“This concerns the Anarch Peak,” the tall man with the briefcase said. “Whom I have reason to believe you’re interested in.”
“Why do you say that?” He paused, irritated. “I don’t recall ever expressing any interest in anyone of Peak’s sort.”
“You must recall. But that’s so. You’re under Phase, here. I’m oriented in the opposite, normal time-direction; therefore what for you will soon happen is for me an experience of the immediate past. My immediate past. May I take a few minutes of your time? I could well be of great use to you, sir.” The man chuckled.
“ ‘Your time.’ Well-put, if I do say so. Yes, decidedly your time, not mine. Just consider that this visit by myself took place yesterday.” Again he smiled his mechanical smile—and mechanical it was; Niehls now perceived the small but brilliant yellow stripe sewed on the tall man’s sleeve. This person was a robot, required by law to wear the identifying swath so as not to deceive. Realizing this, Niehls’ irritation grew; he had a strict, deeply-imbedded prejudice against robies which he could not rid himself of; which he did not want to rid himself of, as a matter of fact.
“Come in,” Niehls said, holding the door to his lavish suite open. The roby represented some human principal; it had not dispatched itself: that was the law. He wondered who had sent it. Some functionary of the syndicate? Possibly. In any case, better to hear the thing out and then tell it to leave.
Together, in the main workchamber of the library suite, the two of them faced each other.
“My card,” the roby said, extending its hand.
He read the card, scowling.
Carl Gantrix
Attorney At Law W.U.S.
“My employer,” the roby said. “So now you know my name. You may address me as Carl; that would be satisfactory.” Now that the door had shut, with Miss Tomsen on the other side, the roby’s voice had acquired a sudden and surprising authoritative tone.
“I prefer,” Niehls said, cautiously, “to address you in the more familiar mode as Carl Junior. If that doesn’t offend you.” He made his own voice even more authoritative. “You know, I seldom grant audiences to robots. A quirk, perhaps, but one concerning which I am consistent.”
“Until now,” the robot Carl Junior murmured; it retrieved its card and placed it back in its wallet. Then, seating itself, it began to unzip its briefcase. “Being in charge of section B of the library, you are of course an expert on the Hobart Phase. At least so Mr. Gantrix assumes. Is he correct, sir?” The robot glanced up keenly.
“Well, I deal with it constantly.” Niehls affected a vacant, cavalier tone; it was always better to show a superior attitude when dealing with a roby. Constantly necessary to remind them in this particular fashion—as well as in countless others—of their place.
“So Mr. Gantrix realizes. And it is to his credit that via such a realization he has inferred that you have, over the years, become something of an authority on the advantages, uses and manifold disadvantages of the Hobart reverse-time field. True? Not true? Choose one.”
Niehls pondered. “I choose the first. Although you must take into account the fact that my knowledge is practical, not theoretical. But I can correctly deal with the vagaries of the Phase without explaining it. You see, I am innately an American; hence pragmatic.”
“Certainly.” The roby Carl Junior nodded its plastic humanoid head. “Very good, Mr. Lehrer. Now down to business. His Mightiness, the Anarch Peak, has become infantile and will soon shrivel up entirely into a homunculus and re-enter a nearby womb. Correct? It is only a matter of time—your time, once again.”
“I am aware,” Niehls said, “that the Hobart Phase obtains in most of the F.N.M. I am aware that His Mightiness will be within a handy nearby womb in no more than a matter of months. Frankly, this pleases me. His Mightiness is deranged. Beyond doubt; clinically so, in fact. The world, both that on Hobart Time and on Standard Time, will benefit. What more is there to say?”
“A lot more,” Carl Junior answered gravely. Leaning forward he deposited a host of documents on Niehls’ desk. “I respectfully insist that you examine these.”
Carl Gantrix, by means of the video circuit of the robot’s system, treated himself to a leisurely inspection of the top librarian Niehls Lehrer as that individual ploughed through the wearying stack of deliberately obscure pseudo documents which the robot had presented.
The bureaucrat in Lehrer had been ensnared by the bait; his attention distracted, the librarian had become oblivious to the robot and to its actions. Therefore, as Lehrer read, the robot expertly slid its chair back and to the left side, close to a reference card case of impressive proportions. Lengthening its right arm, the robot crept its manual grippers of fingeroid shape into the nearest file of the case; this Lehrer did of course not see, and so the robot continued with its assigned task. It placed a miniaturized nest of embryonic robots, no larger than pinheads, within the card file, then a tiny find-circuit transmitter behind a subsequent card, then at last a potent detonating device set on a three-day command circuit.
Watching, Gantrix grinned. Only one construct remained in the robot’s possession, and this now appeared briefly as the robot, eyeing Lehrer sideways and cautiously, edged its extensor once more toward the file, transferring this last bit of sophisticated hardware from its possession to the library’s.
“Purp,” Lehrer said, without raising his eyes.
The code signal, received by the aud chamber of the file, activated an emergency release; the file closed in upon itself in the manner of a bivalve seeking safety. Collapsing, the file retreated into the wall, burying itself out of sight. And at the same time it ejected the constructs which the robot had placed inside it; the objects, expelled with electronic neatness, bounced in a trajectory which deposited them at the robot’s feet, where they lay exposed in clear view.
“Good heavens,” the robot said involuntarily, taken aback.
Lehrer said, “Leave my office immediately.” He raised his eyes from the pseudo documents, and his expression was cold. As the robot reached down to retrieve the now-exposed artifacts he added, “And leave those items here; I want them subjected to lab analysis regarding purpose and source.” He reached into the top drawer of his desk, and when his hand emerged it held a weapon.
In Carl Gantrix’s ears the phone-cable voice of the robot buzzed. “What should I do, sir?”
“Leave presently.” Gantrix no longer felt amused; the fuddy-duddy librarian was equal to the probe, was capable in fact of nullifying it. The contact with Lehrer would have to be made in the open, and with that in mind Gantrix reluctantly picked up the receiver of the vidphone closest to him and dialed the library’s exchange.
A moment later he saw, through the video scanner of the robot, the librarian Niehls Lehrer picking up his own phone in answer.
“We have a problem,” Gantrix said. “Common to us both. Why, then, shouldn’t we work together?”
Lehrer answered, “I’m aware of no problem.” His voice held ultimate calmness; the attempt by the robot to plant hostile hardware in his work-area had not ruffled him. “If you want to work together,” he added, “you’re off to a bad start.”
“Admittedly,” Gantrix said. “But we’ve had difficulty in the past with you librarians.” Your exalted position, he thought. But he did not say it. “This has to do with the Anarch Peak. My superiors believe that there has been an attempt made to obliterate the Hobart Phase in regard to him—a clear violation of law, and one posing a great danger to society… in that, if successfully done, it would in effect create an immortal person by manipulation of known scientific laws. While we do not oppose the continual attempt to bring about an immortal person by use of the Hobart Phase, we do feel that the Anarch is not the person. If you follow.”
“The Anarch is virtually reabsorbed.” Lehrer did not seem too sympathetic; perhaps, Gantrix decided, he doesn’t believe me. “I see no danger.” Coolly he studied the robot Carl Junior facing him. “If there is a men
ace it appears to me to lie—”
“Nonsense. I’m here to help you; this is for the library’s benefit, as well as my own.”
“Who do you represent?” Lehrer demanded.
Gantrix hesitated, then said, “Bard Chai of the Supreme Clearness Council. I am following his orders.”
“That puts a different light on matters.” The librarian’s voice had darkened; and, on the vidscreen, his expression had become harder. “I have nothing to do with the Clearness Council; my responsibility goes to the Erads entirely. As you certainly know.”
“But are you aware—”
“I am aware only of this.” Reaching into the drawer of his desk librarian Lehrer brought out a square gray box, which he opened; from it he produced a typed manuscript which he displayed for Gantrix’s attention. “The sole extant copy of HOW I MADE MY OWN SWABBLE OUT OF ORDINARY HOUSEHOLD OBJECTS IN MY BASEMENT DURING MY SPARE TIME. Eng’s masterpiece, which borders on the eradicated. You see?”
Gantrix said, “Do you know where Ludwig Eng is, at the moment?”
“I don’t care where he is; I only care where he’ll be a two-thirty yesterday afternoon—we have an appointment, he and I. Here in this office at section B of the library.
“Where Ludwig Eng will be at two-thirty yesterday,” Gantrix said meditatively, half to himself, “depends a good deal on where he is right now.” He did not tell the librarian what he knew; that at this moment Ludwig Eng was somewhere in the Free Negro Municipality, possibly trying to obtain audience with the Anarch.
Assuming that the Anarch, in his puerile, diminished state, could still grant audience to anyone.
The now-tiny Anarch, wearing jeans and purple sneakers and a many-times-washed T-shirt, sat on the dusty grass studying intently a ring of marbles. His attention had become so complete that Ludwig Eng felt ready to give up; the boy opposite him no longer seemed conscious of his presence. All in all, the situation depressed Eng; he felt more helpless than before he had come.
Nevertheless, he decided to try to continue. “Your Mightiness,” he said, “I only desire a few more moments of your time.”
With reluctance the boy looked up. “Yes, sir,” he said in a sullen, muted voice.
“My position is difficult,” Eng said, repeating himself; he had over and over again presented the childified Anarch with the identical material, and each time in vain. “If you as Anarch could telecast an appeal throughout the Western United States and the F.N.M. for people to build several swabbles here and there while the last copy of my book still survives—”
“That’s right,” the boy murmured.
“Pardon?” Eng felt a flicker of hope; he watched the small smooth face fixedly. Something had formed there.
Sebastian Peak said, “Yes sir; I hope to become Anarch when I grow up. I’m studying for that right now.”
“You are the Anarch. You were the Anarch.” He sighed, feeling crushed. It was clearly hopeless. No point in going on—and today was the final day, because yesterday he would meet with an official from the People’s Topical Library and that would be that.
The boy brightened. He seemed, all at once, to take interest in what Eng had to say. “No kidding?”
“God’s truth, son.” Eng nodded solemnly. “In fact, legally speaking you still hold the office.” He glanced up at the lean Negro with the overly-massive side arm who currently constituted the Anarch’s bodyguard. “Isn’t that so, Mr. Plaut?”
“True, your Mightiness,” the Negro said to the boy. “You possess the power to arbitrate in this case, having to do with this gentleman’s manuscript.” Squatting on his lank haunches the bodyguard sought to engage the boy’s wandering attention. “Your Mightiness, this man is the inventor of the swabble.”
“What’s that?” The boy glanced from one to the other of them, scowling with suspicion. “How much does a swabble cost? I only have fifty cents; I got it as my allowance. Anyhow I don’t think I want a swabble. I want some gum, and I’m going to the show.” His expression became fixed, rigidly in place. “Who cares about a swabble?” he said with disdain.
“You have lived one hundred and sixty years,” the bodyguard Plaut told him. “Because of this man’s invention. From the swabble the Hobart Phase was inferred and finally established experimentally. I know that means nothing to you, but—” The bodyguard clasped his hands together earnestly, rocking on his hocks as he tried to keep the boy’s constantly dwindling attention focussed. “Pay attention to me, Sebastian; this is important. If you could sign a decree… while you can still write. That’s all. A public notice for people to—”
“Aw, go on; beat it.” The boy glared at him with hostility. “I don’t believe you; something’s the matter.”
Something is wrong, all right, Eng thought to himself as he rose stiffly to his feet. And there appears to be next to nothing that we can do about it. At least without your help. He felt defeated.
“Try him again later,” the bodyguard said, also rising; he looked decidedly sympathetic.
“He’ll be even younger,” Eng said bitterly. And anyhow there was no time; no later existed. He walked a few steps away, then, overcome with gloom.
On a tree branch a butterfly had begun the intricate, mysterious process of squeezing itself into a dull brown cocoon, and Eng paused to inspect its slow, labored efforts. It had its task, too, but that task, unlike his, was not hopeless. However the butterfly did not know that; it continued mindlessly, a reflex machine obeying the urgings programmed into it from the remote future. The sight of the insect at work gave Eng something to ponder; he perceived the moral in it, and, turning, walked back to confront the child who squatted on the grass with his circle of gaily-colored luminous marbles.
“Look at it this way,” he said to the Anarch Peak; this was probably his last try, and he meant to bring in everything available. “Even if you can’t remember what a swabble is or what the Hobart Phase does, all you need to do is sign; I have the document here.” Reaching into his inside coat pocket he brought the envelope out, opened it. “When you’ve signed this, it will appear on world-wide TV, at the six P.M. news in each time zone. I tell you what I’ll do. If you’ll sign this, I’ll triple what you’ve got in the way of money. You say you have fifty cents? I’ll give you an additional dollar, a genuine paper one. What do you say? And I’ll pay your way to the movies once a week, at the Saturday matinee for the balance of the year. Is it a deal?”
The boy studied him acutely. He seemed almost convinced. But something—Eng could not fathom what—held him back.
“I think,” the bodyguard said softly, “he wants to ask his dad’s permission. The old gentleman is now alive; his components migrated into a birth-container about six weeks ago, and he is currently in the Kansas City General Hospital’s birth ward undergoing revivification. He is already conscious, and His Mightiness has spoken with him several times. Is that not so, Sebastian?” He smiled gently at the boy, then grimaced as the boy nodded. “So that is it,” he said to Eng, then. “I was right. He’s afraid to take any initiative, now that his father’s alive. It’s very bad luck as far as you’re concerned, Mr. Eng; he’s just plain dwindled too much to perform his job. And everybody knows it as a fact.”
“I refuse to give up,” Eng said. But the truth of the matter was that purely and simply he had already given up; he could see that the bodyguard, who spent all his waking time with the Anarch, was correct. It had become a waste of time. Had this meeting taken place two years from now, however…
To the bodyguard he said heavily, “I’ll go away and let him play with his marbles.” He placed the envelope back in his pocket, started off; then, pausing, he added, “I’ll make one final try yesterday morning. Before I’m due at the library. If the boy’s schedule permits it.”
“It surely does,” the bodyguard said. He explained, “Hardly anybody consults him any more, in view of his—condition.” His tone was sympathetic, and for that Eng felt appreciation.
Turning wear
ily he trudged off, leaving the one-time Anarch of half the civilized world to play mindlessly in the grass.
The previous morning, he realized. My last chance. Long time to wait and do nothing.
In his hotel room he placed a phone call to the West Coast, to the People’s Topical Library. Presently he found himself facing one of the bureaucrats with whom, of late, he had had to deal so much. “Let me talk directly to Mr. Lehrer,” he grunted. Might as well go directly to the source, he decided; Lehrer had final authority in the matter of his book—now decayed to a mere typewritten manuscript.
“Sorry,” the functionary told him, with a faint trace of disdain. “It is too early; Mr. Lehrer has already left the building.”
“Could I catch him at home, do you think?”
“He is probably having breakfast. I suggest you wait until late yesterday. After all, Mr. Lehrer needs some time for seclusive recreation; he has many heavy and difficult responsibilities to weigh him down.” Clearly, the minor functionary had no intention of cooperating.
Dully depressed, Eng hung up without even saying hello. Well, perhaps it was for the better; undoubtedly Lehrer would refuse to grant him additional time. After all, as the library bureaucrat had said, Lehrer had pressures at work on him, too: in particular the Erads of the syndicate… those mysterious entities who saw to it that destruction of human inventions be painstakingly carried out. As witness his own book. Well, time to give up and head back west.
As he started from his hotel room, he paused at the mirror of the vanity table to see whether his face had, during the day, absorbed the packet of whiskers which he had foam-glued onto it. Peering at his reflection, he rubbed his jowls…
And screamed.
All along his jaw-line the dark stubble of newly-grown facial hair could be seen. He was growing a beard; stubble was coming in—not being absorbed.
What this meant he did not know. But it terrified him; he stood gaping, appalled now by the fright collected within his reflected features. The man in the mirror did look even vaguely familiar; some ominous underlying deformity of change had attacked it. But why? And—how?