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Title: The Man from Time
Author: Frank Belknap Long
Release Date: July 15, 2009 [EBook #29418]
Language: English
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_The method by which one man might be pinpointed in the vastness of
all Eternity was the problem tackled by the versatile Frank Belknap
Long in this story. And as all minds of great perceptiveness know,
it would be a simple, human quality he'd find most effective even in
solving Time-Space._
the
man
from
time
_by ... Frank Belknap Long_
Deep in the Future he found the
answer to Man's age-old problem.
Daring Moonson, he was called. It was a proud name, a brave name. But
what good was a name that rang out like a summons to battle if the man
who bore it could not repeat it aloud without fear?
Moonson had tried telling himself that a man could conquer fear if he
could but once summon the courage to laugh at all the sins that ever
were, and do as he damned well pleased. An ancient phrase that--damned
well. It went clear back to the Elizabethan Age, and Moonson had tried
picturing himself as an Elizabethan man with a ruffle at his throat and
a rapier in his clasp, brawling lustily in a tavern.
In the Elizabethan Age men had thrown caution to the winds and lived
with their whole bodies, not just with their minds alone. Perhaps that
was why, even in the year 3689, defiant names still cropped up. Names
like Independence Forest and Man, Live Forever!
It was not easy for a man to live up to a name like Man, Live Forever!
But Moonson was ready to believe that it could be done. There was
something in human nature which made a man abandon caution and try to
live up to the claims made for him by his parents at birth.
It must be bad, Moonson thought. It must be bad if I can't control the
trembling of my hands, the pounding of the blood at my temples. I am
like a child shut up alone in the dark, hearing rats scurrying in a
closet thick with cobwebs and the tapping of a blind man's cane on a
deserted street at midnight.
_Tap, tap, tap_--nearer and nearer through the darkness. How soon would
the rats be swarming out, blood-fanged and wholly vicious? How soon
would the cane strike?
He looked up quickly, his eyes searching the shadows. For almost a month
now the gleaming intricacies of the machine had given him a complete
sense of security. As a scholar traveling in Time he had been accepted
by his fellow travelers as a man of great courage and firm
determination.
For twenty-seven days a smooth surface of shining metal had walled him
in, enabling him to grapple with reality on a completely adult level.
For twenty-seven days he had gone pridefully back through Time, taking
creative delight in watching the heritage of the human race unroll
before him like a cineramoscope under glass.
Watching a green land in the dying golden sunlight of an age lost to
human memory could restore a man's strength of purpose by its serenity
alone. But even an age of war and pestilence could be observed without
torment from behind the protective shields of the Time Machine. Danger,
accidents, catastrophe could not touch him personally.
To watch death and destruction as a spectator in a traveling Time
Observatory was like watching a cobra poised to strike from behind a
pane of crystal-bright glass in a zoological garden.
You got a tremendous thrill in just thinking: How dreadful if the glass
should not be there! How lucky I am to be alive, with a thing so deadly
and monstrous within striking distance of me!
For twenty-seven days now he had traveled without fear. Sometimes the
Time Observatory would pinpoint an age and hover over it while his
companions took painstaking historical notes. Sometimes it would retrace
its course and circle back. A new age would come under scrutiny and more
notes would be taken.
But a horrible thing that had happened to him, had awakened in him a
lonely nightmare of restlessness. Childhood fears he had thought buried
forever had returned to plague him and he had developed a sudden,
terrible dread of the fogginess outside the moving viewpane, the way the
machine itself wheeled and dipped when an ancient ruin came sweeping
toward him. He had developed a fear of Time.
There was no escape from that Time Fear. The instant it came upon him he
lost all interest in historical research. 1069, 732, 2407, 1928--every
date terrified him. The Black Plague in London, the Great Fire, the
Spanish Armada in flames off the coast of a bleak little island that
would soon mold the destiny of half the world--how meaningless it all
seemed in the shadow of his fear!
Had the human race really advanced so much? Time had been conquered but
no man was yet wise enough to heal himself if a stark, unreasoning fear
took possession of his mind and heart, giving him no peace.
Moonson lowered his eyes, saw that Rutella was watching him in the
manner of a shy woman not wishing to break in too abruptly on the
thoughts of a stranger.
Deep within him he knew that he had become a stranger to his own wife
and the realization sharply increased his torment. He stared down at her
head against his knee, at her beautiful back and sleek, dark hair.
Violet eyes she had, not black as they seemed at first glance but a
deep, lustrous violet.
He remembered suddenly that he was still a young man, with a young man's
ardor surging strong in him. He bent swiftly, kissed her lips and eyes.
As he did so her arms tightened about him until he found himself
wondering what he could have done to deserve such a woman.
She had never seemed more precious to him and for an instant he could
feel his fear lessening a little. But it came back and was worse than
before. It was like an old pain returning at an unexpected moment to
chill a man with the sickening reminder that all joy must end.
His decision to act was made quickly.
The first step was the most difficult but with a deliberate effort of
will he accomplished it to his satisfaction. His secret thoughts he
buried beneath a continuous mental preoccupation with the vain and the
trivial. It was important to the success of his plan that his companions
should suspect nothing.
The second step was less difficult. The mental block remained firm and
he succeeded in carrying on actual preparations for his departure in
complete secrecy.
The third step was the final one and it took him from a large
compartment to a small one, from a high-arching surface of metal to a
maze of intricate control mechanisms in a space so narrow that he had to
crouch to work with accuracy.
Swiftly and competently his fingers moved over instruments of science
which only a completely sane man would have known how to manipulate. It
was an acid test of his sanity and he knew as he worked that his
reasoning faculties at least had suffered no impairment.
Beneath his hands the Time Observatory's controls were solid shafts of
metal. But suddenly as he worked he found himself thinking of them as
fluid abstractions, each a milestone in man's long progress from the
jungle to the stars. Time and space--mass and velocity.
How incredible that it had taken centuries of patient technological
research to master in a practical way the tremendous implications of
Einstein's original postulate. Warp space with a rapidly moving object,
move away from the observer with the speed of light--and the whole of
human history assumed the firm contours of a landscape in space. Time
and space merged and became one. And a man in an intricately-equipped
Time Observatory could revisit the past as easily as he could travel
across the great curve of the universe to the farthest planet of the
farthest star.
The controls were suddenly firm in his hands. He knew precisely what
adjustments to make. The iris of the human eye dilates and contracts
with every shift of illumination, and the Time Observatory had an iris
too. That iris could be opened without endangering his companions in the
least--if he took care to widen it just enough to accommodate only one
sturdily built man of medium height.
Sweat came out in great beads on his forehead as he worked. The light
that came through the machine's iris was faint at first, the barest
glimmer of white in deep darkness. But as he adjusted controls the light
grew brighter and brighter, beating in upon him until he was kneeling in
a circle of radiance that dazzled his eyes and set his heart to
pounding.
I've lived too long with fear, he thought. I've lived like a man
imprisoned, shut away from the sunlight. Now, when freedom beckons, I
must act quickly or I shall be powerless to act at all.
He stood erect, took a slow step forward, his eyes squeezed shut.
Another step, another--and suddenly he knew he was at the gateway to
Time's sure knowledge, in actual contact with the past for his ears were
now assailed by the high confusion of ancient sounds and voices!
He left the Time machine in a flying leap, one arm held before his face.
He tried to keep his eyes covered as the ground seemed to rise to meet
him. But he lurched in an agony of unbalance and opened his eyes--to see
the green surface beneath him flashing like a suddenly uncovered jewel.
He remained on his feet just long enough to see his Time Observatory dim
and vanish. Then his knees gave way and he collapsed with a despairing
cry as the fear enveloped him ...
* * * * *
There were daisies in the field where he lay, his shoulders and naked
chest pressed to the earth. A gentle wind stirred the grass, and the
flute-like warble of a song bird was repeated close to his ear, over and
over with a tireless persistence.
Abruptly he sat up and stared about him. Running parallel to the field
was a winding country road and down it came a yellow and silver vehicle
on wheels, its entire upper section encased in glass which mirrored the
autumnal landscape with a startling clearness.
The vehicle halted directly in front of him and a man with ruddy cheeks
and snow-white hair leaned out to wave at him.
"Good morning, mister!" the man shouted. "Can I give you a lift into
town?"
Moonson rose unsteadily, alarm and suspicion in his stare. Very
cautiously he lowered the mental barrier and the man's thoughts impinged
on his mind in bewildering confusion.
_He's not a farmer, that's sure ... must have been swimming in the
creek, but those bathing trunks he's wearing are out of this world!_
_Huh! I wouldn't have the nerve to parade around in trunks like that
even on a public beach. Probably an exhibitionist ... But why should he
wear 'em out here in the woods? No blonds or redheads to knock silly out
here!_
_Huh! He might have the courtesy to answer me ... Well, if he doesn't
want a lift into town it's no concern of mine!_
Moonson stood watching the vehicle sweep away out of sight. Obviously he
had angered the man by his silence, but he could answer only by shaking
his head.
He began to walk, pausing an instant in the middle of the bridge to
stare down at a stream of water that rippled in the sunlight over
moss-covered rocks. Tiny silver fish darted to and fro beneath a
tumbling waterfall and he felt calmed and reassured by the sight.
Shoulders erect now, he walked on ...
It was high noon when he reached the tavern. He went inside, saw men and
women dancing in a dim light, and there was a huge, rainbow-colored
musical instrument by the door which startled him by its resonance. The
music was wild, weird, a little terrifying.
He sat down at a table near the door and searched the minds of the
dancers for a clue to the meaning of what he saw.
The thoughts which came to him were startlingly primitive, direct and
sometimes meaningless to him.
_Go easy, baby! Swing it! Sure, we're in the groove now, but you never
can tell! I'll buy you an orchid, honey! Not roses, just one
orchid--black like your hair! Ever see a black orchid, hon? They're rare
and they're expensive!_
_Oh, darl, darl, hold me closer! The music goes round and round! It will
always be like that with us, honey! Don't ever be a square! That's all I
ask! Don't ever be a square! Cuddle up to me, let yourself go! When
you're dancing with one girl you should never look at another! Don't you
know that, Johnny!_
_Sure I know it, Doll! But did I ever claim I wasn't human?_
_Darl, doll, doll baby! Look all you want to! But if you ever dare--_
Moonson found himself relaxing a little. Dancing in all ages was closely
allied to love-making, but it was pursued here with a careless rapture
which he found creatively stimulating. People came here not only to
dance but to eat, and the thoughts of the dancers implied that there was
nothing stylized about a tavern. The ritual was a completely natural
one.
In Egyptian bas-reliefs you saw the opposite in dancing. Every movement
rigidly prescribed, arms held rigid and sharply bent at the elbows. Slow
movements rather than lively ones, a bowing and a scraping with bowls of
fruit extended in gift offerings at every turn.
There was obviously no enthroned authority here, no bejeweled king to
pacify when emotions ran wild, but complete freedom to embrace joy with
corybantic abandonment.
A tall man in ill-fitting black clothes approached Moonson's table,
interrupting his reflections with thoughts that seemed designed to
disturb and distract him out of sheer perversity. So even here there
were flies in every ointment, and no dream of perfection could remain
unchallenged.
He sat unmoving, absorbing the man's thoughts.
_What does he think this is, a bath house? Mike says it's okay to serve
them if they come in from the beach just as they are. But just one quick
beer, no more. This late in the season you'd think they'd have the
decency to get dressed!_
The sepulchrally-dressed man gave the table a brush with a cloth he
carried, then thrust his head forward like an ill-tempered scavenger
bird.
"Can't serve you anything but beer. Boss's orders. Okay?"
Moonson nodded and the man went away.
Then he turned to watching the girl. She was frightened. She sat all
alone, plucking nervously at the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. She
sat with her back to the light, bunching the cloth up into little folds,
then smoothing it out again.
She'd ground out lipstick-smudged cigarettes until the ash tray was
spilling over.
Moonson began to watch the fear in her mind ...
Her fear grew when she thought that Mike wasn't gone for good. The phone
call wouldn't take long and he'd be coming back any minute now. And Mike
wouldn't be satisfied until she was broken into little bits. Yes, Mike
wanted to see her on her knees, begging him to kill her!
_Kill me, but don't hurt Joe! It wasn't his fault! He's just a kid--he's
not twenty yet, Mike!_
That would be a lie but Mike had no way of knowing that Joe would be
twenty-two on his next birthday, although he looked eighteen at most.
There was no pity in Mike but would his pride let him hot-rod an
eighteen-year-old?
_Mike won't care! Mike will kill him anyway! Joe couldn't help falling
in love with me, but Mike won't care what Joe could help! Mike was never
young himself, never a sweet kid like Joe!_
_Mike killed a man when he was fourteen years old! He spent seven years
in a reformatory and the kids there were never young. Joe will be just
one of those kids to Mike ..._
Her fear kept growing.
You couldn't fight men like Mike. Mike was strong in too many different
ways. When you ran a tavern with an upstairs room for special customers
you had to be tough, strong. You sat in an office and when people came
to you begging for favors you just laughed. Ten grand isn't hay, buddy!
My wheels aren't rigged. If you think they are get out. It's your
funeral.
It's your funeral, Mike would say, laughing until tears came into his
eyes.
You couldn't fight that kind of strength. Mike could push his knuckles
hard into the faces of people who owed him money, and he'd never even be
arrested.
Mike could take money crisp and new out of his wallet, spread it out
like a fan, say to any girl crazy enough to give him a second glance:
"I'm interested in you, honey! Get rid of him and come over to my
table!"
He could say worse things to girls too decent and self-respecting to
look at him at all.
You could be so cold and hard nothing could ever hurt you. You could be
Mike Galante ...
How could she have loved such a man? And dragged Joe into it, a good kid
who had made only one really bad mistake in his life--the mistake of
asking her to marry him.
She shivered with a chill of self-loathing and turned her eyes
hesitantly toward the big man in bathing trunks who sat alone by the
door.
For a moment she met the big man's eyes and her fears seemed to fade
away! She stared at him ... sunburned almost black. Muscles like a
lifeguard. All alone and not on the make. When he returned her stare his
eyes sparkled with friendly interest, but no suggestive, flirtatious
intent.
He was too rugged to be really handsome, she thought, but he wouldn't
have to start digging in his wallet to get a girl to change tables,
either.
Guiltily she remembered Joe, now it could only be Joe.
Then she saw Joe enter the room. He was deathly pale and he was coming
straight toward her between the tables. Without pausing to weigh his
chances of staying alive he passed a man and a woman who relished Mike's
company enough to make them eager to act ugly for a daily handout. They
did not look up at Joe as he passed but the man's lips curled in a sneer
and the woman whispered something that appeared to fan the flames of her
companion's malice.
Mike had friends--friends who would never rat on him while their police
records remained in Mike's safe and they could count on him for
protection.
She started to rise, to go to Joe and warn him that Mike would be coming
back. But despair flooded her and the impulse died. The way Joe felt
about her was a thing too big to stop ...
Joe saw her slim against the light, and his thoughts were like the sea
surge, wild, unruly.
_Maybe Mike will get me. Maybe I'll be dead by this time tomorrow. Maybe
I'm crazy to love her the way I do ..._
Her hair against the light, a tumbled mass of spun gold.
_Always a woman bothering me for as long as I can remember. Molly, Anne,
Janice ... Some were good for me and some were bad._
_You see a woman on the street walking ahead of you, hips swaying, and
you think: I don't even know her name but I'd like to crush her in my
arms!_
_I guess every guy feels like that about every pretty woman he sees.
Even about some that aren't so pretty. But then you get to know and like
a woman, and you don't feel that way so much. You respect her and you
don't let yourself feel that way._
_Then something happens. You love her so much it's like the first time
again but with a whole lot added. You love her so much you'd die to make
her happy._
* * * * *
Joe was shaking when he slipped into the chair left vacant by Mike and
reached out for both her hands.
"I'm taking you away tonight," he said. "You're coming with me."
Joe was scared, she knew. But he didn't want her to know. His hands were
like ice and his fear blended with her own fear as their hands met.
"He'll kill you, Joe! You've got to forget me!" she sobbed.
"I'm not afraid of him. I'm stronger than you think. He won't dare come
at me with a gun, not here before all these people. If he comes at me
with his fists I'll hook a solid left to his jaw that will stretch him
out cold!"
She knew he wasn't deceiving himself. Joe didn't want to die any more
than she did.
The Man from Time had an impulse to get up, walk over to the two
frightened children and comfort them with a reassuring smile. He sat
watching, feeling their fear beating in tumultuous waves into his brain.
Fear in the minds of a boy and a girl because they desperately wanted
one another!
He looked steadily at them and his eyes spoke to them ...
_Life is greater than you know. If you could travel in Time, and see how
great is man's courage--if you could see all of his triumphs over
despair and grief and pain--you would know that there is nothing to
fear! Nothing at all!_
Joe rose from the table, suddenly calm, quiet.
"Come on," he said quietly. "We're getting out of here right now. My
car's outside and if Mike tries to stop us I'll fix him!"
The boy and the girl walked toward the door together, a young and
extremely pretty girl and a boy grown suddenly to the full stature of a
man.
Rather regretfully Moonson watched them go. As they reached the door the
girl turned and smiled and the boy paused too--and they both smiled
suddenly at the man in the bathing trunks.
Then they were gone.
Moonson got up as they disappeared, left the tavern.
It was dark when he reached the cabin. He was dog-tired, and when he saw
the seated man through the lighted window a great longing for
companionship came upon him.
He forgot that he couldn't talk to the man, forgot the language
difficulty completely. But before this insurmountable element occurred
to him he was inside the cabin.
Once there he saw that the problem solved itself--the man was a writer
and he had been drinking steadily for hours. So the man did all of the
talking, not wanting or waiting for an answer.
A youngish, handsome man he was, with graying temples and keenly
observant eyes. The instant he saw Moonson he started to talk.
"Welcome, stranger," he said. "Been taking a dip in the ocean, eh? Can't
say I'd enjoy it, this late in the season!"
Moonson was afraid at first that his silence might discourage the
writer, but he did not know writers ...
"It's good to have someone to talk to," the writer went on. "I've been
sitting here all day trying to write. I'll tell you something you may
not know--you can go to the finest hotels, and you can open case after
case of the finest wine, and you still can't get started sometimes."
The writer's face seemed suddenly to age. Fear came into his eyes and he
raised the bottle to his lips, faced away from his guest as he drank as
if ashamed of what he must do to escape despair every time he faced his
fear.
He was trying to write himself back into fame. His greatest moment had
come years before when his golden pen had glorified a generation of
madcaps.
For one deathless moment his genius had carried him to the heights, and
a white blaze of publicity had given him a halo of glory. Later had come
lean and bitter years until finally his reputation dwindled like a
gutted candle in a wintry room at midnight.
He could still write but now fear and remorse walked with him and would
give him no peace. He was cruelly afraid most of the time.
Moonson listened to the writer's thoughts in heart-stricken
silence--thoughts so tragic they seemed out of keeping with the natural
and beautiful rhythms of his speech. He had never imagined that a
sensitive and imaginative man--an artist--could be so completely
abandoned by the society his genius had helped to enrich.
Back and forth the writer paced, baring his inmost thoughts ... His wife
was desperately ill and the future looked completely black. How could he
summon the strength of will to go on, let alone to write?
He said fiercely, "It's all right for you to talk--"
He stopped, seeming to realize for the first time that the big man
sitting in an easy chair by the window had made no attempt to speak.
It seemed incredible, but the big man had listened in complete silence,
and with such quiet assurance that his silence had taken on an eloquence
that inspired absolute trust.
He had always known there were a few people like that in the world,
people whose sympathy and understanding you could take for granted.
There was a fearlessness in such people which made them stand out from
the crowd, stone-markers in a desert waste to lend assurance to a tired
wayfarer by its sturdy permanence, its sun-mirroring strength.
There were a few people like that in the world but you sometimes went a
lifetime without meeting one. The big man sat there smiling at him,
calmly exuding the serenity of one who has seen life from its tangled,
inaccessible roots outward and testifies from experience that the
entire growth is sound.
The writer stopped pacing suddenly and drew himself erect. As he stared
into the big man's eyes his fears seemed to fade away. Confidence
returned to him like the surge of the sea in great shining waves of
creativeness.
* * * * *
He knew suddenly that he could lose himself in his work again, could tap
the bright resonant bell of his genius until its golden voice rang out
through eternity. He had another great book in him and it would get
written now. It would get written ...
"You've helped me!" he almost shouted. "You've helped me more than you
know. I can't tell you how grateful I am to you. You don't know what it
means to be so paralyzed with fright that you can't write at all!"
The Man from Time was silent but his eyes shone curiously.
The writer turned to a bookcase and removed a volume in a faded cover
that had once been bright with rainbow colors. He sat down and wrote an
inscription on the flyleaf.
Then he rose and handed the book to his visitor with a slight bow. He
was smiling now.
"This was my first-born!" he said.
The Man from Time looked at the title first ... THIS SIDE OF PARADISE.
Then he opened the book and read what the author had written on the
flyleaf:
_With warm gratefulness for a courage which brought back the sun._
_F. Scott Fitzgerald._
Moonson bowed his thanks, turned and left the cabin.
Morning found him walking across fresh meadowlands with the dew
glistening on his bare head and broad, straight shoulders.
They'd never find him, he told himself hopelessly. They'd never find him
because Time was too vast to pinpoint one man in such a vast waste of
years. The towering crests of each age might be visible but there could
be no returning to one tiny insignificant spot in the mighty ocean of
Time.
As he walked his eyes searched for the field and the winding road he'd
followed into town. Only yesterday this road had seemed to beckon and he
had followed, eager to explore an age so primitive that mental
communication from mind to mind had not yet replaced human speech.
Now he knew that the speech faculty which mankind had long outgrown
would never cease to act as a barrier between himself and the men and
women of this era of the past. Without it he could not hope to find
complete understanding and sympathy here.
He was still alone and soon winter would come and the sky grow cold and
empty ...
The Time machine materialized so suddenly before him that for an instant
his mind refused to accept it as more than a torturing illusion conjured
up by the turbulence of his thoughts. All at once it towered in his
path, bright and shining, and he moved forward over the dew-drenched
grass until he was brought up short by a joy so overwhelming that it
seemed to him that his heart must burst.
* * * * *
Rutella emerged from the machine with a gay little laugh, as if his
stunned expression was the most amusing in the world.
"Hold still and let me kiss you, darling," her mind said to his.
She stood in the dew-bright grass on tiptoe, her sleek dark hair falling
to her shoulders, an extraordinarily pretty girl to be the wife of a man
so tormented.
"You found me!" his thoughts exulted. "You came back alone and searched
until you found me!"
She nodded, her eyes shining. So Time wasn't too vast to pinpoint after
all, not when two people were so securely wedded in mind and heart that
their thoughts could build a bridge across Time.
"The Bureau of Emotional Adjustment analyzed everything I told them.
Your psycho-graph ran to fifty-seven pages, but it was your desperate
loneliness which guided me to you."
She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it.
"You see, darling, a compulsive fear isn't easy to conquer. No man or
woman can conquer it alone. Historians tell us that when the first
passenger rocket started out for Mars, Space Fear took men by surprise
in the same way your fear gripped you. The loneliness, the utter
desolation of space, was too much for a human mind to endure."
She smiled her love. "We're going back. We'll face it together and we'll
conquer it together. You won't be alone now. Darling, don't you
see--it's because you aren't a clod, because you're sensitive and
imaginative that you experience fear. It's not anything to be ashamed
of. You were simply the first man on Earth to develop a new and
completely different kind of fear--Time Fear."
Moonson put out his hand and gently touched his wife's hair.
Ascending into the Time Observatory a thought came unbidden into his
mind: _Others he saved, himself he could not save._
But that wasn't true at all now.
He _could_ help himself now. He would never be alone again! When guided
by the sure hand of love and complete trust, self-knowledge could be a
shining weapon. The trip back might be difficult, but holding tight to
his wife's hand he felt no misgivings, no fear.
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ March 1954.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man from Time, by Frank Belknap Long
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