Barry grinned. He gave them a brief resume of the talk and discussion,
and Ackerman's questions of why it couldn't be done by copying the
models used to bring them through. Then, with a flourish and a
beautifully executed counterfeit of Lester Ackerman's voice, tone, and
diction, said: "Why didn't anybody think to ship through a physicist?"
Laughter rang through the ship. Barry himself broke down and leaned
weakly against the desk. Tod Laplane fell inert into a chair and shook
with gales of silent laughter. Louis Ford merely gulped inanely, and
Joan added her mirth in a gurgling contralto.
"Okay," snapped Ackerman, "so soon as I find the face I dropped here
somewhere, I'll leave."
That stopped the laughter. "Look, Ackerman, _you're_ the great
physicist; why should we have another?"
Ackerman snorted. "The next character who calls me a 'great physicist'
either with or without capital letters is going to get a mouthful of
fist," he snarled; "I'm tired of being the main point in a joke."
Barry sobered quickly. "It is not used in a sense of ridicule or
insult."
"I don't give a damn how it is used. I don't like a lot of people
calling me a veritable messiah. I'd not like it even if their tongues
weren't shoved eight miles out in their cheeks. So stop it, unless
you'd like to go a few swift ones with me."
Barry nodded. "Sorry, Ackerman. But--you understand--we know you
brought us here. Within your own mind and your own ability, you have
the secret to the big question."
"About all I know about the physics of this business is that it started
with a few grams of temperon."
"We'll get you some temperon," said Barry. "And a cyclotron. And most
anything else you're likely to need."
"Good," snorted Ackerman. "Get me a lie detector; eight gallons of
scopolamine and a psychiatrist--and have 'em comb my mind. Frankly, I'd
like to know the answer, too."
* * * * *
Ackerman settled for the cyclotron and the temperon. He spent a week of
trying, but little came of it, according to him. Barry Ford had come
well prepared. The mass spectrograph was a beaut; the cyclotron was a
physicist's dream; and the physico-chemical laboratory must have set
someone back a cold half billion.
And to top it all, Ackerman had been the mainspring that brought it
through, and was now trying to figure out how and why.
He learned more about the nuclear properties of temperon. They were
nothing to get excited about, or he considered them normal until the
statistician-girl, Joan Laplane looked up from her notes and asked,
innocently: "Temperon is stable. The neutron-isotope--making it the
next atom-number above, is radioactive. But I note that it is doubly
radioactive."
"It is. It either emits an alpha particle and drops two numbers and
four masses down, or emits a beta ray and jumps a number up with no
change in mass. In the first case the resultant is stable. In the
second case, the resultant then emits an alpha particle and an electron
and becomes stable--the same element."
"But why should it emit one of two particles?"
"That's a normal state for many radioactives," said Ackerman.
"Radioactivity is a sign of atomic instability. The ejection of the
unbalancing particle is not instantaneous. It takes 'time'. In the
meantime, the nucleus is unbalanced. Now, this unbalance energy is
distributed among the particles of the nucleus, and depending whether
the alpha collects the necessary energy first or whether the random
rambling of this energy drives out a beta ray, we have the splitting
of the radioactive ladder. It happens, for instance, in all three of
the normal radioactive chains: Thorium, actinium, and uranium. Thorium
drops down the scale normally, dropping alpha particles and beta rays
until it reaches Thorium C, which is an isotope of bismuth--bismuth
212. There it splits into Thorium C' or Thorium C". Thorium C'
emits alpha and becomes lead 208; Thorium C" emits a beta ray
and--likewise--becomes lead 208."
"Might it mean an unknown structure of the nucleus?" she asked.
"Might," he said reflectively. "There's isotopes--elements with the
same atomic number but different masses. There's isobars--elements
with the same atomic masses but different numbers. Maybe there's
you-name-it-_bars_ with similar masses and numbers but different
structures."
"Different meson activity."
"Mesobars?" he laughed; "I'll buy that." It intrigued him, and he went
on: "Maybe temperon, in splitting into two different possible atoms
produces a situation whereby the reactions between the two elements
results in something new in nuclear physics."
Barry Ford looked up and said: "I could see that it might be messy if
Element X fissioned into radioiodine and radiophosphorus."
"Not phenomenally so," replied Ackerman, shaking his head. "A few atoms
of explosive chemical mixture is still small peanuts to the energy of
a radioisotope, let along a true fission. And the resulting chemical
combination still has the radio-isotopes in it which will emit and
change. Chemical combination of an atom of hydrocarbon and oxygen
produces a few electron volts. Alpha from any radioisotope runs into
millions of electron volts."
"Um. Well, what have you got?"
"I don't know," said Ackerman; "I've got to think."
He stood up and stretched, and said he was going for a walk. Idly, he
hefted the bombarded temperon on his fingers and then dropped it into a
side pocket. He turned and left the laboratory.
* * * * *
It was on earth, of course, set in the backhills of Wisconsin, several
miles from Ladysmith. Ackerman wanted to roam the roadways, and
possibly gaze upon one of the handy lakes and wish fervently that he
was not trapped in a no-world where he could do nothing but fume.
A car came up behind him, and he stopped to watch. It was not a phantom
car of the real world, but a 'time-space' car of his unreal existance.
Joan Laplane leaned out. "Ride," she stated; "gets farther and leaves
energy to enjoy whatever you're seeking."
"Okay," he said. "What I want to do, I guess, is to ride through a city
and watch people."
"That's masochism," she told him.
"Perhaps," he nodded. "But it's also a matter of frustration; I'll ride
if you'll drive this hickey through traffic."
"Right through," she said with a cheerful laugh.
It was rather hair-raising, to Les. The girl drove well, but downright
recklessly. That is, until he remembered that they could drive through
any other car in motion.
Joan Laplane drove through other cars to pass them, and at one time
she enjoyed driving on the left side of the road through a careening
coupe that was racing towards them. It gave Ackerman a thrill and, in a
sense, helped him to relax.
Then they were in the town of Ladysmith, a minute metropolis of about
ten thousand people, but large enough in relation to the other towns
in the vicinity to be the county seat. Joan brazenly selected a fine
parking place in between two _No Parking_ signs in front of the
city hall, and backed her car through the cars of two of the local
politicians who were nepotically disregarding the signs.
"That'll show 'em," she said with a grin.
"Why stop?"
"I want to dance," she told him. "We'll not pay entry, nor can we buy
a drink. But we can use their floor and we can dance right through the
other customers and never get an elbow in the ribs."
Ackerman laughed. This 'time-space' had some advantages. "But if your
feet get trampled, I can't blame some clumsy-footed stranger."
Joan nodded, and her raven hair rippled tantalizingly. "Nope," she
said, "you can't; so if you dance on my feet I'll bark your shin with a
spike heel. Fair enough?"
"Fair," he said.
7
With smiles of mutual amusement, Joan and Les walked through the door
of a small nightclub, past the hatcheck girl, past the headwaiter, and
into the clubroom. "First time," said Joan, "that anybody has ever got
into a jernt like this without paying well for the privilege."
"It has its disadvantages," said Ackerman; "we get no table."
"That's easy," laughed Joan. She led Les across the dancefloor and
seated herself on the edge of the bandstand, sitting right through the
saxophone player's music stand. Ackerman sat beside her, his shoulder
partway through the cornetist's knee. It was sometime later that they
both noticed that they were not really sitting on the bandstand but
upon something as firm at least three inches below the floor-level.
It was, he was beginning to understand, a matter of temporal mass
and temporal inertia--which Ackerman associated with permanence,
dependability, and ponderosity. The earth was quite permanent; it had
been a functioning factor for a good many billion years. The building
was more or less permanent, but far from having the permanence of a
brick wall, for instance.
The music started and they danced; it was fun even though their feet
moved ankle deep in the floor. The floor, of course, was polished
and waxed. They were dancing on something that was less slick, but
the matter of dancing in itself was enjoyable enough to reduce all
discomfort to a minimum.
"I'd still like to order a drink," said Ackerman.
Joan shook her head. "I haven't a flask," she told him. Her statement
was unnecessary. Her grandmother might have been able to conceal
several quarts in and among the voluminosity of clothing. Joan Laplane,
like most of the other girls of her day, would have been baffled to
conceal a fluid ounce unless internally.
Liquor was not really necessary; Ackerman enjoyed himself. Joan was
an excellent dancer and she was willingly lissome in his arms. She
attracted him, and he was rapt in the enjoyment of the moment; so rapt
that he noticed but gave no thought to the tickling movement against
his hip.
It was neither annoying nor pleasant; it was easily ignored. Whatever
it might be, it could wait.
But as they moved across the phantom dancefloor, the tickling motion
increased slowly, raising its violence by degrees until it was no
longer something to be put aside.
Ackerman gave it thought, then. It was, as he had subconsciously known
all along, the sample of temperon. It was, inexplicably, moving.
Ackerman watched it carefully, after that. He said nothing. Luckily,
Joan Laplane was the kind of girl who dances silently, enjoying the
silent communion of musical and physical pleasure. Therefore she did
not notice that Lester's attention was directed more toward something
else. Ackerman was glad that his dancing was good enough to perform
without complete attention, otherwise he would not be able to keep his
secret.
It--increased.
He noted it, smiled, and deliberately steered Joan and himself through
another dancing couple. It was one way to make the desired test--to
prove what he was beginning to suspect.
It had the desired result, but the aftermath was astounding.
The girl of the couple through which Ackerman had passed suddenly
squirmed, stopped dancing. Ackerman steered Joan four quick steps away
and made a graceful but swift turn so that he could look over her
shoulder.
* * * * *
The other girl turned, took a quick bead on the man dancing behind her,
and let him have the flat of her hand across his face.
At that instant, the music died in a cacophony and the chattering of
the crowd died with it.
"Get fresh!" snapped the girl.
"What did I do?" asked the dumfounded man, rubbing his face.
The girl let him have her other hand on the other side of his face.
"That'll tell you!" screamed the girl in a voice that would have awed
Medusa the Gorgon.
Her escort, puzzled, stepped forward between the other two. "What's
going on?"
"I don't know," answered the slapped one; "all of a sudden she ups and
cracks me."
"Must've been a reason," snarled the man. "Out with it!"
The slapped-one's girl friend faced the insulted girl. "Free with your
hands, aren't you, dearie?"
"So's he!" she snapped in return.
"So'm I!" screeched the other girl. She reached and came back with a
handful of hair. The other girl raked four red furrows down the side of
the hair-puller's cheek, and the battle was on.
"Get her out!" snapped the slapped man.
"G'wan," snarled the other fellow; he led with a right, crossed with a
left, and was jolted with a short jab to the stomach.
That was the end. Waiters, bouncers, and general huskies converged.
The orchestra leader rapped and the band started to play a Spike Jones
arrangement of _After the Brawl was Over_!
"Wisconsin," chuckled Les, "Seems to offer everything!"
To Joan, the sentimental spell was broken: Ackerman sensed this, and
took her by the arm, leading her towards the door. She went, chuckling
over the incident. It was Ackerman who was slightly horrified; he knew
that he had been the cause of the ruckus. He was also pleased at the
results, and he believed that he might be able to do something with
this strange element.
He found passing through the door slightly difficult. The temperon
sample in his pocket was slowed, as though a slight resistance were
offered. The outer door moved slightly as he passed through it.
Joan, unknowing, drove home in the same reckless fashion. Ackerman
prayed that they would meet no more careening cars; he was afraid that
he might lose the sample if it caught in a swiftly moving body. This
time, luck was with him.
* * * * *
Les Ackerman viewed his handiwork a week later. "'Tis a real
monkey-motion," he told himself, "but it should work."
It was a real Rube Goldberg, of the type often concocted for an
especial test. Many kinds may be seen in any laboratory, working madly
to life-test various operating members, dropping parts against steel
plates to see how many bumps they will take before becoming useless.
This was similar, but adapted to a singular purpose.
It was a straight reciprocating motion that passed an arm containing
the sample of temperon back and forth through the trunk of a tree. The
tree, of course, was in 'Real Time'; the machine in the 'time-space'.
It would have simplified things if the treetrunk could be fastened
to, but it was not; so the amount of drag was measured by the
forces--back-forces--that tended to resist the motor that drove the
gadget. At the end of each stroke, the arm entered a chamber that
carried a radioactivity counter.
The tree was five or six miles from the laboratory, and only Ackerman
knew where it was.
Ackerman, having been twice bitten, was thrice shy times ten. At this
point, his own mother might have had trouble in convincing Ackerman
that she meant only for his benefit.
At the end of another week, Ackerman was satisfied; he was certain.
For the drag versus 'time' had passed through a wide peak. The
radioactivity versus 'time' had been harder to unravel, for it
possessed an irregular curve that Ackerman fought with for hours
before it resolved sensibly into the superposition of several normal
radioactivity curves.
The matching of the drag curve with one of the radio curves was simple,
after that. And Les then spent another ten days figuring out which
of the many resulting radio-isotopes of temperon was responsible for
its extension through the barrier of time into the world of 'Real
Existance'.
His progress after that was rapid. Barry, Louis, Tod and Joan were
baffled by his actions and said so. They did see progress, and were
pleased.
But they could offer no help. What Les was doing with the temperon
sample was enigmatic to them, though he admitted that what they saw
might lead them to the right answer eventually. A savage, given the
knowledge only of the identification of materials and the working
model, could easily reproduce a simple radio receiving set, yet he
would have no idea as to the principles underlying the art. And many
millions of people drive automobiles daily without the vaguest idea of
the theory of the internal combustion engine.
The gloves that Ackerman made, studded with thin slices of temperon,
enabled him to move and handle objects in the world of reality. Then
the machine--with its huge paraboloidal reflector coated on the inside
with a thin layer of temperon--gave Lester Ackerman his initial taste
of success.
* * * * *
Out in the forest, far from the laboratory, Ackerman focused the
reflector on a log, lying ghostlike in the world of 'Real Time'. It
came through. Not as an object might be passed or drawn through a
curtain to drop on the inside, or as an object lifted from a pool of
water, passing from one medium to the other. It merely solidified.
He picked it up, grunting with the effort, and passed one end through a
tree. Satisfied, he dropped it from his shoulder.
He turned--and then turned again, startled. His ears perked, and the
sound came again.
Looking through the trees--it was like trying to see through a heavy
maze of plate glass, and the scene fifty yards from him was as hidden
as if the woods had been truly solid.
"Don't be alarmed," said a voice. Ackerman straightened.
"Spying?"
"You've been successful, we see," replied Barry Ford, ignoring his
accusation.
"So?" demanded Ackerman.
"I might point out that you happen to be working for us."
"Interesting. I have other ideas," returned Ackerman testily. "Since I
happen to be responsible for all of you, I happen to think that I have
the right to do as I damn well please."
While speaking, Ackerman had been remembering that he had no freedom.
He would have preferred to work alone. And if this decision was to rest
as it seemed upon him, he should be permitted to make his decision
unaided--or untrammelled. The idea of trying to select which one of two
worlds had a better right to the future was no problem to ponder while
being badgered.
Furthermore, this outfit had little more to offer than the Blaines.
Ackerman nodded inwardly, then turned the projector and snapped the
reversing switch.
Barry leaped forward. His brother Louis shouted angrily. Tod Laplane
lifted his gun, and Joan cried out in alarm. Tod Laplane fired, aiming
for the heart of Ackerman's projector.
The bullet--passed through.
Then the Laplane-Ford faction, wraithlike already, faded from view,
leaving Ackerman alone.
* * * * *
Alone? Not quite. Ackerman had another watcher, who now came into view.
"Very interesting," said Calvin Blaine. "But I fear that you have done
that which will cause the destruction of my world, young man."
"How?" demanded Ackerman. "And I thought that you and Laurie were
trapped at the edge of time-space."
"You know my daughter?" asked Calvin Blaine in surprise. He called out,
and Laurie came into view. "He knows you," said Calvin.
"Who is he. Is he Lester Ackerman?"
Ackerman put hands on hips and stared. "I am Les Ackerman," he said;
"and this is beyond me."
"It is beyond me, too," said Calvin. "However, the destruction of my
world is not a pleasant contemplation, Ackerman."
"I know; I've seen it."
"You have?"
"Yes," said Ackerman. "You showed it to me."
"No such thing," replied Laurie. "But we will, if you like."
Ackerman began to catch on. "You may, eventually," he said with a
cryptic grin. "But tell me, how is my sending them back into their own
world going to be instrumental in destroying yours?"
"Theirs is the world of free research," said Blaine. "Up to now, they
know little of the true state of affairs, but once they return with the
information, there will be trouble."
"I gather that if I'd kept them here, the initial knowledge would never
reach that world?"
"You aren't properly acquainted with the chronological factors
involved with the conservation of matter and energy," said Blaine.
"When you sent them back, you sent them back to the precise instant
of their leaving. In that way and in that way alone can the 'Real
Time' constancy be preserved. This 'time-space' state is unreal, and
therefore most anything can happen here. But they will return complete
with all the knowledge they need to start the destruction of my world."
"Then," said Ackerman, "I shall stop them."
"You have 'time'," said Blaine. "But first, tell me how you happen to
know of us."
Ackerman explained his actions up to the point of his meeting with
Tansie. At that point, both Blaines exploded: "Tansie Lee!"
"Know her?" asked Ackerman quietly.
"She is a rather headstrong woman," said Blaine. "Full of a rather
pale, idealistic plan to save both worlds with danger to none."