We were then living in the room you know on West Adams. For some time we had developed the technique of watching for people moving into a place. After that—before, from the normal viewpoint—the place is untenanted and safe for our abode for a while.
I returned to the room to find Tim Givens’ body on the bed. Then I knew that death had the power to stop our wanderings, that the dead body resumed its normal movement in time. And I knew what else I must do.
The rest of that scene you know. How I took your card, gave your official-looking friend my confession, and backed out—when you thought me entering.
When I next visited the room, Givens was there alive. It was surprisingly simple. Underestimating me in practical matters, he was not on his guard. I secured the revolver with no trouble. Just before I pressed the trigger—for the bullet, freed from my field, moved for a moment in normal time—I saw the bullet strike.
I pressed hard, and gave him release.
Now I seek it for myself. Only death can end this Odyssey, this voyage of loneliness and pain compared to which The Flying Dutchman sailed on a luxury cruise. And when this manuscript is typed, I shall swallow the cyanide I stole yesterday.
This manuscript must reach the World Institute for Paranormal Research. They will find my notes in my laboratory. They must know that those who foretold danger were right, that my method must not be used again save with serious revision.
And yet this cannot reach them before the experiment; for they would stop me and I was not stopped. Seal it, then. Place it in the hands of some trustworthy institution. And inscribe on it:
To be delivered to the World Institute for Paranormal Research, Basle, Switzerland, F.E.D., February 3, 1971.
Perhaps the name of Hull may yet not be forgotten.
Fergus O’Breen swore comprehensively for a matter of minutes. “The egotist! The lowdown egocentric idiot! Think what he could have told us: How the war came out, how the peace was settled, how atomic power was finally developed—! And what does he give us? Nothing that doesn’t touch him.”
“I wish that’s all I had to worry about,” said Detective Lieutenant A. Jackson morosely.
“There are hints, of course. Obviously a United Nations victory or he wouldn’t have been living in such a free world in 1971. And that F.E.D. in the address—”
“What would that mean?”
“Maybe Federated European Democracies—I hope. But at least we’ve learned a wonderful new word. Chronokinesis—” He savored it.
Jackson rose gloomily. “And I’ve got to get down to the office and try to write a report on this. I’ll take this manuscript—”
“Uh uh. This was given me in trust, Andy. And somehow it’s going to get to the WIRP on the appointed date.”
“O.K. I’m just as glad. If the inspector saw that in the files— Want to come down with me and see what we can cook up?”
“Thanks no, Andy. I’m headed for the Queen of the Angels.”
“The hospital? Why?”
“Because,” Fergus grinned, “I want to see what a two-day-old murderer looks like.”
Gandolphus
“If there was a detective’s union,” said my friend Fergus O’Breen, “I’d be out on my ear.”
It was a good hook. I filled the steins again with Tuborg dark and got ready to listen.
“Remember that Compleat Werewolf business right here in Berkeley?” Fergus went on. “Or the time machine alibi in L.A.? You take now Dr. Fell or H. M. or Merlini; practically every case they get looks like it’s supernatural or paranormal and they just plain know it isn’t and start in solving it by ‘How was this normally gimmicked?’ Rules of the profession. Gentleman’s agreement. Only to me things happen, and they don’t fit.”
“And what was it this time?” I asked. “A poltergeist? Or an authentic Martian invasion?”
Fergus shook his head. “It was . . . Gandolphus. And what Gandolphus was . . . Look: I’ll tell you how I got dealt in. Then you can read the rest for yourself. I wangled a photostat of the damnedest document . . .
“It was when I was back in New York last year. Proving a Long Lost Heir was a phony—nice routine profitable job. So it’s all polished off and I stick around Manhattan a couple of days just for kicks and I’m having dinner with friends when I meet this character Harrington. I won’t describe him; he characterizes himself better than I could. So he learns I’m a private investigator; and just like people learn you’re a writer and give with their life histories, he drops his problem in my lap.
“It looks more like a police job to me, and I tell him so; and since I know Bill Zobel in his precinct I say I’ll introduce him. He’s all hot to get started, once he’s got the idea; so we take a cab down and Bill thinks it’s worth looking into and we all go over to Harrington’s apartment in Sheridan Square.
“Now you’ve got to understand about Bill Zobel. He is—or was at this time I’m talking about—a damned good straight cop. Absolutely efficient, more intelligent than average . . . and human. Tough enough when he had to be, but no rough stuff for its own sake.
“Bill and I settled down in the living room to watch for whoever or whatever Gandolphus might be, and Harrington went into his study to type a full formal statement of the complaint he’d sketched to us. It was about two A.M. by now; and we were too tired for chess or cribbage even if we hadn’t been kind of
