Brian O'Shea, man of the Future, here is
your story. Read it carefully, soldier
yet unborn, for upon it,--and upon you--will
one day rest the fate of all Mankind.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1940.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
_He glanced at me slowly, and a bit sadly, I thought. "I'm sorry,
Clinton," he said, "but that won't do. It won't do at all. It will have
to be written. You see--you won't be here then...."_
I thought at first he was the census-snoop, returning to poke his
proboscis into whatever few stray facts he might have overlooked the
first time. My wife was out, and when I saw him coming up the walk,
that bulky folder under his arm, I answered the door myself--something
I seldom do--sensing a sort of reluctant duty toward the minions of
Uncle Sam.
* * * * *
He was a neat and quiet person. One of those drab, utterly commonplace
men who defy description. Neither young nor old, tall nor short, stout
nor slender. He had only one outstanding characteristic. An eager
intensity, a _piercingness_ of gaze that made you feel, somehow, as if
his ice-blue eyes stared ever into strange and fathomless depths.
He said, "Mr. Clinton?" and I nodded. "_Eben_ Clinton?" he asked. Then,
a trifle breathlessly I thought, "Mr. Clinton, I have here something
that I know will prove of the greatest interest to you--"
I got it then. I shook my head. "Sorry, pal. But we don't need some." I
started to close the door.
"I--I beg your pardon?" he stammered. "Some?"
"Shoelaces," I told him firmly, "patent can-openers or fancy soaps.
Weather-vanes, life insurance or magazines." I grinned at him. "I don't
_read_ the damned things, buddy, I just write for them."
And again I tried to do things to the door. But he beat me to it.
There was apology in the way he shrugged his way into the house, but
determination in his eyes.
"I know," he said. "That is, I _didn't_ know until I read this,
but--" He touched the brown envelope, concluded lamely, "it--it's a
manuscript--"
Well, that's one of the headaches of being a story-teller. Strange
things creep out of the cracks and crevices--most of them bringing with
them the Great American Novel. It was spring in Roanoke, and spring
fever had claimed me as a victim. I didn't feel like working, anyway.
No, not even in my garden. Especially in the turnip patch. Hank Cleaver
isn't the only guy who has trouble with his turnips.
I sighed and led the way into my work-room. I said, "Okay, friend.
Let's have a look at the masterpiece...."
His first words, after we had settled into comfortable chairs, made
me feel like a dope. I suppose I'm a sort of stuffed shirt, anyway,
suffering from a bad case of expansion of the hatband. And I'd been
treating my visitor as if he were some peculiar type of bipedal worm.
It took all the wind out of my sails when he said, by way of preamble,
"If I may introduce myself, Mr. Clinton, I'm Dr. Edgar Winslow of the
Psychology Department of--"
He mentioned one of our oldest and most influential Southern
universities. I said, "Omigawd!" and broke into an orgy of apologies.
But he didn't seem to be listening to me; he was preoccupied with his
own explanation.
"I came to you," he said, "because I understand you write stories
of--er--pseudo-science?"