Blascomb did not smile. "Only if the C.D. does not find you. Unlicensed
rejuvenation is punishable by execution in an extremely painful manner.
You're a doomed man now if the C.D. even finds you. The worst tortures
of the Middle Ages would be nothing compared to what Crane would do to
you or me if he tracks us down."
"You can stay in the present time-cycle," Donovan said, "but I'm tired
of control and supervision. Send me to some period where an individual
had a chance to work and live without state control. Give me the times
of individualism!"
"C.D. agents are everywhere in the time-cycles, tracking down illegal
immigrants. Quite a number of the men I've rejuvenated chose the
Renaissance for escape, but I'm afraid that a good part of that cycle's
carnage was the work of such C.D. agents as our friend Crane. I'd
recommend another period."
"The Golden Age of Greece?"
Blascomb shook his head. "Already taken. Aristotle, Plato, and a few
others are 25th century men. Archimedes was murdered by a C.D. agent,
and Socrates sent to his death by a group of them."
"Their fates were known to history--why did those men leave the 25th
century to live in that cycle?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "They probably felt that the few years of
extra life were worth it. Well, into what period do you want to go and
what would you do there?"
"I do not understand the paradoxes," Donovan said, "What if I chose to
build gravity-deflectors in Ancient Rome?"
"It would be impossible because there were no such manufacturers then.
It would mean that you were either promptly killed by a C.D. agent who
recognized the anachronistic attempt, or you had changed your mind."
"But if I can choose any period, it means that I can alter history at
will--which presumes that the present can also be changed."
"That is what the Komitet believes, and that is why the C.D. is so
ruthless and brutal with unlicensed time travellers. The real answer
is that in the final analysis your decision to choose a certain
time period is already made, and the things you will do are already
determined. Free will is an illusion; it is synonymous with incomplete
perception."
"Then send me into the 20th century. As an engineer I would be able to
make some sort of living there."
"Dangerous. Don't practice your profession. Study some field which is
completely alien to you so that should you come across a C.D. agent he
would not recognize the work of a 25th century man."
"You mean like an artist or a writer?"
"Why not?"
Donovan laughed. "I've never held a paint brush or written more than a
one-page letter, but why not? Unloose the cyclic band, Blascomb; set me
loose in the 20th century, and give my regards to the C.D.!"
* * * * *
In the dimly lighted garret above the tavern, Donovan stood before his
easel. His face was no longer lined, for the past twenty-five years
had made him a much younger man. He had taken Blascomb's advice and
had studied a field completely alien to him. In his own time, the 25th
century, his paintings would have been considered laughably amateurish,
but for 1926 they were infinitely superior to anything produced by 20th
century artists.
"Why can't they _see_?" he asked his agent angrily, when his third show
passed without the sale of a single painting.
"I can see them," the agent said, standing in front of a still-life
abstraction with flashes of color, "but your way of working is too far
advanced for our time. Believe me, a few hundred years from now your
paintings will be regarded as the work of a great genius."
"In the meantime, I starve."
"I can help you."
Donovan threw down the paint brushes. "No. No. There's no use being
ahead of one's time. I can't make a living as an artist. I may as well
go back to digging ditches."
"Maybe you can work part-time and paint at night. What did you do
before you started painting?"
He hesitated, but what was there to be afraid of? "I--I was an
engineer."
"I can get you a job with a construction company."
"No. No! I want nothing whatever to do with engineering! Nothing!"
In the 25 years that he had lived in the 20th century he had turned
from a man of 65 to a healthy, robust 40. For a long time he had lived
in fear that the dreaded arms of the C.D. would reach out for him, and
that he would stand face to face with terror-inspiring Crane. But he
had never met anyone who seemed to be a C.D., a Criminal Destroyer.
Sometimes he felt the avenging sword of the Komitet hanging over his
head.
There were some statesmen and philosophers mentioned in the newspapers
whose ideas seemed to indicate a 25th century origin, but he avoided
them in the fear that they might be plants to draw out the illegals. It
was probably that the C.D. would never find out the deception, and if
they did there was little chance of locating him among the two billion
people on Home Planet.
"You have to make a living somehow," the agent persisted.
"I know nothing but engineering," Donovan said, "and that I will never
do."
"Maybe there's some other field in which you could use engineering
skills." He thought for a moment, and then reached into his briefcase.
"I picked this up on a newsstand. You might like it."
Donovan glanced at the magazine's cover.
"It's the latest thrill--scientific fiction. Maybe with your
engineering knowledge you could write a story or two."
* * * * *
When the agent left, Donovan read through the magazine, then went
out to look up other stories of the same nature. One story offered a
time-travel theory which was absurdly inaccurate. Another purported
to deal with the inhabitants of Mars, none of which looked at all
the way the writers imagined them to be. Donovan read as many as he
could find, and was fascinated by the hopeless incompetence and
scientific inaccuracy of the so-called writers. The time-travel story
was laughable; even a child could produce a far more exciting tale by
describing the Watson-Gorshevich experiments that lead to the discovery
of repetitive time-cycles back in 2364.
_Why not_, he thought to himself. _Why not write these stories of
the future? Who could do them better than a man who had come from
the future?_ These were not engineering journals where accuracy was
required, nor would anyone ever act upon the scientific discoveries he
might record. Above all, no one would attempt to build any machines
which would immediately attract the attention of the C.D. He would do
nothing which would in the slightest way affect historic development.
Pressed by the need for money, and fascinated by the possibilities
in science fiction, Donovan began to write a story. He employed a
pen-name, and avoided the general theory of retrograde-cycle travel
backward above time, but limited himself to travelling spirally into
the future. He described the mechanism he himself would have to produce
in order to get back to Blascomb for anabolism-correction, and produced
a fanciful tale regarding life in the year 3,000. The letter from the
editor came within a week.
_Dear Mr. Donovan_:
_Enclosed find check for your story, "Turn Backward, O Time!" I have
seldom read a more convincing fantasy. One could almost believe that
the apparatus you described would actually work. I believe this
story will be a science-fiction classic and am placing your original
manuscript in my collection. I would appreciate seeing other
examples of your work._
When the story appeared in print, several paragraphs describing
the construction of the time-machine were omitted by the editor.
"Technically unconvincing," they told him; "they mar up the
verisimilitude of a great story." "Turn Backward, O Time!" became an
instant success.
A few days later, Donovan contributed another story, this time based
on actual events on Jupiter which he simply transferred to a different
time-cycle on Vega. Vaguely recalling some warning of Blascomb's that
while the future could not be changed, it was best to play safe and
not draw the attention of the C.D., he twisted and changed all the
scientific facts involved. The check for the second story was promptly
sent.
Within a few months Donovan, under his pseudonym, which was kept
secret, was launched upon his career as a writer of science fiction.
Readers praised him for his convincing fantasy and editors competed for
his services.
* * * * *
Memory of the 25th century gradually faded from his mind as years
passed. At times he awoke in horror after nightmares that Crane of the
C.D. had finally caught him, but these terrifying dreams became rarer.
He had exposed himself repeatedly in fiction. Time and time again he
had described actual historical events of the Space Colony Wars in
his stories. On one occasion he described the technique for the cure
of cancer discovered in 2019. The readers' section of the magazine
soon carried letters from doctors who were amused that a writer could
present such a simple household remedy and dare suggest that it might
be efficacious for cancer.
Donovan was amused by the thought that Crane might be diligently
searching for him somewhere in the Renaissance; if so, the C.D. agent's
fury must be mounting.
He changed his name and identity every ten years to conceal his gradual
return to youth. He had the pleasure of seeing himself hailed as his
successor in popularity, as he established new names and let the older
ones die out. His excuse to the editors was that he wanted to enter
into competition anew, make sure that his name alone was not carrying
the stories. He was happy. Sometimes, however, later stories were
panned by "fans" as "imitations of the classics by the greatest stf
writer the world has ever known."
Only the aging gentleman who had bought Donovan's first manuscript
knew, but the old man signed the checks and said nothing.
In his happiness and self-satisfaction, Donovan became more careless
with his stories. If he had been able to outwit Crane and the dreaded
C.D., surely he could dash off stories good enough for the poor minds
of 20th century science-fiction readers!
Then the tide turned. Fan letters in the magazines began really to tear
into his fiction; they _were_ third-rate; they lacked imagination.
They were ordinary stories written by an ordinary mind; and science
fiction required tales written by men whose minds were well ahead of
20th century thought. The day finally came when all the editors began
rejecting his stories. First one, then another--and finally every story
written received a rejection slip.
Donovan could not understand the reason for the change. A few years
ago--or was it decades?--each story of his was labelled a "classic";
now they were not even acceptable. Had science fiction changed so much
since his decision to become a writer in 1929? He dared not discuss it
with anyone, for he had no friends and he trusted no one. The C.D. was
everywhere, but there was one man in whom he had the deepest confidence.
Donovan visited the aging editor and felt sorry for the worn-out old
man. He himself had once been like this, but was now free from death.
He thought of taking his benefactor with him into the 25th century
and saving the editor's life. But suppose Blascomb's laboratory had
been captured? Donovan could manage for himself, but it would be cruel
to leave the old man in the deadly hands of the C.D. No, it was best
to say nothing about rejuvenation to the editor; he would only think
Donovan was trying out a story-idea.
"I've been your editor for thirty years," the old man's voice cracked.
His half-blind eyes loomed through thick lenses.
"It's been a long time," Donovan said.
"My--My eyes are not what they used to be," the other said, "A man
about 50 years old wrote that great classic, "Turn Backward, O Time!"
He must be about 80 now. But you look only 20. Ah, laddie, you're
trying to fool me. You must be his son!"
"That's right," Donovan said quickly, "We have the same name."
"Then that explains it," the other said wearily; "it would break my old
heart if a talent like your father's disintegrated. But we came to talk
about your stories. No, son, you're not the writer your father was.
Your tales lack imagination; there is no originality in them. The ideas
are hackneyed, the writing third-rate. They sound like poor imitations
of the great tales told by your father. There was a man! There was a
writer!"
* * * * *
Donovan left him, keeping the secret of his identity. When he returned
to his home he looked in the mirror, and the face of a rose-cheeked
20-year-old youngster stared back at him. Fifty years of happy living
in the 20th century! It would soon be necessary to return to the 25th
century so that Blascomb could reverse the antibiotic catalytic process
that had set him growing younger. It was impossible to stay in his
present youthful state much longer. In a few years he would be a child.
With a sigh he walked to his desk, took out paper and pen, and began to
draw the diagrams for the apparatus which would send him forward into
the 25th century.
For three hours he worked confidently, and then the sweat began to drip
from his forehead and his heart began to pound fearfully. "It is not
possible," he said, uneasily. "It will all come back to me soon. Now
what the devil did Blascomb tell me?"
He had become lazy, and his brain was not used to hard work. He said
this to himself but he could not shake off the sense of fear. He took
a cold shower, rubbing himself briskly, then shot a stimulant into his
blood stream. Preparing the desk once more, he began to work.
The papers gathered, the pencils broke, and the night gradually turned
to morning. The finished sketch of the cycle travellers was basically
correct, but the most important operating mechanism was still missing.
Try as he could, he was unable to bring it up from his memory.
"By the solar system," he swore, "what is the matter with me? I have
forgotten every detail."
He tried to think back. At one time he had known the mechanism
thoroughly. As an engineer he was completely familiar with every single
plate and tube, but now he couldn't remember anything but the general
appearance of the finished machine. Fear spurred his mind as he hunted
for a solution. Something was happening to his mind. He began to think
of his stories. The same thing had happened there. At one time he
remembered every detail of life in the 25th century, and could describe
them easily. Now events were dim and he knew now why his recent stories
were poor. They were not written from actual memory of the future, but
were the ordinary stories one might expect from a 20-year-old boy. The
past was dim and memory faded. Blascomb and Crane, Crane and Blascomb,
which was the C.D. agent, and what was C.D. anyway?
Enough of the details remained to shock him into an awareness of his
desperate plight. The rejuvenation process had worked too well, for
Donovan had waited dangerously long. As the body grew younger the
tissue cells were consumed and youthful cells replaced them. The
process that had worked for body cells did the same for the cells of
the brain. Those portions of the brain containing the knowledge and
ability of a 70-year-old man were gradually being replaced with new,
untrained cells. He had failed to re-educate himself as new cells
replaced the old, and had come to the brink of disaster. Sufficient
intelligence and manual dexterity remained to compensate for that, but
in a few years the task would be hopeless.
* * * * *
Excitedly, for he knew his life depended on it, he rummaged through his
book shelves looking for a copy of his first story, "Turn Backward, O
Time!" It contained, he remembered, a concise, accurate description
of the mechanism for the time-machine. The magazine itself was old,
the sheets turning brown and the pages breaking. He read the story in
haste, vaguely remembering the plot. The actual description of the
operating mechanism, he found to his consternation, was missing. "I
will cut one or two paragraphs," the editor had said, "_They are not
convincing, technically ... they lack verisimilitude!_"
Not convincing! If he did not find them he was doomed to become a
child, and then a babbling idiot of a baby and would disappear entirely
within twenty years. He telephoned the magazine's office and asked for
the editor.
"Sorrree," the secretary said, "Mr. O'Sloane is quite ill. The doctors
are afraid he might not pass through the night. He's very old, you
know."
"Can he speak?" Donovan asked desperately.
"He's had a stroke. Can't say a word. Completely paralyzed, Sorrreee."
Donovan cursed the carelessness that had led him to this difficult
position. He knew that O'Sloane kept the originals of his favorite
stories in a collection in his office. If O'Sloane died it was
possible that some enterprising youthful editor would destroy the old
manuscripts in a fit of house-cleaning.
"This is Donovan," he said quickly, "I am trying to locate the original
copy of "Turn Backward, O Time" which O'Sloane has in his files. I must
study the original papers; it's extremely important. If there is a
substitute editor, will you ask him to keep an eye open for it."
"Cerrrtainleee."
He sighed and took a taxi to the editorial office. It would be best
to get it as quickly as possible. The original manuscript was quite
safe. Donovan need only copy the original description. Even if he were
no longer able to grasp the theory of it, the machine was still easy
enough to build from the description.
Within a few hours he would be back in the 25th century for a reversal.
For his next trip back he would choose Ancient Egypt. The 20th century
was heading for the Atomic Wars and he was fortunate in being able to
escape. After Egypt he would choose the Inca civilization. Did they not
have legends of white gods that ruled them? The world was his, and he
would be forever young. Immortality was within his grasp. No one could
stop him now.
He arrived at the building and rushed up the steps to the editorial
office.
"We found the manuscript, Mr. Donovan," the secretary told him
brightly, looking twice at the flushed, handsome face.
* * * * *
Donovan stepped into O'Sloane's office. Practically nothing had been
touched as yet, for one of the staff editors had just begun to sort a
pile of stacked papers from several cabinets. Donovan recognized the
original manuscript of "Turn Backward, O Time!" upon the desk, and
hurriedly skimmed through the pages. The description was intact, and
while he could not remember why such a machine would work, he knew that
it could be built and he could escape.
With a sigh he pocketed the manuscript and introduced himself to the
young editor who would probably succeed O'Sloane upon his death.
"Oh yes," the editor with the curious thin smile said, "I have heard
quite a bit about you, and have been waiting a long time for this
meeting. We've met before, you know."
"Really?" Donovan said. The face did appear familiar, but he could not
recall the occasion.
"My name is Edel W. Crane, C.D."
Donovan felt a cold tremor of fear shake his body.
He moistened his lips.
"What do the letters C.D. stand for?"
The pasty-faced young man closed and then locked the door of the
office. Walking towards Donovan, the smile no longer there, he told
him. Then he did what he had come to do.