_Earth Three_
Harry Maddox turned from his laboratory table as the tall, dark man
entered. Maddox greeted the taller man obsequiously, but the other's
reply was curt.
"They've done it, you say?" asked Kingston.
"They've done it," replied Maddox gloatingly.
"That proves it then," replied Kingston with interest. "Though it has
always been a common enough theory."
"Within the past thirty-six hours," said Maddox, "there have been two
transmissions. The latter one is now going on. Want to hear it?"
"Not particularly," replied Kingston. "It will be recorded for my
leisure."
"Yes," nodded Maddox. His nod was toward a rather attractive girl, who
was riding herd on a large wire recorder. From time to time she would
reach out and adjust the volume of the recording. Over long blond hair
she wore earphones to monitor the conversation directly. Kingston made
a mental note that he could trust Maddox to adorn his laboratory and
workshop with the most attractive human decor that he could find.
Instead of commenting on this he smiled in amusement and continued to
speak. "Rather dramatic, isn't it?"
Maddox nodded. "Thirty years to the moment. That Alamogordo affair had
three possibilities. It could either have gone off normally--it could
have started an atomic fire in the earth--or it could have fizzled. And
so, thirty years later, the three temporal possibilities are meeting."
"No, my dear Maddox," said Kingston with the air of a savant correcting
a student who was not too careful of his facts. "Just two of them. We
sit by--remember?"
"I know," said Maddox, rebuffed.
"Remember--and never for a moment forget--that the possibility of the
Alamogordo bomb starting an atomic fire in the earth was a remote
possibility. That means that the tensors which maintain that line of
temporal advancement are very shaky.
"Time, you know, consists of following the Laws of Least Reaction,
which simply means that in any reaction wherein a number of
possibilities occur, that which will happen with the least energy will
take place. This is statistically true, and need not hold for specific
instances.
"Now," Kingston went on, enjoying his role of lecturer even though
Maddox fiddled impatiently because he knew it all beforehand--and
besides, the blonde was half-listening, though alert on her recording
job. "Be it always remembered that the chances of the Alamogordo Bomb
being a fizzle were as remote as the other case.
"Ergo, Maddox, our own world hangs on a slender thread of reality. We
have as much need to escape from this time-slot as they whose earth
is burning with atomic fire. For only in the time-slot where the
Alamogordo Bomb behaved according to principle are the time-tensors
heavy enough to maintain it."
"Yes, your Excellency," replied Maddox.
Kingston nodded. "You are a lucky fellow, Maddox. I came as soon as I
could get away. I shall remain here until we can go through and take
over."
"Sir, a question." Maddox knew that he must use deference at least
until Kingston climbed down from his tall horse. "What happens when, as
and if they start an atomic fire in Earth One?"
"They cannot, save by sheer chance of almost impossible mathematical
odds," said Kingston. "Besides, they hope to move in--or will as soon
as they learn the truth. No man burns the home he hopes to own in the
near future."
"But what will happen?" asked Maddox. "That expectation is far too deep
for me to follow."
"Men--all men--are inclined to feel sorry for the trapped," said
Kingston. "In some cultures their sorrow is shown by killing the
trapped to remove them from their misery. In other cultures, the
trapped are aided even though they may eventually turn against their
liberators. Once the truth is known to both worlds, those who are in
Earth One will be moved to aid the trapped ones in Earth Two.
"We shall aid them as we did before by transmitting to Earth One
more samples of the space-resonant radioisotope to contaminate their
scientific works. There will be a gaudy search for them once the truth
is known, you know. Anyway, those on Earth One will undoubtedly admit
the trapped ones from Earth Two."
* * * * *
Maddox shrugged. "No dice, yet."
"Don't be stupid. Those on Earth Two are a race faced with death.
They'll send through their mutants, their death-dealing types first.
That will decimate Earth One and leave Earth One in the hands of Earth
Two. Follow?"
"So far, yes. But where do we come in?"
"We come in shortly. Ninety percent of those remaining on Earth Two are
mutants from the atomic fire or considerably older than thirty. The
ninety are almost certain to be--if not sterile--then not cross-fertile
with the rest of the mutant race. Each will have gone mutant in some
fashion different from his fellow.
"All we need do then is to sit and wait until the race dies
out--another thirty or forty years. Or, better, depending on the
circumstances following the eventual battle, we go to war. We shall
win, for our people have not lost much. At any rate we're permitting
Earth Two to do our cleaning-up for us."
"Unless--" began Maddox, then paused. He knew that if he advanced a
theory unasked it would be scorned. However, were he to make some
leading statement and then disavow it unuttered Kingston would demand
that he complete it whether he thought it right or wrong.
Kingston did, which was an excellent proof of the theory that it is
a good thing to know the nature of your fellow man. "Unless what?"
demanded Kingston.
"It was but an idle thought. Who fights more fiercely--he who has lost
his home and fights for another or he who protects himself from the one
who would dispossess him?"
Kingston laughed nastily. "Little difference," he said. "This is rigged
so that no matter what, a fight will ensue. It is always easy to lick
the survivor of a tough battle."
Maddox shrugged. "Just remember that you're not fighting aliens, but
you--our--own kind!"
Kingston nodded. "That," he said succinctly, "is why I know them so
well."
* * * * *
Cauldron looked at his watch. "Two hours," he said. "Time enough?"
Virginia looked concerned. "He didn't state whether he'd been asleep
lately," she said.
"Unless he's a complete screwball, he'll work days and sleep nights,"
observed Moray. "Even supposing he works at home, he'll be arising
about noon at the latest and hitting the hay about three-odd. Excepting
when something was really in the fire like this receiver of his. I
predict that he hit the sheets after we closed and is now pounding the
pillow at a fine rate of speed."
Virginia smiled uncertainly, turning back from her communicating
equipment. "He doesn't answer," she said.
"Can you locate his phosphor?" demanded Cauldron.
"I have."
"Then try," snapped Moray. "Aid! Help!" he sneered, "We're in the way
of losing our very lives, and what we need, we take!"
Cauldron nodded. "Moray--you first. If Bronson is still in evidence
clip him. If not we'll go ahead and do whatever is necessary. We can't
take too long. After all--"
Moray nodded. "Ready, Virginia?"
"Ready."
Virginia worked over another bit of equipment in her laboratory. Moray
walked over easily, smoking a last cigarette leisurely until Virginia
turned to him.
"The focal volumes are resonant," she said. Then Moray seated himself
in the chair before the equipment and, as Virginia started the machine,
it began to transmit Pete Moray from one world to the other.
* * * * *
It was not especially spectacular. No flashing lights or flowing aurae
of color. Moray's body, still breathing, still living, began to be less
solid. At one time Moray lit another cigarette.
A bit of the cigarette smoke entered Ed Bronson's laboratory.
The amount was that percentage of the transmission that had been
accomplished.
There, before the big kinescope tube in Bronson's laboratory, the air
was beginning to show the vague outlines of a figure, seated on a
chair. This figure thickened gradually as the random atoms in Moray's
body passed over.
A half hour passed and Virginia told Cauldron that the transmission
should be about half complete. Moray's body could be seen through
faintly--not that any of the internal organs were visible but as if he
were a wraith.
Then the halfway point came. The floor in Bronson's laboratory was
lower than the floor in Virginia Carlson's laboratory--with respect
to their transmitters and receivers--and Moray and his chair dropped
several feet on both sides. Moray seemed to be unmindful of the fact
that the hard floor of Virginia's laboratory was about where his
stomach was.
A half hour later, there was little of Moray left on Earth Two. Most of
him was on Earth One!
As the final molecules came through the space resonator Moray heard a
noise. Frantic, he turned to see but could do nothing until the last of
him was complete. The noise resolved itself to footsteps, and then the
door opened and Ed Bronson strode in.
"Smoke--" he mumbled sleepily, then, "--who the heck are you!"
Moray was complete. He leaped to his feet and clipped Bronson viciously
with the side of his hand. Bronson dropped, stunned, dazed, but not
unconscious. Deftly, Moray found a roll of tape, bound Bronson's ankles
and wrists, slapped a bit of tape across his mouth.
"Aid?" sneered Moray. "Promise us aid, all right. Fifty years will
pass while the idea is being thrashed out in Congress or in whatever
international organization there is here. Behave, Bronson, and you'll
live. Help us--understand? If you don't it's--" Moray drew a forefinger
across his throat.
Another figure started to form--vague and indistinct--and Moray lifted
the taped man across his shoulders, carried him upstairs, dumped him
across his bed and left him there.
When he returned to the laboratory, Virginia was beginning to solidify.
Moray seated himself and waited, smoking Bronson's cigarettes and
fortifying himself with a drink of Bronson's liquor. Moray smiled, but
his humor was bitter.
How to marshal an army? It took an hour to get one person through--to
pass the six or seven million still living in Earth Three would at this
rate take six or seven million hours--a mere eight hundred years if you
didn't bother with the extra leap-year days or take Christmas off.
* * * * *
Time passed slowly and it was the full hour before Virginia came
through completely and arose from her chair.
"Collect Bronson or kill him?" she asked.
"I should have killed him," said Moray.
"Not at all," replied Virginia. "Even though this is quite similar to
our world remember that thirty years of time separate us--and thirty
years each of divergent development. We need someone to show us our way
around."
Moray shrugged. "He might guess about this factor?"
Virginia shook her head. "No," she said with finality. "He's just
beginning to think about the space resonator. Look at that pile of
haywire junk! He's downright dumbfounded at the idea of communicating
over a lump of electron-bombarded radioisotopic compound.
"To consider the transmission of matter from one volume of focus to
another is an idea beyond concept. And--no doubt--radioisotopes aren't
dished out as easily here as they are back there."
"Here, there, whither?" grinned Moray. "Let's call this Earth One
because it is going to be here long after Earth Two has dissolved in
atomic flame."
"Okay. So we've got this station first. We've got to get enough
radioisotopic phosphor passed around Earth One to make wholesale
passage possible. You run this station, Moray, and I'll stand by to act
as a front."
Moray looked at Virginia closely. Slender, blonde and possessed of an
ethereal and almost violent beauty, her personality and looks could and
would forestall much idle questioning. He nodded.
"You keep out of sight of Friend Bronson," he said. "It might be handy
to have you for a--a face card."
Virginia grinned....
Ed Bronson had a splitting headache and a crying pain in every muscle.
He had been lying motionless. It was all he could do against the
adhesive-taping job done by Peter Moray. His tongue was thick and furry
and his very soul cried for water. He could make no sound for the tape
covered his mouth.
Angrily, and resentfully, Bronson's temper flared. He set his muscles
against the tape about his wrists and strained. He tried the tape about
his ankles. Both were wound many times with the heavy tape which would
not be torn.
A twisting strain succeeded only in abrading his skin until the flesh
was raw and bleeding. With fading hope he prayed that the blood would
soften the tape and thought about rubbing himself raw even more so that
the further flow of blood might aid.
He gave that up when he saw that the tape was of the waterproof
variety. All the soaking in the world would do little good.
He rolled from the bed onto the floor, easing the thud by dropping
taped feet first and then angling to knees, turning to land on his
buttocks and then unfolding as gently as he knew how. He made it with
no undue effort. Then he rolled across the floor to the door and,
turning, he caught the hinge-butt under the tape at his wrists where
tape and wrists made a small triangle.
After many minutes, Bronson succeeded in weakening the tape and then,
hooking the tape firmly over the hinge, he tore it loose. To remove the
tape from his mouth and from his ankles was but a moment's work and
then Ed Bronson was free to act!
Quietly, he dressed. Then, using the utmost stealth, he stole down the
stairs and out onto the street. It was midmorning.
Nodding amicably to Lewis McManner, who scowled back across the street,
Ed Bronson headed for police headquarters.