Moirta ran her fingers lightly along the back of his hand, studying his
knuckles with the tips of them. "Of course," she said idly, "Why not?
There is nothing wrong with _your_ reactions, George dear."
He flung her hand away violently. "Why not? So you push the buttons,
and I react as predicted, and you sit back and laugh at me while
I fix your machine, and then you all go tootling off to find more
suckers, while I hold the bag. That's it, isn't it? Boy, I bet you've
been getting a _big_ charge out of this. I thought it was mighty
coincidental the way one of your boyfriends always pops up as soon as
we're alone for five minutes. Not taking any chances on the reaction
getting out of hand, are you?"
She stared up at him in shocked surprise. "No," she said, "no. Oh, poor
George. How stupid of me. You see, I am not really very wise, I know
only one thing, how to be a woman. I keep forgetting that you do not
think as we do. Because we can predict a reaction, does that make it
less real?"
"But you _used_ me, you knew this would happen."
There were tears in her eyes. "I used you," she admitted, "and I used
myself, and Brown used both you _and_ me.
"And you used me, also. Do you wish me to think that when you hold
a woman's hand, and say certain things to her, and look at her in a
certain way; you are entirely innocent, you do not guess what may
happen?"
"I didn't force you," he said stubbornly, "the choice was yours to
make."
"Nor did I force you. But I knew what your choice would be, and
further, I knew what _my_ choice would be. Emotion is my trade, as
electronics is yours. Electrons, I have been told, have a certain
freedom of choice, or appear to have. Yet you know with quite high
probability which choice they will make under the influence of certain
physical fields. In the same way, I know what choice to expect of a man
or a woman, under the influence of certain emotional fields."
"You didn't want _me_, though, you just wanted a technician. The first
man would have done just as well for you, if he had 'reacted.'"
"That is true. And I am the first woman you have ever made love to?"
"No, of course not. But I've never felt the same about them as I do
about you."
"I, the same. George, I think you still do not understand me. In your
time there are women who get things from men by seeming to promise
more than they intend to give, for simulating emotions they do not
feel. You think I am one of those ... no, please don't interrupt ...
I am not. In my time there are no such women, people understand each
other too well, they are too hard to fool.
"Instead, there are women like me, women who are peculiarly attractive
to men, and peculiarly susceptible to men--honestly so. Believe me,
it is not an easy way to make a living. A woman has only so much
honest emotion to give. Do you understand now?" She looked up at him
appealingly.
He did not understand, but he believed.
He could not doubt that this was as important to her as to him, that
regardless of the motives behind it, her feeling was deep and honest.
And yet, it was impossible to understand, impossible for him to
visualize a world in which people knew accurately the feeling others
held for them; and yet still loved, disliked, or were indifferent.
It was, he thought, a little like a caveman trying to understand the
complexities and compulsions of polite urban society.
He slumped back down beside her. "I don't know," he said glumly.
"You're right, I suppose, it all sounds logical; but I still don't
understand."
She drew him to her. "Poor George," she said with her mouth against his
ear. "Poor George, I know only one way to console you, and only one
way to console myself." She sighed. "And it seems they will not permit
that, I suppose the 'reaction,'" she smiled wryly, "would not fit with
their plans."
Dolan straightened and looked at her sharply. Her remark had reminded
him of something else he needed to know. "How do they _know_ just when
to break us up," he asked, "just when to drop in 'accidentally' on us?
Can they read my mind?"
She shook her head. "No, they are not mind-readers. It is just that
they know so much about what to expect of people--remember that for
thousands of years there has been nothing so important to us as what
other people do, in my time men of science no longer study physical
things, all that is known, they study people. In any given situation,
they can predict quite accurately what action a given individual will
take."
"You think they know what we're talking about now?"
"Not in detail. But in general, yes--and I suppose it must serve their
purpose in some way for us to worry about these things, what will
become of you and me, or they would not permit it. In a matter such as
this, they do nothing without a purpose."
"Well, that's fair enough," Dolan said grimly. "As long as they aren't
actually mind-readers, they can guess all they want to."
Moirta shook her head. "It is not guessing, that is what I have been
trying to tell you. Whatever you plan, they will have foreseen it,
perhaps not the exact thing you wish to do; but all the possible things
you can do, and the most likely thing you will do.
"Really, it will not be so bad, you will finish the translator, and we
will go, and you will forget us, and ... well, in time I suppose I will
forget you also."
"No." He squeezed her hard against him. "I don't intend to forget you,
and I don't intend you to forget me." He grinned down at her. "In this
time, the boy always gets the girl, and they live happily ever after.
It's a natural law, like gravitation.
"Brown and Smith aren't infallible. They may know people, but I know
machines. Don't forget, the time translator is the key, the big item in
this mess. And that's in my bailiwick."
* * * * *
Dolan went back to work.
He left it to Brown to satisfy the people at the shop, and apparently
Brown satisfied them, they sent along the equipment and supplies he
requested without comment.
He still had no idea _why_ the time translator worked, but he was
beginning to know quite a bit about _how_ it worked, in the sense of
functional operation, the input/output relations of the black boxes.
A time came when he could have activated the machine by making a few
minor connections.
He did not do so.
With the knowledge that he had the technical problem whipped, some
of his urgency faded. He could take time to amplify and clarify his
knowledge. Quite probably the time translator could never be duplicated
by twentieth century technology. At the same time, only a fool would
pass up a chance to learn what he could, it was too big a thing,
even with the limitations under which it seemed to operate. Also,
familiarity with the translator was a weapon, knowledge Brown did not
have--a weapon he was grimly intent on using.
He kept testing and checking, varying inputs and measuring outputs.
Remembering what Moirta had said about losing his memory--he did not
think he would, if his plans worked out, but there was always the
chance of something going wrong--he kept careful notes. Brown watched
this activity blandly. Thinking it over, Dolan saw that this was only
logical. There were always fires for notes.
So, as an extra precaution, he made copies of the most important data
in secrecy and stored them in a glass jar under a rock back of the
cottage. Then it occurred to him that he might forget about the jar--or
he might not be around to remember it, there was still the gully to
keep in mind. Well, what had worked once should work again. He nicked a
code message in a piece of wire, showing the location of the notes, and
left it in his tool-box.
Also, he made certain changes in the time-machine.
Finally, he told Brown the machine was ready.
"You want to test-hop it?" he asked. "I'm pretty sure it'll work now,
but it's still a haywire job, I could be wrong."
Brown shook his head. "Not necessary. If the machine works, we
will be ... home. If not, well, you will just have to tinker with
it some more." It was not sound reasoning, from Dolan's viewpoint,
but consistent with what he had come to expect from these people in
technical matters. He had counted heavily on such a reaction.
"OK," he said. "Then she's ready to go."
Brown nodded and tossed a key to Smith, speaking curtly in a language
strange to Dolan. Dolan had noticed long before that the back bedroom
door was always locked, and the windows securely boarded up. Artifacts
of historical interest, Brown had told him. It seemed like rather
extreme precaution to take for security of such material.
Brown turned back to Dolan. "You had better move your equipment out of
range of the machine now, if you wish to keep it," he said.
Dolan carried his equipment outside. When he returned the three aliens
were carrying small heavy boxes out of the back room, stowing them in
a tight circle about the machine. Moirta was straining at a heavy case
with neatly dove-tailed corners, marked "Remington".
So that was what it was all about.
It suddenly occurred to him to wonder how, if the machine could not
move a person into the future, if it had no real existence in this
time, they expected to move guns and ammunition. Did the laws of time
operate differently for living organisms and inanimate things? What was
it someone had once said about life--'islands of reverse entropy'? But
that was only a figure of speech, men were still made up of the same
elements as steel and brass--
Well, it could wait, there were more important things right now. "You
need a hand?" he asked Moirta.
She smiled and nodded breathlessly.
As he stooped to help lift the box, their heads almost touched.
"Listen!" he whispered, "be on your toes, now. I'm going to try
something. Stay on this side of the machine, no matter what happens,
and do just as I say."
She looked startled, but nodded.
With four of them working, it did not take long to pile the cargo in
place. Brown checked it over with his eye and then turned to study
Dolan.
"Well," he said slowly, "I suppose we are ready to go. No doubt you
wish your payment now, eh, Mr. Dolan?"
This was the critical point. Dolan tensed as Smith stepped clear and
lifted an inquiring eyebrow at Brown, his hand in his hip-pocket;
but the senior gun runner shook his head. "Don't be stupid," he said
quietly. "I think we have a few negotiations to make now." He looked at
Dolan inquiringly.
Dolan hoped his relief did not show too clearly. He had been reasonably
sure Brown would be too acute to kill him off-hand, but it had been a
tricky moment, just the same. Now, he thought, play it cagey, make them
lay it out on the table, get it moving--
"I'm no good at guessing games," he said. "You'll have to come down to
my level on this."
Brown nodded. "Of course. Excuse me. I will be more explicit. Mr.
Smith wants to kill you and get you out of the way immediately; he
does not trust you. I do not trust you completely myself, I do not
trust _anyone_ completely; and for that exact reason I feel it would
be stupid and dangerous to kill you. I am quite sure you will have
booby-trapped the machine against just such a contingency."
"Booby-trapped?" Dolan asked blankly.
"Yes," Brown said patiently. "I mean the machine will not work
satisfactorily if you are killed. It will blow up, burn out, or some
such thing. Is that not true?"
Dolan considered the question for a moment. He was acutely aware that
the most devious plot would probably seem simple and childish to a man
like Brown. "Suppose it were?" he said cautiously. "Then what?"
"Then we shall negotiate, like reasonable people. What do you need
to convince you of our good faith. Your money?" Brown reached in his
jacket pocket and brought out a slip of paper. "Here," he said, "I
think you will find this satisfactory." He handed it to Dolan.
Dolan looked absently at the check. It was more than satisfactory--for
a purely business transaction. But this was no longer just a business
transaction.
"It's not enough," he said flatly.
Brown raised an eyebrow. "The girl? No." He shook his head firmly.
"We must have Moirta for a hostage, a guarantee of your good faith.
She goes with us. Afterward, perhaps, if she wishes to return--" he
shrugged.
Dolan studied him, trying to decide just how much Brown's word was
worth. Just as much as it suited him to make it worth, probably. He
glanced at Moirta. She shook her head, a tiny almost imperceptible
jerk, confirming his own thought. There was no particular reason to
expect that Brown would really let her return--Moirta probably was not
important to him, but the whereabouts of the time-translator was.