conqueror's Road'!"

He tried to speak, and must have stirred; the corpsman's voice sharpened.

"Major, I think he's part conscious. Mebbe I better give him 'nother shot."

"Yes, yes; by all means, sergeant."

Something jabbed Allan Hartley in the back of the neck. Soft billows of oblivion closed in upon him, and
all that remained to him was a tiny spark of awareness, glowing alone and lost in a great darkness.




The Spark grew brighter. He was more than a something that merely knew that it existed. He was a man,
and he had a name, and a military rank, and memories. Memories of the searing blue-green flash, and of
what he had been doing outside the shelter the moment before, and memories of the month-long siege,
and of the retreat from the north, and memories of the days before the War, back to the time when he
had been little Allan Hartley, a schoolboy, the son of a successful lawyer, in Williamsport, Pennsylvania.

His mother he could not remember; there was only a vague impression of the house full of people who
had tried to comfort him for something he could not understand. But he remembered the old German
woman who had kept house for his father, afterward, and he remembered his bedroom, with its
chintz-covered chairs, and the warm-colored patch quilt on the old cherry bed, and the tan curtains at the
windows, edged with dusky red, and the morning sun shining through them. He could almost see them,
now.

He blinked. He could see them!




For a long time, he lay staring at them unbelievingly, and then he deliberately closed his eyes and counted
ten seconds, and as he counted, terror gripped him. He was afraid to open them again, lest he find
himself blind, or gazing at the filth and wreckage of a blasted city, but when he reached ten, he forced
himself to look, and gave a sigh of relief. The sunlit curtains and the sun-gilded mist outside were still
there.

He reached out to check one sense against another, feeling the rough monk's cloth and the edging of
maroon silk thread. They were tangible as well as visible. Then he saw that the back of his hand was
unscarred. There should have been a scar, souvenir of a rough-and-tumble brawl of his cub reporter
days. He examined both hands closely. An instant later, he had sat up in bed and thrown off the covers,
partially removing his pajamas and inspecting as much of his body as was visible.

It was the smooth body of a little boy.

That was ridiculous. He was a man of forty-three; an army officer, a chemist, once a best-selling novelist.
He had been married, and divorced ten years ago. He looked again at his body. It was only twelve years
old. Fourteen, at the very oldest. His eyes swept the room, wide with wonder. Every detail was familiar:
the flower-splashed chair covers; the table that served as desk and catch-all for his possessions; the
dresser, with its mirror stuck full of pictures of aircraft. It was the bedroom of his childhood home. He
swung his legs over the edge of the bed. They were six inches too short to reach the floor.

For an instant, the room spun dizzily; and he was in the grip of utter panic, all confidence in the evidence
of his senses lost. Was he insane? Or delirious? Or had the bomb really killed him; was this what death
was like? What was that thing, about "ye become as little children"? He started to laugh, and his juvenile
larynx made giggling sounds. They seemed funny, too, and aggravated his mirth. For a little while, he was
on the edge of hysteria and then, when he managed to control his laughter, he felt calmer. If he were
dead, then he must be a discarnate entity, and would be able to penetrate matter. To his relief, he was
unable to push his hand through the bed. So he was alive; he was also fully awake, and, he hoped,
rational. He rose to his feet and prowled about the room, taking stock of its contents.

There was no calendar in sight, and he could find no newspapers or dated periodicals, but he knew that it
was prior to July 18, 1946. On that day, his fourteenth birthday, his father had given him a light .22 rifle,
and it had been hung on a pair of rustic forks on the wall. It was not there now, nor ever had been. On
the table, he saw a boys' book of military aircraft, with a clean, new dustjacket; the flyleaf was inscribed:
To Allan Hartley, from his father, on his thirteenth birthday, 7/18 '45. Glancing out the window at
the foliage on the trees, he estimated the date at late July or early August, 1945; that would make him just
thirteen.

His clothes were draped on a chair beside the bed. Stripping off his pajamas, he donned shorts, then sat
down and picked up a pair of lemon-colored socks, which he regarded with disfavor. As he pulled one
on, a church bell began to clang. St. Boniface, up on the hill, ringing for early Mass; so this was Sunday.
He paused, the second sock in his hand.

There was no question that his present environment was actual. Yet, on the other hand, he possessed a
set of memories completely at variance with it. Now, suppose, since his environment were not an illusion,
everything else were? Suppose all these troublesome memories were no more than a dream? Why, he
was just little Allan Hartley, safe in his room on a Sunday morning, badly scared by a nightmare! Too
much science fiction, Allan; too many comic books!

That was a wonderfully comforting thought, and he hugged it to him contentedly. It lasted all the while he
was buttoning up his shirt and pulling on his pants, but when he reached for his shoes, it evaporated. Ever
since he had wakened, he realized, he had been occupied with thoughts utterly incomprehensible to any
thirteen-year-old; even thinking in words that would have been so much Sanscrit to himself at thirteen. He
shook his head regretfully. The just-a-dream hypothesis went by the deep six.

He picked up the second shoe and glared at it as though it were responsible for his predicament. He was
going to have to be careful. An unexpected display of adult characteristics might give rise to some
questions he would find hard to answer credibly. Fortunately, he was an only child; there would be no
brothers or sisters to trip him up. Old Mrs. Stauber, the housekeeper, wouldn't be much of a problem;
even in his normal childhood, he had bulked like an intellectual giant in comparison to her. But his
father—

Now, there the going would be tough. He knew that shrewd attorney's mind, whetted keen on a
generation of lying and reluctant witnesses. Sooner or later, he would forget for an instant and betray
himself. Then he smiled, remembering the books he had discovered, in his late 'teens, on his father's
shelves and recalling the character of the openminded agnostic lawyer. If he could only avoid the
inevitable unmasking until he had a plausible explanatory theory.




Blake Hartley was leaving the bathroom as Allan Hartley opened his door and stepped into the hall. The
lawyer was bare-armed and in slippers; at forty-eight, there was only a faint powdering of gray in his
dark hair, and not a gray thread in his clipped mustache. The old Merry Widower, himself, Allan thought,
grinning as he remembered the white-haired but still vigorous man from whom he'd parted at the
outbreak of the War.

"'Morning, Dad," he greeted.

"'Morning, son. You're up early. Going to Sunday school?"

Now there was the advantage of a father who'd cut his first intellectual tooth on Tom Paine and Bob
Ingersoll; attendance at divine services was on a strictly voluntary basis.

"Why, I don't think so; I want to do some reading, this morning."
"That's always a good thing to do," Blake Hartley approved. "After breakfast, suppose you take a walk
down to the station and get me a Times." He dug in his trouser pocket and came out with a half dollar.
"Get anything you want for yourself, while you're at it."

Allan thanked his father and pocketed the coin.

"Mrs. Stauber'll still be at Mass," he suggested. "Say I get the paper now; breakfast won't be ready till
she gets here."

"Good idea." Blake Hartley nodded, pleased. "You'll have three-quarters of an hour, at least."




So far, he congratulated himself, everything had gone smoothly. Finishing his toilet, he went downstairs
and onto the street, turning left at Brandon to Campbell, and left again in the direction of the station.
Before he reached the underpass, a dozen half-forgotten memories had revived. Here was a house that
would, in a few years, be gutted by fire. Here were four dwellings standing where he had last seen a
five-story apartment building. A gasoline station and a weed-grown lot would shortly be replaced by a
supermarket. The environs of the station itself were a complete puzzle to him, until he oriented himself.

He bought a New York Times, glancing first of all at the date line. Sunday, August 5, 1945; he'd
estimated pretty closely. The battle of Okinawa had been won. The Potsdam Conference had just ended.
There were still pictures of the B-25 crash against the Empire State Building, a week ago Saturday. And
Japan was still being pounded by bombs from the air and shells from off-shore naval guns. Why,
tomorrow, Hiroshima was due for the Big Job! It amused him to reflect that he was probably the only
person in Williamsport who knew that.

On the way home, a boy, sitting on the top step of a front porch, hailed him. Allan replied cordially, trying
to remember who it was. Of course; Larry Morton! He and Allan had been buddies. They probably had
been swimming, or playing Commandos and Germans, the afternoon before. Larry had gone to Cornell
the same year that Allan had gone to Penn State; they had both graduated in 1954. Larry had gotten into
some Government bureau, and then he had married a Pittsburgh girl, and had become twelfth
vice-president of her father's firm. He had been killed, in 1968, in a plane crash.

"You gonna Sunday school?" Larry asked, mercifully unaware of the fate Allan foresaw for him.

"Why, no. I have some things I want to do at home." He'd have to watch himself. Larry would spot a
difference quicker than any adult. "Heck with it," he added.

"Golly, I wisht I c'ld stay home from Sunday school whenever I wanted to," Larry envied. "How about us
goin' swimmin', at the Canoe Club, 'safter?"

Allan thought fast. "Gee, I wisht I c'ld," he replied, lowering his grammatical sights. "I gotta stay home,
'safter. We're expectin' comp'ny; coupla aunts of mine. Dad wants me to stay home when they come."
That went over all right. Anybody knew that there was no rational accounting for the vagaries of the adult
mind, and no appeal from adult demands. The prospect of company at the Hartley home would keep
Larry away, that afternoon. He showed his disappointment.

"Aw, jeepers creepers!" he blasphemed euphemistically.

"Mebbe t'morrow," Allan said. "If I c'n make it. I gotta go, now; ain't had breakfast yet." He scuffed his
feet boyishly, exchanged so-longs with his friend, and continued homeward.




As he had hoped, the Sunday paper kept his father occupied at breakfast, to the exclusion of any
dangerous table talk. Blake Hartley was still deep in the financial section when Allan left the table and
went to the library. There should be two books there to which he wanted badly to refer. For a while, he
was afraid that his father had not acquired them prior to 1945, but he finally found them, and carried
them onto the front porch, along with a pencil and a ruled yellow scratch pad. In his experienced
future—or his past-to-come—Allan Hartley had been accustomed to doing his thinking with a pencil. As
reporter, as novelist plotting his work, as amateur chemist in his home laboratory, as scientific warfare
research officer, his ideas had always been clarified by making notes. He pushed a chair to the table and
built up the seat with cushions, wondering how soon he would become used to the proportional disparity
between himself and the furniture. As he opened the books and took his pencil in his hand, there was one
thing missing. If he could only smoke a pipe, now!

His father came out and stretched in a wicker chair with the Times book-review section. The morning
hours passed. Allan Hartley leafed through one book and then the other. His pencil moved rapidly at
times; at others, he doodled absently. There was no question, any more, in his mind, as to what or who
he was. He was Allan Hartley, a man of forty-three, marooned in his own thirteen-year-old body, thirty
years back in his own past. That was, of course, against all common sense, but he was easily able to
ignore that objection. It had been made before: against the astronomy of Copernicus, and the geography
of Columbus, and the biology of Darwin, and the industrial technology of Samuel Colt, and the military
doctrines of Charles de Gaulle. Today's common sense had a habit of turning into tomorrow's utter
nonsense. What he needed, right now, but bad, was a theory that would explain what had happened to
him.

Understanding was beginning to dawn when Mrs. Stauber came out to announce midday dinner.

"I hope you von't mind haffin' it so early," she apologized. "Mein sister, Jennie, offer in Nippenose, she iss
sick; I vant to go see her, dis afternoon, yet. I'll be back in blenty time to get supper, Mr. Hartley."

"Hey, Dad!" Allan spoke up. "Why can't we get our own supper, and have a picnic, like? That'd be fun,
and Mrs. Stauber could stay as long as she wanted to."

His father looked at him. Such consideration for others was a most gratifying deviation from the juvenile
norm; dawn of altruism, or something. He gave hearty assent:
"Why, of course, Mrs. Stauber. Allan and I can shift for ourselves, this evening; can't we, Allan? You
needn't come back till tomorrow morning."

"Ach, t'ank you! T'ank you so mooch, Mr. Hartley."

At dinner, Allan got out from under the burden of conversation by questioning his father about the War
and luring him into a lengthy dissertation on the difficulties of the forthcoming invasion of Japan. In view of
what he remembered of the next twenty-four hours, Allan was secretly amused. His father was sure that
the War would run on to mid-1946.

After dinner, they returned to the porch, Hartley père smoking a cigar and carrying out several law
books. He only glanced at these occasionally; for the most part, he sat and blew smoke rings, and
watched them float away. Some thrice-guilty felon was about to be triumphantly acquitted by a weeping
jury; Allan could recognize a courtroom masterpiece in the process of incubation.




It was several hours later that the crunch of feet on the walk caused father and son to look up
simultaneously. The approaching visitor was a tall man in a rumpled black suit; he had knobby wrists and
big, awkward hands; black hair flecked with gray, and a harsh, bigoted face. Allan remembered him.
Frank Gutchall. Lived on Campbell Street; a religious fanatic, and some sort of lay preacher. Maybe he
needed legal advice; Allan could vaguely remember some incident—

"Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Gutchall. Lovely day, isn't it?" Blake Hartley said.

Gutchall cleared his throat. "Mr. Hartley, I wonder if you could lend me a gun and some bullets," he
began, embarrassedly. "My little dog's been hurt, and it's suffering something terrible. I want a gun, to put
the poor thing out of its pain."

"Why, yes; of course. How would a 20-gauge shotgun do?" Blake Hartley asked. "You wouldn't want
anything heavy."

Gutchall fidgeted. "Why, er, I was hoping you'd let me have a little gun." He held his hands about six
inches apart. "A pistol, that I could put in my pocket. It wouldn't look right, to carry a hunting gun on the
Lord's day; people wouldn't understand that it was for a work of mercy."

The lawyer nodded. In view of Gutchall's religious beliefs, the objection made sense.

"Well, I have a Colt .38-special," he said, "but you know, I belong to this Auxiliary Police outfit. If I were
called out for duty, this evening, I'd need it. How soon could you bring it back?"

Something clicked in Allan Hartley's mind. He remembered, now, what that incident had been. He knew,
too, what he had to do.

"Dad, aren't there some cartridges left for the Luger?" he asked.
Blake Hartley snapped his fingers. "By George, yes! I have a German automatic I can let you have, but I
wish you'd bring it back as soon as possible. I'll get it for you."

Before he could rise, Allan was on his feet.

"Sit still, Dad; I'll get it. I know where the cartridges are." With that, he darted into the house and
upstairs.

The Luger hung on the wall over his father's bed. Getting it down, he dismounted it, working with rapid
precision. He used the blade of his pocketknife to unlock the endpiece of the breechblock, slipping out
the firing pin and buttoning it into his shirt pocket. Then he reassembled the harmless pistol, and filled the
clip with 9-millimeter cartridges from the bureau drawer.

There was an extension telephone beside the bed. Finding Gutchall's address in the directory, he lifted the
telephone, and stretched his handkerchief over the mouthpiece. Then he dialed Police Headquarters.




"This is Blake Hartley," he lied, deepening his voice and copying his father's tone. "Frank Gutchall, who
lives at...take this down"—he gave Gutchall's address—"has just borrowed a pistol from me, ostensibly
to shoot a dog. He has no dog. He intends shooting his wife. Don't argue about how I know; there isn't
time. Just take it for granted that I do. I disabled the pistol—took out the firing pin—but if he finds out
what I did, he may get some other weapon. He's on his way home, but he's on foot. If you hurry, you
may get a man there before he arrives, and grab him before he finds out the pistol won't shoot."

"O. K., Mr. Hartley. We'll take care of it. Thanks."

"And I wish you'd get my pistol back, as soon as you can. It's something I brought home from the other
War, and I shouldn't like to lose it."
"We'll take care of that, too. Thank you, Mr. Hartley."

He hung up, and carried the Luger and the loaded clip down to the porch.




"Look, Mr. Gutchall; here's how it works," he said, showing it to the visitor. Then he slapped in the clip
and yanked up on the toggle loading the chamber. "It's ready to shoot, now; this is the safety." He pushed
it on. "When you're ready to shoot, just shove it forward and up, and then pull the trigger. You have to
pull the trigger each time; it's loaded for eight shots. And be sure to put the safety back when you're
through shooting."

"Did you load the chamber?" Blake Hartley demanded.

"Sure. It's on safe, now."

"Let me see." His father took the pistol, being careful to keep his finger out of the trigger guard, and
looked at it. "Yes, that's all right." He repeated the instructions Allan had given, stressing the importance
of putting the safety on after using. "Understand how it works, now?" he asked.

"Yes, I understand how it works. Thank you, Mr. Hartley. Thank you, too, young man."

Gutchall put the Luger in his hip pocket, made sure it wouldn't fall out, and took his departure.

"You shouldn't have loaded it," Hartley père reproved, when he was gone.

Allan sighed. This was it; the masquerade was over.

"I had to, to keep you from fooling with it," he said. "I didn't want you finding out that I'd taken out the
firing pin."

"You what?"

"Gutchall didn't want that gun to shoot a dog. He has no dog. He meant to shoot his wife with it. He's a
religious maniac; sees visions, hears voices, receives revelations, talks with the Holy Ghost. The Holy
Ghost probably put him up to this caper. I'll submit that any man who holds long conversations with the
Deity isn't to be trusted with a gun, and neither is any man who lies about why he wants one. And while I
was at it, I called the police, on the upstairs phone. I had to use your name; I deepened my voice and
talked through a handkerchief."

"You—" Blake Hartley jumped as though bee-stung. "Why did you have to do that?"

"You know why. I couldn't have told them, 'This is little Allan Hartley, just thirteen years old; please, Mr.
Policeman, go and arrest Frank Gutchall before he goes root-toot-toot at his wife with my pappa's
Luger.' That would have gone over big, now, wouldn't it?"

"And suppose he really wants to shoot a dog; what sort of a mess will I be in?"

"No mess at all. If I'm wrong—which I'm not—I'll take the thump for it, myself. It'll pass for a dumb kid
trick, and nothing'll be done. But if I'm right, you'll have to front for me. They'll keep your name out of it,
but they'd give me a lot of cheap boy-hero publicity, which I don't want." He picked up his pencil again.
"We should have the complete returns in about twenty minutes."




That was a ten-minute under-estimate, and it was another quarter-hour before the detective-sergeant
who returned the Luger had finished congratulating Blake Hartley and giving him the thanks of the
Department. After he had gone, the lawyer picked up the Luger, withdrew the clip, and ejected the
round in the chamber.

"Well," he told his son, "you were right. You saved that woman's life." He looked at the automatic, and
then handed it across the table. "Now, let's see you put that firing pin back."

Allan Hartley dismantled the weapon, inserted the missing part, and put it together again, then snapped it
experimentally and returned it to his father. Blake Hartley looked at it again, and laid it on the table.

"Now, son, suppose we have a little talk," he said softly.

"But I explained everything." Allan objected innocently.

"You did not," his father retorted. "Yesterday you'd never have thought of a trick like this; why, you
wouldn't even have known how to take this pistol apart. And at dinner, I caught you using language and
expressing ideas that were entirely outside anything you'd ever known before. Now, I want to
know—and I mean this literally."

Allan chuckled. "I hope you're not toying with the rather medieval notion of obsession," he said.

Blake Hartley started. Something very like that must have been flitting through his mind. He opened his
mouth to say something, then closed it abruptly.

"The trouble is, I'm not sure you aren't right," his son continued. "You say you find me—changed. When
did you first notice a difference?"

"Last night, you were still my little boy. This morning—" Blake Hartley was talking more to himself than
to Allan. "I don't know. You were unusually silent at breakfast. And come to think of it, there was
something ... something strange ... about you when I saw you in the hall, upstairs.... Allan!" he burst out,
vehemently. "What has happened to you?"
Allan Hartley felt a twinge of pain. What his father was going through was almost what he, himself, had
endured, in the first few minutes after waking.

"I wish I could be sure, myself, Dad," he said. "You see, when I woke, this morning, I hadn't the least
recollection of anything I'd done yesterday. August 4, 1945, that is," he specified. "I was positively
convinced that I was a man of forty-three, and my last memory was of lying on a stretcher, injured by a
bomb explosion. And I was equally convinced that this had happened in 1975."

"Huh?" His father straightened. "Did you say nineteen seventy-five?" He thought for a moment. "That's
right; in 1975, you will be forty-three. A bomb, you say?"

Allan nodded. "During the siege of Buffalo, in the Third World War," he said, "I was a captain in
G5—Scientific Warfare, General Staff. There'd been a transpolar air invasion of Canada, and I'd been
sent to the front to check on service failures of a new lubricating oil for combat equipment. A week after
I got there, Ottawa fell, and the retreat started. We made a stand at Buffalo, and that was where I
copped it. I remember being picked up, and getting a narcotic injection. The next thing I knew, I was in
bed, upstairs, and it was 1945 again, and I was back in my own little thirteen-year-old body."

"Oh, Allan, you just had a nightmare to end nightmares!" his father assured him, laughing a trifle too
heartily. "That's all!"

"That was one of the first things I thought of. I had to reject it; it just wouldn't fit the facts. Look; a normal
dream is part of the dreamer's own physical brain, isn't it? Well, here is a part about two thousand per
cent greater than the whole from which it was taken. Which is absurd."

"You mean all this Battle of Buffalo stuff? That's easy. All the radio commentators have been harping on
the horrors of World War III, and you couldn't have avoided hearing some of it. You just have an
undigested chunk of H. V. Kaltenborn raising hell in your subconscious."

"It wasn't just World War III; it was everything. My four years at high school, and my four years at Penn
State, and my seven years as a reporter on the Philadelphia Record. And my novels: 'Children of the
Mist,' 'Rose of Death,' 'Conqueror's Road.' They were no kid stuff. Why, yesterday I'd never even
have thought of some of the ideas I used in my detective stories, that I published under a nom-de-plume.
And my hobby, chemistry; I was pretty good at that. Patented a couple of processes that made me as
much money as my writing. You think a thirteen-year-old just dreamed all that up? Or, here; you speak
French, don't you?" He switched languages and spoke at some length in good conversational
slang-spiced Parisian. "Too bad you don't speak Spanish, too," he added, reverting to English. "Except
for a Mexican accent you could cut with a machete, I'm even better there than in French. And I know
some German, and a little Russian."




Blake Hartley was staring at his son, stunned. It was some time before he could make himself speak.

"I could barely keep up with you, in French," he admitted. "I can swear that in the last thirteen years of
your life, you had absolutely no chance to learn it. All right; you lived till 1975, you say. Then, all of a
sudden, you found yourself back here, thirteen years old, in 1945. I suppose you remember everything in
between?" he asked. "Did you ever read James Branch Cabell? Remember Florian de Puysange, in 'The
High Place'?"

"Yes. You find the same idea in 'Jurgen' too," Allan said. "You know, I'm beginning to wonder if Cabell
mightn't have known something he didn't want to write."

"But it's impossible!" Blake Hartley hit the table with his hand, so hard that the heavy pistol bounced. The
loose round he had ejected from the chamber toppled over and started to roll, falling off the edge. He
stooped and picked it up. "How can you go back, against time? And the time you claim you came from
doesn't exist, now; it hasn't happened yet." He reached for the pistol magazine, to insert the cartridge,
and as he did, he saw the books in front of his son. "Dunne's 'Experiment with Time,'" he commented.
"And J. N. M. Tyrrell's 'Science and Psychical Phenomena.' Are you trying to work out a theory?"

"Yes." It encouraged Allan to see that his father had unconsciously adopted an adult-to-adult manner. "I
think I'm getting somewhere, too. You've read these books? Well, look, Dad; what's your attitude on
precognition? The ability of the human mind to exhibit real knowledge, apart from logical inference, of
future events? You think Dunne is telling the truth about his experiences? Or that the cases in Tyrrell's
book are properly verified, and can't be explained away on the basis of chance?"

Blake Hartley frowned. "I don't know," he confessed. "The evidence is the sort that any court in the
world would accept, if it concerned ordinary, normal events. Especially the cases investigated by the
Society for Psychical Research: they have been verified. But how can anybody know of something that
hasn't happened yet? If it hasn't happened yet, it doesn't exist, and you can't have real knowledge of
something that has no real existence."

"Tyrrell discusses that dilemma, and doesn't dispose of it. I think I can. If somebody has real knowledge
of the future, then the future must be available to the present mind. And if any moment other than the bare
present exists, then all time must be totally present; every moment must be perpetually coexistent with
every other moment," Allan said.
"Yes. I think I see what you mean. That was Dunne's idea, wasn't it?"

"No. Dunne postulated an infinite series of time dimensions, the entire extent of each being the bare
present moment of the next. What I'm postulating is the perpetual coexistence of every moment of time in
this dimension, just as every graduation on a yardstick exists equally with every other graduation, but
each at a different point in space."

"Well, as far as duration and sequence go, that's all right," the father agreed. "But how about the 'Passage
of Time'?"

"Well, time does appear to pass. So does the landscape you see from a moving car window. I'll suggest
that both are illusions of the same kind. We imagine time to be dynamic, because we've never viewed it
from a fixed point, but if it is totally present, then it must be static, and in that case, we're moving through
time."

"That seems all right. But what's your car window?"

"If all time is totally present, then you must exist simultaneously at every moment along your individual life
span," Allan said. "Your physical body, and your mind, and all the thoughts contained in your mind, each
at its appropriate moment in sequence. But what is it that exists only at the bare moment we think of as
now?"
Blake Hartley grinned. Already, he was accepting his small son as an intellectual equal.

"Please, teacher; what?"

"Your consciousness. And don't say, 'What's that?' Teacher doesn't know. But we're only conscious of
one moment; the illusory now. This is 'now,' and it was 'now' when you asked that question, and it'll be
'now' when I stop talking, but each is a different moment. We imagine that all those nows are rushing past
us. Really, they're standing still, and our consciousness is whizzing past them."

His father thought that over for some time. Then he sat up. "Hey!" he cried, suddenly. "If some part of
our ego is time-free and passes from moment to moment, it must be extraphysical, because the physical
body exists at every moment through which the consciousness passes. And if it's extraphysical, there's no
reason whatever for assuming that it passes out of existence when it reaches the moment of the death of
the body. Why, there's logical evidence for survival, independent of any alleged spirit communication!
You can toss out Patience Worth, and Mrs. Osborne Leonard's Feda, and Sir Oliver Lodge's son, and
Wilfred Brandon, and all the other spirit-communicators, and you still have evidence."

"I hadn't thought of that," Allan confessed. "I think you're right. Well, let's put that at the bottom of the
agenda and get on with this time business. You 'lose consciousness' as in sleep; where does your
consciousness go? I think it simply detaches from the moment at which you go to sleep, and moves
backward or forward along the line of moment-sequence, to some prior or subsequent moment,
attaching there."

"Well, why don't we know anything about that?" Blake Hartley asked. "It never seems to happen. We go
to sleep tonight, and it's always tomorrow morning when we wake; never day-before-yesterday, or last
month, or next year."

"It never ... or almost never ... seems to happen; you're right there. Know why? Because if the
consciousness goes forward, it attaches at a moment when the physical brain contains memories of the
previous, consciously unexperienced, moment. You wake, remembering the evening before, because
that's the memory contained in your mind at that moment, and back of it are memories of all the events in
the interim. See?"

"Yes. But how about backward movement, like this experience of yours?"

"This experience of mine may not be unique, but I never heard of another case like it. What usually
happens is that the memories carried back by the consciousness are buried in the subconscious mind.
You know how thick the wall between the subconscious and the conscious mind is. These dreams of
Dunne's, and the cases in Tyrrell's book, are leakage. That's why precognitions are usually incomplete
and distorted, and generally trivial. The wonder isn't that good cases are so few; it's surprising that there
are any at all." Allan looked at the papers in front of him. "I haven't begun to theorize about how I
managed to remember everything. It may have been the radiations from the bomb, or the effect of the
narcotic, or both together, or something at this end, or a combination of all three. But the fact remains
that my subconscious barrier didn't function, and everything got through. So, you see, I am
obsessed—by my own future identity."

"And I'd been afraid that you'd been, well, taken-over by some ... some outsider." Blake Hartley grinned
weakly. "I don't mind admitting, Allan, that what's happened has been a shock. But that other ... I just
couldn't have taken that."




"No. Not and stayed sane. But really, I am your son; the same entity I was yesterday. I've just had what
you might call an educational short cut."

"I'll say you have!" His father laughed in real amusement. He discovered that his cigar had gone out, and
re-lit it. "Here; if you can remember the next thirty years, suppose you tell me when the War's going to
end. This one, I mean."

"The Japanese surrender will be announced at exactly 1901—7:01 P. M. present style—on August 14.
A week from Tuesday. Better make sure we have plenty of grub in the house by then. Everything will be
closed up tight till Thursday morning; even the restaurants. I remember, we had nothing to eat in the
house but some scraps."

"Well! It is handy, having a prophet in the family! I'll see to it Mrs. Stauber gets plenty of groceries in....
Tuesday a week? That's pretty sudden, isn't it?"

"The Japs are going to think so," Allan replied. He went on to describe what was going to happen.

His father swore softly. "You know, I've heard talk about atomic energy, but I thought it was just Buck
Rogers stuff. Was that the sort of bomb that got you?"

"That was a firecracker to the bomb that got me. That thing exploded a good ten miles away."

Blake Hartley whistled softly. "And that's going to happen in thirty years! You know, son, if I were you, I
wouldn't like to have to know about a thing like that." He looked at Allan for a moment. "Please, if you
know, don't ever tell me when I'm going to die."

Allan smiled. "I can't. I had a letter from you just before I left for the front. You were seventy-eight, then,
and you were still hunting, and fishing, and flying your own plane. But I'm not going to get killed in any
Battle of Buffalo, this time, and if I can prevent it, and I think I can, there won't be any World War III."

"But—You say all time exists, perpetually coexistent and totally present," his father said. "Then it's right
there in front of you, and you're getting closer to it, every watch tick."

Allan Hartley shook his head. "You know what I remembered, when Frank Gutchall came to borrow a
gun?" he asked. "Well, the other time, I hadn't been home: I'd been swimming at the Canoe Club, with
Larry Morton. When I got home, about half an hour from now, I found the house full of cops. Gutchall
talked the .38 officers' model out of you, and gone home; he'd shot his wife four times through the body,
finished her off with another one back of the ear, and then used his sixth shot to blast his brains out. The
cops traced the gun; they took a very poor view of your lending it to him. You never got it back."

"Trust that gang to keep a good gun," the lawyer said.

"I didn't want us to lose it, this time, and I didn't want to see you lose face around City Hall. Gutchalls, of
course, are expendable," Allan said. "But my main reason for fixing Frank Gutchall up with a padded cell
was that I wanted to know whether or not the future could be altered. I have it on experimental authority
that it can be. There must be additional dimensions of time; lines of alternate probabilities. Something like
William Seabrook's witch-doctor friend's Fan-Shaped Destiny. When I brought memories of the future
back to the present, I added certain factors to the causal chain. That set up an entirely new line of
probabilities. On no notice at all, I stopped a murder and a suicide. With thirty years to work, I can stop
a world war. I'll have the means to do it, too."

"The means?"

"Unlimited wealth and influence. Here." Allan picked up a sheet and handed it to his father. "Used
properly, we can make two or three million on that, alone. A list of all the Kentucky Derby, Preakness,
and Belmont winners to 1970. That'll furnish us primary capital. Then, remember, I was something of a
chemist. I took it up, originally, to get background material for one of my detective stories; it fascinated
me, and I made it a hobby, and then a source of income. I'm thirty years ahead of any chemist in the
world, now. You remember I. G. Farbenindustrie? Ten years from now, we'll make them look like
pikers."

His father looked at the yellow sheet. "Assault, at eight to one," he said. "I can scrape up about five
thousand for that—Yes; in ten years—Any other little operations you have in mind?" he asked.

"About 1950, we start building a political organization, here in Pennsylvania. In 1960, I think we can
elect you President. The world situation will be crucial, by that time, and we had a good-natured
nonentity in the White House then, who let things go till war became inevitable. I think President Hartley
can be trusted to take a strong line of policy. In the meantime, you can read Machiavelli."

"That's my little boy, talking!"

Blake Hartley said softly. "All right, son; I'll do just what you tell me, and when you grow up, I'll be
president.... Let's go get supper, now."

THE END.




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