labeled wep:nz, filled with everything from a crossbow to a tiny little rod four niches long and half the size of a pencil, marked fyn:l hand-arm. Beyond is the end of the corridor, and a big place that bears a sign, mod:lz :v atomic pau:r sorsez.
By that tune, you’re almost convinced. And you’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what you can do. The story I’m telling has been sinking in, but you aren’t completely willing to accept it.
You notice that the models are all mounted on tables, and that they’re a lot smaller than you thought. They seem to be in chronological order, and the latest one, marked 2147—rings dyn:pot, is about the size of a desk telephone. The earlier ones are larger, of course, but with variations, probably depending on the power output. A big sign on the ceiling gives a lot of dope on atomic generators, explaining that this is the first invention which sprang full blown into basically final form.
You study it, but it mentions casually the inventor, without giving his name—either they don’t know it, or they take it for granted that everyone does, which seems more probable. They call attention to the fact that they have the original model of the first atomic generator built, complete with design drawings, original manuscript on operation, and full patent application. They state that it has all major refinements, operating on any fuel, producing electricity at any desired voltage up to five million, any chosen cyclic rate from direct current to one thousand megacycles, and any amperage up to one thousand, its maximum power output being fifty kilowatts, limited by the current-carrying capacity of the outputs. They also mention that the operating principle is still being investigated, and that only such refinements as better alloys and the addition of magnetric and nucleatric current outlets have been added since the original.
So you go to the end and look over the thing. It’s simply a square box with a huge plug on each side, and a set of vernier controls on top, plus a little hole marked in old-style spelling, drop bb’s or wire here. Apparently that’s the way it’s fueled. It’s about one foot on a side.
“Nice,” the guard says over your shoulder. “It finally wore out one of the cathogrids, and we had to replace that, but otherwise it’s exactly as the great inventor made it. And it still operates as well as ever. Like to have me tell you about it?”
“Not particularly,” you begin, and then realize bad manners seem to be out up here. While you’re searching for an answer, the guard pulls something out of his pocket and stares at it.
“Fine, fine. The mayor of Altasecarba—Centaurian, you know—is arriving, but I’ll be back in about ten minutes. He wants to examine some of the weapons for a monograph on Centaurian primitives compared to nineteenth-century man. You’ll pardpn me?”
You pardon him all over the place, and he wanders off happily. You go up,, to the head of the line, to that Rinks Dynapot, or whatever it transliterates to. That’s small, and you can carry it. But the darned thing is absolutely fixed. You can’t see any bolts, but you can’t budge it, either.
You work down the line—it’d be foolish to take the early model if you can get one with built-in magnetic current terminals—Ehrenhaft or some other principle?—and nuclear binding-force energy terminals. But they’re all held down by the same whatchamaycallem effect.
And finally, you’re right back beside the original first model. It’s probably bolted down, too—but you try it tentatively, and you find it moves. There’s a little sign under it, indicating you shouldn’t touch it, since the gravostatic plate is being renewed.
Well, you won’t be able to change the time cycle by doing anything I haven’t told you, but a working model such as that is a handy thing. You lift it—and it weighs about fifty pounds! But it can be carried.
You expect a warning bell, but nothing happens. As a matter of fact, if you’d stop drinking so much of that Scotch and staring at the tune machine out there now, you’d hear what I’m saying, and know what will happen to you. But of course, just as I did, you’re going to miss a lot of what I say from now on, and have to find out for yourself. But maybe some of it helps—I’ve tried to remember how much I remembered, after he told me, but I can’t be sure. So I’ll keep on talking. I probably can’t help it, anyhow.
Well, you stagger down the corridor, looking for the guard, but all seems clear. Then you hear his voice from the weapons room. You bend down and try to scurry past, but you know you’re in full view. Nothing happens, though.
You stumble down the stairs, feeling all the futuristic rays in the world on your back, and still nothing happens. Ahead of you, the gate is closed. You reach it, and it opens obligingly by itself. You breathe a quick sigh of relief, and start out onto the street.
Then there’s a yell behind you. You don’t wait. You put one leg in front of the other, and you begin moving down the walk, ducking past people, who stare at you with expressions you haven’t time to see. There’s another yell behind you.
Something goes over your head and drops on the sidewalk just in front of your feet, with a sudden ringing sound. You don’t wait to find out about that, either. Somebody reaches out a hand to catch you, and you dart past.
The street is pretty clear now, and you jolt along, with your arms seeming to come out of the sockets, and that atomic generator getting heavier at every step.
Out of nowhere, something in a blue uniform about six feet tall and on the beefy side appears—and the star hasn’t changed any. The cop catches your arm, and you know you’re not going to get away. So you stop.
“You can’t exert yourself that hard in this heat, fellow,” the cop says. “There are laws against that, without a yellow sticker. Here, let me grab you a taxi.”
Reaction sets in a bit, and your knees begin to buckle, but you shake your head, and come up for air.
“I—I left my money home,” you begin.
The cop nods. “Oh, that explains it. Fine, I won’t have to give you an appearance schedule. But you should have come to me.” He reaches out and taps a pedestrian lightly on the shoulder. “Sir, emergency request. Would you help this gentleman?”
The pedestrian grins, looks at his watch, and nods. “How far?”
You did notice the name of the building from which you came, and you mutter it. The stranger nods again, reaches out, and picks up the other side of the generator, blowing a little whistle the cop hands him. Pedestrians begin to move aside, and you and the stranger jog down the street at a trot, with a nice clear path, while the cop stands beaming at you both.
That way, it isn’t so bad. And you begin to see why I decided I might like to stay up here in the future. But all the same, the organized cooperation here doesn’t
look too good. The guard .can get the same, and be there before you.
And he is. He stands just inside the door of the building as you reach it. The stranger lifts an eyebrow, and goes off at once when you nod at him, not waiting for thanks. And the guard comes up, holding some dinkus in his hand, about the size of a big folding camera, and not too dissimilar in other ways. He snaps it open, and you get set to duck.
“You forget the prints, monograph, and patent applications,” he says. “They go with the generator—we don’t like to have them separated. A good thing I knew the production offices of ‘Atoms and Axioms’ were in this building. Just let us know when you’re finished with the model, and we’ll pick it up. What’s it for—repro for a new skit hi a hurry?”
You swallow several sets of tonsils you had removed years before, and take the bundle of papers he hands you out of the little case. He pumps you for some more information, which you give him at random. But it seems to satisfy your amiable guard friend. He finally smiles in satisfaction, and heads back to the museum.
You still don’t believe it, but you pick up the atomic generator and the information sheets, and you head down toward the service elevator. There is no button on it. In fact, there’s no door there.
You start looking for other doors or corridors, but you know this is right—the signs along the halls are the same as they were.
Then there’s a sort of cough, and something dilates in the wall. It forms a perfect door, and the elevator stands there waiting. You get in, gulping out something about going all the way down, and then wondering how a machine geared for voice operation can make anything of that.- What the deuce would that lowest basement be called? But the elevator has closed, and is moving downward in a hurry. It coughs again, and you’re at the original level. You get out—and realize you don’t have a light.
You’ll never know what you stumbled over, but somehow, you move back in the direction of the time
machine, bumping against boxes, staggering here and there, and trying to find the right place by sheer feel.
