_George Dolan had four immediate problems:
the time-translator, a beautiful, out-of-this-world
girl named Moirta, the gun runners and his life.
A situation in which he finally triumphed.... But
what can you do with a victory that lies at the
other end of a bridge 10,000 years long?_
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, December 1954.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The gun runners were professionals, and except for one minor detail the
operation had been very well planned.
The middle twentieth century was chosen as a source of supply after
a careful survey of all factors pro and con. The gun runners did not
want the mass weapons of their own day, they wanted selective weapons
which could be used for private murder. In the mid-twentieth century,
the level of technology was such that well-made and reliable weapons
were available; and at the same time, social control was still sketchy
enough to permit quiet procurement of such merchandise, if one knew
how to go about it and was suitably financed.
The gun runners, two men and a woman, knew how to go about it, and they
were suitably financed. The profits in their business were commensurate
with the risks--which were not small.
In their world unauthorized time travel was highly illegal, because of
certain possible undesirable effects on the total space-time continuum,
and was severely punished. Moreover, it was personally uncomfortable
and dangerous.
They came from an old ingrowing world which had never reached the
stars, where there were only men and their works, no blade of grass or
micro-organism or sparrow which did not directly serve men. In their
time, hereditary traits which had meant untimely and certain death in
earlier times had persisted and multiplied. Immunities and instincts
which had fitted men to live with tigers and streptococci, and seek
their food in the wilderness, had atrophied.
The twentieth century was a dangerous environment for these people,
more so perhaps than the Eocene would have been for _homo sapiens_.
In preparation for their venture, it had been necessary for them
to undergo a drastic and painful series of tests, inoculations,
conditionings and plastic surgery.
Unfortunately, it had not occurred to them that their time machine
might need similar protection. The equipment was basically electronic,
and the power leads were encased in a new insulation, a synthetic
protein which in very thin films afforded a near perfect dielectric. It
was also, as it happened, an almost perfect culture medium for certain
bacilli, non-existent in the sterile future, but healthy and thriving
and full of appetite in the twentieth century.
When the gun runners prepared to return to their own time with their
cargo of contraband there were small flashes of fire, and smoke curled
briefly from various parts of the equipment. Their temporal environment
remained unchanged.
The gun runners were not technicians, they were specialists in other
fields. They pulled and prodded uncertainly here and there, pushed the
buttons again.
Nothing happened.
The senior gun runner, a man who wore in this century the appearance of
a quiet, gray-haired professional man, and who wore in any century the
habit of command, came to a decision. He spoke in their own language, a
language time had pruned to telegraphic brevity:
"If tamper, make worse. Electronics technicians this era. Use."
The second man raised an eyebrow. "Knowledge adequate? Time travel not
simple."
The older man shrugged. "Theory not simple, machine simple. Savages
clever fingers. Adequate stimulus, can solve."
"And after? Disposition?"
"Displacement effect. Or--" the senior gun runner sketched a quick
gesture of pulling a trigger.
The younger man nodded slowly, still dubious--which was proper, it was
his function to be suspicious and questioning, as it was the other's to
command. "Stimulus?"
"Profit. Curiosity. And ... Moirta."
Both men turned and looked appraisingly at the woman, who had not yet
entered the discussion. She was a very narrow specialist, within the
wider specialty of gun running and murder. Now she moved her shoulders
uneasily. "Displacement effect," she suggested, "near limit. If
caught--" she made an unpleasantly suggestive spastic gesture.
The chief gun runner shrugged again. "If caught," he repeated the
gesture she had made, "in any case. No choice. Find technician now."
* * * * *
George Dolan studied his visitors thoughtfully.
"Well, actually," he said, "our work is design, not repair. I suppose
I could send a man out to look over your job and recommend a firm to
handle it. Is that what you want?"
"Mr. Dolan," the gray-haired man said earnestly, "I am afraid you still
misunderstand me. The work we wish done is small in scale, but very
intricate and delicate, and highly confidential. We have investigated
your qualifications, and you are the man we want to handle it, you
personally. We do not want you to mention this work to any other
person--not even your wife."
"I don't have a wife," Dolan said. "That's no problem." He hesitated.
"Do I need security clearance? That'll take time."
"No security clearance. This is private work."
Dolan frowned. Private work, money no object, very secret--there were
implications to this offer which he did not like.