The Dead Past - Isaac Asimov, ebook, Temp
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The Dead Past
Copyright (c) 1956 by Street and Smith Publications, Inc.
Arnold Potterley, Ph.D., was a Professor of Ancient History. That, in
itself, was not dangerous. What changed the world beyond all dreams
was the fact that he looked like a Professor of Ancient History.
Thaddeus Araman, Department Head of the Division of Chronoscopy,
might have taken proper action if Dr. Potterley had been owner .of a
large, square chin, flashing eyes, aquiline nose and broad shoulders.
As it was, Thaddeus Araman found himself staring over his desk at a
mild-mannered individual, whose faded blue eyes looked at him
wistfully from either side of a low-bridged button nose; whose small,
neatly dressed figure seemed stamped "milk-and-water" from
thinning brown hair to the neatly brushed shoes that completed a
conservative middle-class costume.
Araman said pleasantly, "And now what can I do for you, Dr.
Potterley?"
Dr. Potterley said in a soft voice that went well with the rest of him,
"Mr. Araman, I came to you because you're top man in chronoscopy."
Araman smiled. "Not exactly. Above me is the World Commissioner of
Research and above him is the Secretary-General of the United
Nations. And above both of them, of course, are the sovereign peoples
of Earth."
Dr. Potterley shook his head. "They're not interested in chronoscopy.
I've come to you, sir, because for two years I have been trying to
obtain permission to do some time viewing-chronoscopy, that is-in
connection with my researches on ancient Carthage. I can't obtain
such permission. My research grants are all proper. There is no
irregularity in any of my intellectual endeavors and yet-"
"I'm sure there is no question of irregularity," said Araman
soothingly. He flipped the thin reproduction sheets in the folder to
which Potterley's name had been attached. They had been produced
by Multivac, whose vast analogical mind kept all the department
records. When this was over, the sheets could be destroyed, then
reproduced on demand in a matter of minutes.
And while Araman turned the pages, Dr. Potterley's voice continued
in a soft monotone.
The historian was saying, "I must explain that my problem is quite an
important one. Carthage was ancient commercialism brought to its
zenith. Pre-Roman Carthage was the nearest ancient analogue to pre-
atomic America, at least insofar as its attachment to trade, commerce
and business in general was concerned. They were the most daring
seamen and explorers before the Vikings; much better at it than the
overrated Greeks.
"To know Carthage would be very rewarding, yet the only knowledge
we have of it is derived from the writings of its bitter enemies, the
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Greeks and Romans. Carthage itself never wrote in its own defense
or, if it did, the books did not survive. As a result, the Carthaginians
have been one of the favorite sets of villains of history and perhaps
unjustly so. Time viewing may set the record straight."
He said much more.
Araman said, still turning the reproduction sheets before him, "You
must realize, Dr. Potterley, that chronoscopy, or time viewing, if you
prefer, is a difficult process."
Dr. Potterley, who had been interrupted, frowned and said, "I am
asking for only certain selected views at times and places I would
indicate."
Araman sighed. "Even a few views, even one ... It is an unbelievably
delicate art. There is the question of focus, getting the proper scene in
view and holding it. There is the synchronization of sound, which
calls for completely independent circuits."
"Surely my problem is important enough to justify considerable
effort."
"Yes, sir. Undoubtedly," said Araman at once. To deny the importance
of someone's research problem would be unforgivably bad manners.
"But you must understand how long-drawn-out even the simplest
view is. And there is a long waiting line for the chronoscope and an
even longer waiting line for the use of Multivac which guides us in our
use of the controls."
Potterley stirred unhappily. "But can nothing be done? For two years-
"
"A matter of priority, sir. I'm sorry. . . . Cigarette?"
The historian started back at the suggestion, eyes suddenly widening
as he stared at the pack thrust out toward him. Araman looked
surprised, withdrew the pack, made a motion as though to take a
cigarette for himself and thought better of it.
Potterley drew a sigh of unfeigned relief as the pack was put out of
sight.
He said, "Is there any way of reviewing matters, putting me as far
forward as possible. I don't know how to explain-"
Araman smiled. Some had offered money under similar
circumstances which, of course, had gotten them nowhere, either. He
said, "The decisions on priority are computer-processed. I could in no
way alter those decisions arbitrarily."
Potterley rose stiffly to his feet. He stood five and a half feet tall.
"Then, good day, sir."
"Good day, Dr. Potterley. And my sincerest regrets."
He offered his hand and Potterley touched it briefly.
The historian left, and a touch of the buzzer brought Araman's
secretary into the room. He handed her the folder.
"These," he said, "may be disposed of."
Alone again, he smiled bitterly. Another item in his quarter-century's
service to the human race. Service through negation.
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At least this fellow had been easy to dispose of. Sometimes academic
pressure had to be applied and even withdrawal of grants.
Five minutes later, he had forgotten Dr. Potterley. Nor, thinking back
on it later, could he remember feeling any premonition of danger.
During the first year of his frustration, Arnold Potterley had
experienced only that-frustration. During the second year, though,
his frustration gave birth to an idea that first frightened and then
fascinated him. Two things stopped him from trying to translate the
idea into action, and neither barrier was the undoubted fact that his
notion was a grossly unethical one.
The first was merely the continuing hope that the government would
finally give its permission and make it unnecessary for him to do
anything more. That hope had perished finally in the interview with
Araman just completed.
The second barrier had been not a hope at all but a dreary realization
of his own incapacity. He was not a physicist and he knew no
physicists from whom he might obtain help. The Department of
Physics at the university consisted of men well stocked with grants
and well immersed in specialty. At best, they would not listen to him.
At worst, they would report him for intellectual anarchy and even his
basic Carthaginian grant might easily be withdrawn.
That he could not risk. And yet chronoscopy was the only way to carry
on his work. Without it, he would be no worse off if his grant were
lost.
The first hint that the second barrier might be overcome had come a
week earlier than his interview with Araman, and it had gone
unrecognized at the time. It had been at one of the faculty teas.
Potterley attended these sessions unfailingly because he conceived
attendance to be a duty, and he took his duties seriously. Once there,
however, he conceived it to be no responsibility of his to make light
conversation or new friends. He sipped abstemiously at a drink or
two, exchanged a polite word with the dean or
such department heads as happened to be present, bestowed a
narrow smile on others and finally left early.
Ordinarily, he would have paid no attention, at that most recent tea,
to a young man standing quietly, even diffidently, in one corner. He
would never have dreamed of speaking to him. Yet a tangle of
circumstance persuaded him this once to behave in a way contrary to
his nature.
That morning at breakfast, Mrs. Potterley had announced somberly
that once again she had dreamed of Laurel; but this time a Laurel
grown up, yet retaining the three-year-old face that stamped her as
their child. Potterley had let her talk. There had been a time when he
fought her too frequent preoccupation with the past and death. Laurel
would not come back to them, either through dreams or through talk.
Yet if it appeased Caroline Potterley-let her dream and talk.
But when Potterley went to school that morning, he found himself for
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once affected by Caroline's inanities. Laurel grown up! She had died
nearly twenty years ago; their only child, then and ever. In all that
time, when he thought of her, it was as a three-year-old.
Now he thought: But if she were alive now, she wouldn't be three,
she'd be nearly twenty-three.
Helplessly, he found himself trying to think of Laurel as growing
progressively older; as finally becoming twenty-three. He did not
quite succeed.
Yet he tried. Laurel using make-up. Laurel going out with boys.
Laurel- getting married!
So it was that when he saw the young man hovering at the outskirts of
the coldly circulating group of faculty men, it occurred to him
quixotically that, for all he knew, a youngster just such as this might
have married Laurel. That youngster himself, perhaps. . . .
Laurel might have met him, here at the university, or some evening
when he might be invited to dinner at the Potterleys'. They might
grow interested in one another. Laurel would surely have been pretty
and this youngster looked well. He was dark in coloring, with a lean
intent face and an easy carriage.
The tenuous daydream snapped, yet Potterley found himself staring
foolishly at the young man, not as a strange face but as a possible son-
in-law in the might-have-been. He found himself threading his way
toward the man. It was almost a form of autohypnotism.
He put out his hand. "I am Arnold Potterley of the History
Department. You're new here, I think?"
The youngster looked faintly astonished and fumbled with his drink,
shifting it to his left hand in order to shake with his right. "Jonas
Foster is my name, sir. I'm a new instructor in physics. I'm just
starting this semester."
Potterley nodded. "I wish you a happy stay here and great success."
That was the end of it, then. Potterley had come uneasily to his senses,
found himself embarrassed and moved off. He stared back over his
shoulder once, but the illusion of relationship had gone. Reality was
quite real once more and he was angry with himself for having fallen
prey to his wife's foolish talk about Laurel.
But a week later, even while Araman was talking, the thought of that
young man had come back to him. An instructor in physics. A new
instructor. Had he been deaf at the time? Was there a short circuit
between ear and brain? Or was it an automatic self-censorship
because of the impending interview with the Head of Chronoscopy?
But the interview failed, and it was the thought of the young man with
whom he had exchanged two sentences that prevented Potterley from
elaborating his pleas for consideration. He was almost anxious to get
away.
And in the autogiro express back to the university, he could almost
wish he were superstitious. He could then console himself with the
thought that the casual meaningless meeting had really been directed
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by a knowing and purposeful Fate.
Jonas Foster was not new to academic life. The long and rickety
struggle for the doctorate would make anyone a veteran. Additional
work as a postdoctorate teaching fellow acted as a booster shot.
But now he was Instructor Jonas Foster. Professorial dignity lay
ahead. And he now found himself in a new sort of relationship toward
other professors.
For one thing, they would be voting on future promotions. For
another, he was in no position to tell so early in the game which
particular member of the faculty might or might not have the ear of
the dean or even of the university president. He did not fancy himself
as a campus politician and was sure he would make a poor one, yet
there was no point in kicking his own rear into blisters just to prove
that to himself.
So Foster listened to this mild-mannered historian who, in some
vague way, seemed nevertheless to radiate tension, and did not shut
him up abruptly and toss him out. Certainly that was his first impulse.
He remembered Potterley well enough. Potterley had approached him
at that tea (which had been a grizzly affair). The fellow had spoken
two sentences to him stiffly, somehow glassy-eyed, had then come to
himself with a visible start and hurried off.
It had amused Foster at the time, but now . . .
Potterley might have been deliberately trying to make his
acquaintance, or, rather, to impress his own personality on Foster as
that of a queer sort of duck, eccentric but harmless. He might now be
probing Foster's views, searching for unsettling opinions. Surely, they
ought to have done so before granting him his appointment. Still . . .
Potterley might be serious, might honestly not realize what he was
doing.
Or he might realize quite well what he was doing; he might be nothing
more or less than a dangerous rascal.
Foster mumbled, "Well, now-" to gain time, and fished out a package
of cigarettes, intending to offer one to Potterley and to light it and one
for himself very slowly.
But Potterley said at once, "Please, Dr. Foster. No cigarettes."
Foster looked startled. "I'm sorry, sir." ;,
"No. The regrets are mine. I cannot stand the odor. An idiosyncrasy.
I'm sorry."
He was positively pale. Foster put away the cigarettes.
Foster, feeling the absence of the cigarette, took the easy way out. "I'm
flattered that you ask my advice and all that, Dr. Potterley, but I'm not
a neutrinics man. I can't very well do anything professional in that
direction. Even stating an opinion would be out of line, and, frankly,
I'd prefer that you didn't go into any particulars."
The historian's prim face set hard. "What do you mean, you're not a
neutrinics man? You're not anything yet. You haven't received any
grant, have you?"
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