Episode Transcript
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Time and time again by h beamPiper. For the X one collection to
upset the stable mighty stream of timewould probably take an enormous concentration of energy,
and it's not to be expected thata man would get a second chance
at life, but an atomic mightaccomplish both. Blinded by the bomb flash
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and numbed by the narcotic injection,he could not estimate the extent of his
injuries, but he knew that hewas dying. Around him in the darkness,
voices sounded as through a thick wall. They might have left most of
these joes where they was. Halfof them won't even last till the truck
comes. No matter, so longas they are alive, they must be
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treated. Another voice, crisp andcultivated, rebuked, better start taking names
while we're waiting, Yes, sir, Fingers fumbled at his identity, Badge
Hartly, Allan Captain G five kemresearch A N slash seventy three slash D
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serial S O two three eight sixnine four O three J Allan Hartly,
the metic officer spoke in shocked surprise. Why he's the man who wrote Children
of the mist Rose of Death andConqueror's rode. He tried to speak and
must have stirred. The Corman's voicesharpened. Major, I think he's part
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conscious. Maybe I'd better give himanother shot. Yes, yes, by
all means, Sergeant. Something jabbedAllan Hartly in the back of the neck.
Soft billows of oblivion closed in uponhim, and all that remained to
him was a tiny spark of awareness, glowing alone and lost in a great
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darkness. The spark grew brighter.He was more than a something that merely
knew that it exists. He wasa 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 doingoutside the shelter the moment before, and
memories of the month long siege andof the retreat from the north, and
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memories of the days before the war, back to the time when he had
been little, Allan Hartley, aschoolboy, the son of a successful lawyer
in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. His motherhe could not remember. There was only
a vague impression of the house fullof people who had tried to comfort him
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for something he could not understand.But he remembered the old German woman who
kept house for his father afterward,and he remembered his bedroom with its chintz
covered chairs, and the warm coloredpatch quilt on the old cherry bed,
and the fan curtains at the windowsedged with dusky red, and the morning
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sun shining through them. At almostsee them now he blinked, He could
see them. For a long time. He lay staring at them unbelievingly,
and then he deliberately closed his eyesand counted ten seconds. And as he
counted, terror gripped him. Hewas afraid to open them again, lest
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he find himself blind or gazing atthe filth and wreckage of a blasted city.
But when he reached ten, heforced himself to look and gave a
sigh of relief. The sunlit curtainsand the sun gilded mist outside were still
there. He reached out to checkone sense against another, feeling the rough
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monk's cloth and the edging of maroonsilk thread. They were tangible as well
as visible. Then he saw thatthe back of his hand was unscarred.
There should have been a scar,souvenir of a rough and tumbled brawl of
his cub reporter days. He examinedboth hands closely and instantly. He had
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sat up in bed and thrown offthe covers, partially removing his pajamas and
inspecting as much of his body aswas 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 yearsago. He looked again at his body.
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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 tablethat served as desk and catch hall for
his possessions, the dresser with itsmirror stuck full of pictures of aircraft.
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It was the bedroom of his childhoodhome. He swung his legs over the
edge of the bed. They weresix inches too short to reach the floor
for an ins The room spun dizzily, and he was in the grip of
utter panic. All confidence in theevidence of his senses lost. Was he
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insane or delirious? Or had thebomb really killed him? Was this what
death was like? What was thatthing about ye become as little children?
He started to laugh, and hisjuvenile larynx made giggling sounds. They seemed
funny too, and aggravated his mirth. For a little while, he was
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on the edge of hysteria, Andthen when he managed to control his laughter,
he felt calmer. If he weredead, then he must be a
discarnate entity and would be able topenetrate matter. To his relief, he
was unable to push his hand throughthe bed, so he was alive.
He was also fully awake, andhe hoped rational. He rose to his
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feet and prowled about the room,taking stock of its contents. There was
no calendar sight, and he couldfind no newspapers or dated periodicals, but
he knew that it was prior toJuly eighteenth, nineteen forty six. On
that day, his fourteenth birthday,his father had given him a light twenty
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two rifle, and it had beenhung on a pair of rustic forks on
the wall. It was not therenow, nor ever had been. On
the table, he saw a boy'sbook of military aircraft with a clean new
dust jacket. The fly leaf wasinscribed to Allan Hartley from his father.
On his thirteenth birthday seven eighteen fortyfive, glancing out the window at the
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foliage on the trees, he estimatedthe date at late July or early August
nineteen forty five. That would makehim 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 apair of lemon colored socks, which
he regarded with disfavor. As hepulled one on, a church bell began
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to clang Saint Boniface up on thehill, ringing for early Mass. So
this was Sunday. He paused thesecond sock in his hand. There was
no question that his present environment wasactual. Yet, on the other hand,
he possessed a set of memories completelyat variance with it. Now suppose,
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since his environment were not an illusion, everything else were. Suppose all
these troublesome memories were no more thana dream. Why he was just little
Allan Hartly, safe in his roomon a Sunday morning, badly scared by
a nightmare. Too much science fiction, Allan too many comic books. That
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was a wonderfully comforting thought, andhe hugged it to him contentedly. It
lasted all the while he was buttoningup his shirt and pulling on his pants,
but when he reached for his shoes, it evaporated. Ever since he
had wakened, he realized he hadbeen occupied with thoughts utterly incomprehensible to any
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thirteen year old, even thinking inwords that would have been so much Sanskrit
to himself at thirteen. He shookhis 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 responsiblefor his predicament. He was going to
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have to be careful. An unexpecteddisplay of adult characteristics might give rise to
some questions he would find hard toanswer credibly. Fortunately, he was an
only child. There would be nobrothers or sisters to trip him up.
Old missus Stauber, the housekeeper wouldn'tbe much of a problem. Even in
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his normal childhood he had balked likean intellectual giant in comparison to her his
father. Now there, the goingwould be tough. He knew that shrewd
Attorney's mind wetted keen on a generationof lying and reluctant witnesses. Sooner or
later he would forget for an instantand betray himself. Then he smiled,
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remembering the books he had discovered inhis late tnes on his father's shells,
and recalling the character of the openminded, agnostic lawyer. If he could
only avoid the inevitable unmasking until hehad a plausible explanatory theory. Blake Hartley
was leaving the bathroom as Allan Hartleyopened his door and stepped into the hall.
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The lawyer was bare armed and inslippers. At forty eight. There
was only a faint powdering of grayin his dark hair, and not a
gray thread in his clipped mustache.The old merry widower himself, Alan thought,
grinning as he remembered the white hairedbut still vigorous men from whom he'd
departed at the outbreak of the war. Morning Dad, he greeted, Morning
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son, you're up early going toSunday school. Now there was the advantage
of a father who'd cut his firstintellectual tooth on Tom Payne and Bob Ingersoll.
Attendance at Divine Services was on astrictly voluntary basis. Why I don't
think so. I want to dosome reading this morning. That's always a
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good thing to do. Blake hartlyapproved, after breakfast, suppose you take
a walk down to the station andget me at times. He dug in
his trouser pocket and came out witha half dollar. Get anything you want
for yourself while you're at it.Allan thanked his father and pocketed the coin.
Missus Stauber will be at mass,he suggested, Say I get the
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paper now. Breakfast won't be readytill she gets here. Good idea.
Blake hartly nodded, Please, you'llhave three quarters of an hour at least
so far, he congratulated himself.Everything had gone smoothly. Finishing his toilet,
he went downstairs and on to thestreet, turning left at Brandon to
Campbell, and left again in thedirection of the station. Before he reached
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the underpass, a dozen half forgottenmemories had revived. Here was a house
that would in a few years begutted by fire. Here were four dwellings
standing where he had last seen,a five story apartment building, a gasolene
station, and a weed grown lotwould shortly be replaced by his supermarket.
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The environs of the station itself werea complete puzzle to him, until he
oriented himself. He bought a NewYork Times. Glancing first of all at
the date line Sunday, August fifth, nineteen forty five, he estimated pretty
closely the Battle of Okinawa had beenwon. The Potsdam Conference had just ended.
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There were still pictures of the Beattwenty five crash against the Empire State
Building a week ago Saturday, andJapan was still being pounded by bombs from
the air and shells from offshore navalguns. Why tomorrow Hiroshima was due for
the big job. It amused himto reflect that he was probably the only
person in Williamsport who knew that.On the way home, a boy sitting
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on the top step of front porchhailed him. Allan replied cordially, trying
to remember who it was. Ofcourse, Larry Morton. He and Allan
had been buddies. They probably hadbeen swimming or playing Commandos and Germans the
afternoon before. Larry had gone toCornell the same year that Allan had gone
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to Penn State. They had bothgraduated in nineteen fifty four. Larry had
gotten into some government bureau, andthen he had married a Pittsburgh girl and
had become twelfth vice president of herfather's firm. He had been killed in
nineteen sixty eight a plane crash.You go to Sunday school, Larry asked,
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mercifully, unaware of the fate Allanforesaw for him. Why no,
I have some things I want todo at home. He'd have to watch
himself. Larry would spot a differencequicker than any adult. Heck with it,
he added, Golly, I wishedI could stay home from Sunday school
whenever I wanted to. Larry envied, how about us going swimming at the
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canoe club? Safter? Alan thoughtfast, gee, I wished could,
he replied, lowering his grammatical sights, I gotta stay home safter we're expecting
company. Compla 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 adultmind, and no appeal from adult demands.
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The prospect of company at the Hartleyhome would keep Larry away that afternoon.
He showed his disappointment. Ah jeepers, creepers, he blasphemed euphemistically.
Maybe tomorrow, Allan said, ifI can make it, I gotta go
now. Ain't had breakfast, Yethis scuffed his feet boyishly exchanged so long
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as with his friend, and continuedhomeward 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 deepin the financial section when Allan left the
table and went to the library.There should be two books there to which
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he wanted badly to refer. Fora while, he was afraid that his
father had not acquired them prior tonineteen forty five, but he finally found
them and carried them on to thefront porch, along with a pencil and
a ruled yellow scratch pad. Inhis experienced future or his past to come,
Allan Hartley had been accustomed to doinghis thinking with a pencil. As
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reporter, as olist, plotting hiswork as amateur chemist in his home laboratory.
As scientific warfare research officer, hisideas had always been clarified by making
notes. He pushed a chair tothe table and built up the seat with
cushions, wondering how soon he wouldbecome used to the proportional disparity between himself
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and the furniture. As he openedthe books, and took his pencil in
his hand. There was one thingmissing. If he could only smoke a
pipe now. His father came outand stretched in a wicker chair with the
Times Book review section. The morninghours passed, Alan Hartley leafed through one
book and then the other. Hispencil moved rapidly at times, at others
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he doodled absently. There was noquestion any more in his mind as to
what or who he was. Hewas Alan Hartley, a man of forty
three, marooned in his own thirteenyear old body, thirty years back in
his own past. That was,of course against all common sense, but
he was easily able to ignore thatobjection. He had been made before,
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against the astronomy of Copernicus, andthe geography of Columbus, and the biology
of Darwin, and the industrial technologyof Samuel Colt, and the military doctrines
of Charles de gaul. Today's commonsense had a habit of turning into tomorrow's
utter nonsense. What he needed rightnow, but bad, was a theory
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that would explain what had happened tohim. Understanding was beginning to dawn when
Missus Stauber came out to announce middaydinner. I hope you've won't mind having
it so early, she apologized minesister Jenny offering Nippino's. She is sick.
I vant to go see her thisafternoon, yet, I'll be back
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in plenty time to get supper.Mister Hartley, Hey, dad, Alan
spoke up. Why can't we getour own supper and have a picnic like?
That'd be fun? And Missus Staubertcould 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 dawnof altruism or something. He gave hearty
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assent. Why, of course,Missus Staubert, Allan and I can shift
for ourselves this evening, can't we? Hallan, you needn't come back till
tomorrow morning. Ah, thank you, thank you so much, mister Hartley.
At dinner, Allan got out fromunder the burden of conversation by questioning
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his father about the war and luringhim 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 wassecretly amused. His father was sure that
the war would run on to midnineteen forty six. After dinner, they
returned to the porch, heartly pair, smoking a cigar and carrying out several
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law books. He only glanced atthese occasionally. For the most part,
he sat and blew smoke rings andwatched them float away. Some thrice guilty
Felon was about to be triumphantly acquittedby a weeping jury. Allan could recognize
a courtroom masterpiece in the process ofincubation. It was several hours later that
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the crunch of feet on the walkcaused father and son to look up simultaneously.
The approaching visitor was a tall manin a rumpled black suit. He
had notaby wrists and big awkward hands, black hair flecked with gray, and
a harsh, bigoted face. Allanremembered him. Frank Gutchell lived on Campbell
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Street, a religious fanatic and somesort of lay preacher. Maybe he needed
legal advice. Allan could vaguely remembersome incident. A good afternoon, mister
Gutchell, lovely day, isn't it, Blake Hartley said. Gutchell cleared his
throat. Mister Hartley, I wonderif you could lend me a gun and
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some bullets. He began embarrassedly.My little dog's been hurt and it's suffering
something terrible. I want a gunto put the poor thing out of its
pain. Why, yes, ofcourse, How would a twenty gage shotgun
do? Blake Hartley asked, Youwouldn't want anything heavy. Gutchell fidgeted,
Why er, I was hoping you'dlet me have a little gun. He
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held his hands about six inches apart, a pistol that I could put in
my pocket. It wouldn't look rightto carry a hunting gun on the Lord's
Day. People wouldn't understand that itwas for a work of mercy. The
lawyer nodded. In view of Gutchell'sreligious beliefs, the objection made sense.
Well, I have a COLT thirtyeight special, he said, But you
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know I belonged to this auxiliary policeoutfit. If I were called out for
duty this evening, i'd need it. How soon could you bring it back?
Something clicked Allan Hartley's mind. Heremembered now what that incident had been.
He knew too what he had todo. Dad. Aren't there some
cartridges left for the luger. Heasked. Blake Hartley snapped his fingers by
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George. Yes, I have aGerman automatic. I can let you have,
but I wish you'd bring it backas soon as possible. I'll get
it for you. Before he couldrise, Allan was on his feet.
Sit still, Dad, I'll getit. I know where the cartridges are.
With that, he darted into thehouse and upstairs. The luger hung
on the wall over his father's bed. Getting it down, he dismounted it.
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Working with rapid precision, he usedthe blade of his pocket knife to
unlock the endpiece of the breech block, slipping out the firing pen and buttoning
it into his shirt pocket. Thenhe reassembled the harmless pistol and filled the
clip with nine million cartridges from thebureau drawer. There was an extension telephone
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beside the bed. Finding Gutchell's addressin 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 Gutchell, who lives at takethis down. He gave Gutchell's address.
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Has just borrowed a pistol from me, ostensibly to shoot a dog.
He has no dog, he intendsshooting his wife. Don't argue about how
I know there isn't time. Justtake it for granted that I do.
I disabled the pistol, took outthe firing pen. But if he finds
out what I did, he mayget some other weapon. He's on his
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way home, but he's on foot. If you hurry, you may get
a man there before he arrives andgrab him before he finds out the pistol
won't shoot. Okay, mister Hartley, we'll take care of it. Thanks
And I wish you'd get my pistolback as soon as you can. It's
something I've brought home from the otherwar and I shouldn't like to lose it.
We'll take care of that too,thank you, mister Hartley. He
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hung up and carried the luger andthe loaded clip down to the porch.
Look, mister Gautchell, here's howit works, he said, showing it
to the visitor. Then he slappedin the clip and yanked up on the
toggle, loading the chamber. It'sready 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 pullthe trigger. You have to pull the
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trigger each time it's loaded, foreight shots, and be sure to put
the safety back when you're through shooting. Did you load the chamber? Blake
hartily demanded, sure, it's unsafe. Now, let me see. His
father took the pistol, being carefulto keep his finger out of the trigger
guard, and looked at it.Yes, that's all right. He repeated
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the instructions Allan had given, stressingthe importance of pudding the safety on.
After using understand how it works now, he asked, yes, I understand
how it works. Thank you,mister Hartley, Thank you too, young
men. Gutchell put the luger inhis hip pocket, made sure it wouldn't
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fall out, and took his departure. You shouldn't have loaded it, hartly,
pere reproved. When he was gone, Alan's sighed, this was it.
The masquerade was over. I hadto to keep you from fooling with
it, he said. I didn'twant you finding out that i'd taken out
the firing pen. You what,Gutchell didn't want that gun to shoot a
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dog? He has no dog.He meant to shoot his wife with it.
He's a religious maniac, sees visions, here's voices, receives revelations,
talks with the Holy Ghost. TheHoly Ghost probably put him up to this
caper. I'll submit that any manwho holds long conversations with a deity isn't
to be trusted with a gun,and neither is any man who lies about
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why he wants one. And whileI was at it, I called the
police on the upstairs phone. Ihad to use your name. I deepened
my voice and talked through a handkerchief. You, Blake Hartley jumped as though
bea stung. Why did you haveto do that? You know why I
couldn't have told them? This islittle Allan Hartley, just thirteen years old.
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Please, mister policeman, go andarrest Frank Gutchell before he goes root
toot toot at his wife with mypapa's luger. That would have gone over
big, now, wouldn't it.And suppose he really wants to shoot a
dog, what sort of mess willI be? In? No mess at
all. If I'm wrong, whichI'm not, I'll take the thump for
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it myself. It'll pass for adumb kid trick and nothing will be done.
But if I'm right, you'll haveto front from me. They'll keep
your name out of it, butthey'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 inabout twenty minutes. That was a ten
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minute under estimate, and it wasanother quarter hour before the detective sergeant who
returned the lugar had finished congratulating blakeHartly 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 inthe chamber well, he told his son,
you were right. You saved thatwoman's life. He looked at the
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automatic and then handed it across thetable. Now let's see you put that
firing pen back. Alan Hartly dismantledthe weapon, inserted the missing part,
and put it together again, thensnapped it experimentally and returned it to his
father. Blake Hartly looked at itagain and laid it on the table.
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Now, son, suppose we havea little talk, he said softly.
But I explained everything. Alan objected, innocently, you did not, his
father retorted, yesterday, you'd neverhave thought of a trick like this.
Why you wouldn't even have known howto take this pistol apart? And at
dinner I caught you using language andexpressing ideas that were entirely outside anything you'd
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ever known before. Now I wantto know, and I mean this literally,
Alan chuckled. I hope you're nottoying with the rather medieval notion of
obsession, he said. Blake Hartlystarted something very like that must have been
flitting through his mind. He openedhis mouth to say something, then closed
it abruptly. The trouble is,I'm not sure you aren't right, his
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son continued. You say you findme changed? When did you first notice
a difference? Last night? Youwere still my little boy this morning.
Blake Hartley was talking more to himselfthan to Alan. I don't know.
You were unusually silent at breakfast,and come to think of it, there
was something something strange about you whenI saw you in the hall upstairs.
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Alan stout vehemently, what has happenedto you? Alan Hartley felt a twinge
of pain. What his father wasgoing through was almost what he himself had
endured in the first few minutes afterwaking. I wish I could be sure
of myself, dad, he said. You see, when I woke this
morning, I hadn't the least recollectionof anything I'd done yesterday August fourth,
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nineteen forty five. 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 bombexplosion. And I was equally convinced that
this had happened in nineteen seventy five. Huh, His father straightened. Did
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you say nineteen seventy five? Hethought, for a moment, that's right,
in nineteen seventy five, you willbe forty three. A bomb,
you say, Alan nodded. Duringthe Siege of Buffalo in the Third World
War, he said, I wasa captain in G five Scientific Warfare General's
staff. There'd been a transpolar airinvasion of Canada, and I'd been sent
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to the front to check on servicefailures of a new lubricating oil for combat
equipment. A week after I gotthere, Ottawa fell and the retreat started.
We made a stand at Buffalo andthat was where I copped it.
I remember being picked up and gettinga narcotic injection. The next thing I
knew, I was in bed upstairs, and it was nineteen forty five again,
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and I was back in my ownlittle thirteen year old body. Oh,
Allan, you just had a nightmareto 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 fill the fax. Look,a normal dream is part of the dreamer's
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own physical brain, isn't it.Well, here is a part about two
thousand percent greater than the whole fromwhich it was taken, which is absurd.
You mean all this Battle of Buffalostuff, that's easy. All the
radio commentators have been harping on thehorrors of World War three, and you
couldn't have avoided hearing some of it. You just have an undigested chunk of
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h V. Calton Borne raising hellin your subconscious. It wasn't just World
War three. It was everything myfour years at high school and my four
years at Penn State, and sevenyears as a reporter on the Philadelphia Record,
and my novels, Children of themist Rose, of Death, Conqueror's
Rode. They were no kid stuff. Why yesterday, I'd never even have
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thought of some of the ideas Iused in my detective stories that I published
under a nom de plume, andmy hobby chemistry. I was pretty good
at that, patented a couple ofprocesses that made me as much money as
my writing. You think, atthirteen year old, just dreamed all that
up? Or here? You speakFrench, don't you. He switched languages
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and spoke at some length in goodconversational slang Spice, Parisian de bad.
You don't speak Spanish, too,he added, reverting to English, except
for a Mexican accent. You couldcut with a machette. I'm even better
there than in French. And Iknow some German and a little Russian.
Blake Hartley was staring at his son, stunned. It was some time before
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he could make himself speak. Icould barely keep up with you in French,
he admitted. I can swear thatin the last thirteen years of your
life you had absolutely no chance tolearn it. All right, you lived
till nineteen seventy five. You say, then, all of a sudden You've
found yourself back here thirteen years oldin nineteen forty five. I suppose you
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remember everything in between? He asked. Did you ever read James branch Cabell,
remember Florian de Poussan in the HighPlace? Yes, you find the
same idea in Jurgen too. Allansaid, you know, I'm beginning to
wonder if a cable mightn't have knownsomething he didn't want to write. But
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it's impossible. Blake hartly hit thetable with his hand so hard that the
heavy pistol bounced. The loose roundhe had ejected from the chamber toppled over
and started to roll, falling offthe edge. He stooped and picked it
up. How can you go backagainst time? And the time you claim
you came from doesn't exist now,it hasn't happened yet. He reached for
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the pistol magazine to insert the cartridge, and as he did, he saw
the books in front of his son. Dunn'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 anadult to adult manner. I think I'm
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somewhere too. You've read these bookswell looked at. What's your attitude on
precognition, the ability of the humanmind to exhibit real knowledge apart from logical
inference of future events. You thinkDone is telling the truth about his experiences,
or that the cases in Tyrrell's bookare properly verified and can't be explained
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away on the basis of chance.Blake Hartley frowned. I don't know,
he confessed. The evidence is thesort that any court in the world would
accept if it concerned ordinary, normalevents, especially the cases investigated by the
Society for Psychical Research. They havebeen verified. But how can anybody know
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of something that hasn't happened yet.If it hasn't happened yet, it doesn't
exist, and you can't have realknowledge of something that has no real existence.
Tyrrell discusses that dilemma and doesn't disposeof it. I think I can.
If somebody has real knowledge of thefuture, then the future must be
available to the present mind, andif any moment other than the bare present
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exists, then all time must betotally present. Every moment must be perpetually
coexistent with every other moment. Alansaid, yes, I think I see
what you mean. That was Dunne'sidea, wasn't it. No. Dune
postulated an infinite series of time dimensions, the entire extent of each being the
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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 sequencego, that's all right, the
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father agreed, But how about thepassage of time? Well, time does
appear to pass, so does thelandscape you see from a moving car window.
I'll suggest that both are illusions ofthe same kind. We imagine time
to be dynamic because we've never viewedit from a fixed point. But if
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it is totally present, then itmust be static, and in that case,
we're moving through time. That seemsall right, But what's your car
window? If all time is totallypresent, then you must exist simultaneously at
every moment along your individual lifespan,Alan said, your physical body and your
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mind and all the thoughts contained inyour mind, each at its appropriate moment
and sequence. But what is itthat exists only at the bare moment we
think of as now? Blake Hartleygrinned already. He was expecting his small
son as an intellectual equal. Please, teacher, what your consciousness? And
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don't say what's that? Teacher doesNo, But we're only conscious of one
moment, the illusory one. Thisis now, and it was now when
you ask that question, and it'llbe now when I stop talking. But
each is a different moment. Weimagine that all those nows are rushing past
us. Really they're standing still,and our consciousness is whizzing past them.
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His father thought that over for sometime. Then he sat up. Hey,
he cried, Suddenly, if somepart of our ego is time free
and passes from moment to moment,it must be extra physical, because the
physical body exists at every moment throughwhich the consciousness passes. And if it's
extra physical, there's no reason whateverfor assuming that it passes out of existence
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when it reaches the moment of thedeath of the body. Why there's logical
evidence for survival independent of any allegedspirit communication. You can toss up patient's
worth and missus Osborne Leonard's and SirOliver Lodge's son, and Wilfred Brandon and
all the other spirit communicators, andyou still have evidence. I hadn't thought
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of that Allan confessed. I thinkyou're right. Well, let's put that
at the bottom of the agenda andget on with this time business. You
lose consciousness as in sleep, wheredoes your consciousness go? I think it
simply detaches from the moment at whichyou go to sleep and moves backward or
forward along the line of moment sequenceto some prior or subsequent moment, attaching
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there. Well, why don't weknow anything about that? Blake Hartley asked,
It never seems to happen. Wego to sleep tonight and it's always
tomorrow morning when we wake, neverday before, yesterday, or last month
or next year. It never oralmost never seems to happen. You're right
there, know why? Because ifthe consciousness goes forward, it attaches at
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a moment when the physical brain containsmemories of the previous consciously an unexperienced moment.
You wake remembering the evening before,because that's the memory contained in your
mind at that moment, and backof it are memories of all the events
in the interim. See yes,but how about backward movement like this experience
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of yours? This experience of mindmay 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 inthe subconscious mind. You know how thick
the wall between the subconscious and theconscious mind is. These dreams of Dunn's
in the cases in Tyrrell's book areleakage. That's why precognitions are usually incomplete
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and distorted and generally trivial. Thewonder isn't that good cases are so few.
It's surprising that there are any atall. Alan looked at the papers
in front of him. I haven'tbegun to your eyes about how I managed
to remember everything. It may havebeen the radiations from the bomb or the
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effect of the narcotic are both together, or something at this end, or
a combination of all three. Butthe fact remains that my subconscious barrier didn't
function and everything got through. Soyou see, I am obsessed by my
own future identity, and i'd beenafraid that you'd been well taken over by
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some some outsider. Blake Hartley grinnedweakly. 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
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educational shortcut. I'll say you havehis father laughed in real amusement, 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 dwar is
going to end. This one,I mean, the Japanese surrender will be
announced at exactly nineteen o one,seven oh one pm present style on August
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fourteenth, a week from Tuesday.Better make sure we have plenty of grub
in the house by then. Everythingwill be closed up tight till Thursday morning,
even the restaurants. I remember wehad nothing to eat in the house
but some scraps. Well, itis handy having a prophet in the family.
I'll see to it. Missus Staubergets plenty of groceries in Tuesday a
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week. That's pretty sudden, isn'tit. The Japs are going to think
so, Allan replied. He wenton to describe what was going to happen.
His father swore, softly, youknow, I've heard talk about atomic
energy, but I thought it wasjust Buck Rogers stuff. Was that the
sort of bomb that got you?That was a firecracker to the bomb that
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caught me. That thing exploded agood ten miles away. Blake Hartley whistled
softly. And that's going to happenin thirty years, you know, son,
If I were you, I wouldn'tlike to have to know about a
thing like that. He looked atAlan for a moment. Please, if
you know, don't ever tell mewhen I'm going to die, Alan smiled.
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I can't. I had a letterfrom you just before I left for
the front. You were seventy eightthen, 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'tbe any World War three. But you
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say all time exists, perpetually,coexistent and totally present, his father said,
then it's right there in front ofyou, and you're getting closer to
it every watch tick. Alan Hartleyshook his head. You know what I
remembered when Frank Gutchell came to borrowa gun, He asked, Well,
the other time, I hadn't beenhome. I'd been swimming at the Canoe
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club with Larry Morton. When Igot home about a half hour from now,
I found the house full of cops. Gutchell talked the thirty eight officer's
model out of you and gone home. He'd shot his wife four times through
the body, finished her off withanother one back of the ear, and
then used his sixth shot to blasthis brains out. The cops traced the
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gun. They took a very poorview of your lending it to him.
You never got it back. Trustthat gang to keep a good gun,
The lawyer said. I didn't wantto lose it this time, and I
didn't want to see you lose facearound city hall. Gutchells, of course,
are expendable, Allan said, Butmy main reason for fixing Frank Gutchell
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up with a padded cell was thatI wanted to know whether or not the
future could be altered. I haveit on experimental authority that it can be
there must be additional dimensions of time, lines of alternative probabilities, something like
William Seabrook's which Doctor Friends Fan shapeddestiny. When I brought memories of the
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future back to the present, Iadded certain factors to the causal chain that
set up an entirely new line ofprobabilities 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 havethe means to do it too, the
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means unlimited wealth and influence. HereAlan 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 allthe Kentucky Derby, Preakness and Beaumont winners
to nineteen seventy. That'll furnish usprimary capital. Then, remember I was
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something of a chemist. I tookit up originally to get background material for
one of my detective stories. Itfascinated 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 rememberI g barbon industry. Ten years from
now, we'll make them look likepikers. His father looked at the Yellow
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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 nineteen fifty, we start building
a political organization here in Pennsylvania.In nineteen sixty, I think we can
elect you president. The world situationwill be crucial by that time, and
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we had a good natured nonentity inthe White House then who let things go
till war became inevitable. I thinkPresident Hartly can be trusted to take a
strong line of policy in the meantime. You can read Machiavelli. That's my
little boy talking. Blake Hartly said, softly, all right, son,
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I'll do just what you tell me, and when you grow up, I'll
be president. Let's go get suppernow. End of time and time again
by h Beam Piper