"Time Deliveries, Incorporated," the little man chanted. "We guarantee
deliveries to anyone, anywhere, any time. Here's your package, Mr.
Linger."
"B-but," Joe stammered, "where'd you _come_ from?"
The little man lifted his lower left hand and fingered his pointed
chin. A gleam entered his blue eyes. "Originally, I came from Ursula
Major," he said. "That's 3428 A.D., by the present calendar. Now, do
you accept this package or--"
"I--I accept!" Joe blurted, grabbing for the package. In his haste, he
dropped the clipboard and pencil, but four hands deftly snatched them
up before they hit the floor.
"Very well," said the little man. "Good day, Mr. Linger!" He stepped
back into the hallway and pulled the door shut.
Joe stood frozen with the large square package clutched to his chest.
Then he lunged forward, wrenched at the doorknob, jerked the door open,
and leaped out into the hall. "Hey-y-y-y!" his shout wavered off into
weak dismay.
The hallway was empty.
* * * * *
He reentered his room, closed and locked the door carefully, and walked
over to his bed. His dazed eyes wandered to the window, to the dirty
brick wall of the apartment house next door, to the shaft of blazing
afternoon sunlight that struck the grimy windowpane. In broad daylight!
_It had happened in broad daylight!_
He sat on the bed, staring at the package in his lap. It was a light,
bulky package, wrapped in some silvery gray substance that felt colder
and smoother than rubber--more like metal. On one side of the package
was an inscription in large, bold script:
To: Mr. Joseph Linger
June 27th, 1951, Dark Ages Earth
24 Kens Street, Jersey City, N.J.
United States, North America
He wondered if it was a gag. But the little old man with four arms
hadn't been a gag!
Finally, Joe opened the package. He merely inserted his thumb into a
conspicuous slot at the corner and pushed it around the top edges. The
silver-gray material parted easily and the lid came off the package. As
it fell aside, he saw that the interior was filled with what resembled
a rubber sponge soaked in black lacquer. It was dry, springy, and
blackly glistening. He clutched at it and pulled it out.
Only a top layer came out. Beneath that, surrounded with layers of the
cushioning substance, was--_something_--and a folded sheet of glossy,
white paper.
Joe took out the paper and read it.
Mr. Joseph Linger
June 27th, 1951, U.S.A.
Dark Ages Earth
_Dear Mr. Linger_:
_We have chosen you to assist us in an important research project,
because our investigation has found you to be a science fiction
enthusiast. We believe you have a better chance of comprehending
the scope of our research than would most people of your time._
_As you may have suspected, time involves a countless number of
varying probability universes, all coexisting in the same time
dimension. It is much like a giant tree, with branches sprouting
from the root--the very beginning of time--and subsequent branches
sprouting from others; and so, on and on._
_Our research teams have travelled successfully into the past.
However, in attempting to return, they have been faced with
innumerable branches in time-probability, with no way of
determining which branch led to our universe!_
_Only a few have succeeded in returning--by recording the complete
facts of history as they went into the past, then stopping and
checking those facts every few years on their return. When the
facts didn't check, they knew they were off on another branch
leading to another universe; they would back-track, try again,
and check until they were on the right branch._
_Even so, many members of our research teams died before they could
return--and our average life-span is five thousand years! You may
understand, then, that this is an intolerable situation that needs
correcting._
_The purpose of this project is to determine the amount of
probability stress which causes a branch in time, this allowing us
to check back and spot every moment that such branches occur! With
that, we can compute the moments of stress and the number of
branches in all time-probability! Consequently, our research teams
may then travel safely to any time-era, in any probability
universe, with a yard-stick which can always lead them back to our
own universe._
_And so, in order to measure the probability stress which causes
time-branching, we have decided to introduce such stress ourselves.
Enclosed is a product of our civilization. You would probably call
it a robot. It should never have existed in your time; therefore,
it will induce considerable stress upon probability. A branch in
time should result, if not when the robot arrives, certainly when
you make use of it. That, of course, is where you come in._
_We have sent this robot because it will repay you many times over
for your assistance in our project. We have scanners focused on
your time, ready to record the branching and probability stress
when it occurs. We ask only your cooperation. You may keep the
robot, of course._
_It will fashion any object you desire from surrounding
matter--solid objects, air molecules, anything within a thousand
yards of it--if you but type out the name and description of the
desired object on its keyboard. Thus, if you wish an automobile,
take the robot to a deserted road and type on its keyboard the
word, "automobile." By influencing the sub-atomic forces of the
dirt in the road, the empty air over the road, perhaps the grass
along the side of the road, the robot will make you an automobile._
_You may desire objects which do not exist in your time. If you
type the word, spaceship, for example, be sure to include a
description of its performance, range, amount of supplies,
etc.--and be on a large, open field when you do so._
_In conclusion, it might be wise to remember that illegal
possession of wealth in your time is punishable by law. I trust,
for your own sake, you will exercise the utmost discretion._
Sincerely,
Myytnor Skurle
Director, Historial Research
Galactic Renaissance, Sol III
* * * * *
Joe put the letter carefully on the bed beside him and reached into the
box for the robot. He lifted it out. It was a shimmering, silver-gray
globe, lighter than aluminum, with one side of it flattened to
accommodate a keyboard. It was about the size of a bowling ball, he
guessed. The keyboard had small push-buttons, lettered exactly like a
typewriter, with a small glass lens above it. He struck the "J" key and
a tiny, glowing "J" appeared in the center of the lens. He punched the
tab marked "clear" at the top of the keyboard, and the "J" vanished.
His mind reeled at the implications of what he had read. Anything
he wanted was his, merely by typing its name on this keyboard! Even
objects he only imagined, which didn't even exist--spaceships,
antigravity devices, _anything_....
His thoughts were confused. What did he want? Money? But what good was
money when he wouldn't have to buy anything? What did he want?
He felt a sudden, overwhelming desire to confide in someone--to ask
someone--
He rested the globe in his lap, clutching it with moist, slippery
palms. His vision was blurred, his hands fumbling, as he pecked at the
keyboard: