Look! You three fools know nothing of what you're trying to do. You understand nothing. Will you listen to me?'
'Oh, we'll listen,' said Nimmo grimly.
(Foster sat silently, eyes angry, lips compressed. Potterley's hands writhed like two intertwined snakes.)
Araman said, 'The past to you is the dead past. If any of you have discussed the matter, it's dollars to nickels you've used that phrase. The dead past. If you knew how many times I've heard those three words, you'd choke on them, too.
'When people think of the past, they think of it as dead, far away and gone, long ago. We encourage them to think so. When we report time viewing, we always talk of views centuries in the past, even though you gentlemen know seeing more than a century or so is impossible. People accept it. The past means Greece, Rome, Carthage, Egypt, the Stone Age. The deader the better.
'Now you three know a century or a little more is the limit, so what does the past mean to you? Your youth. Your first girl. Your dead mother. Twenty years ago. Thirty years ago. Fifty years ago. The deader the better. . . . But when does the past really begin?'
He paused in anger. The others stared at him and Nimmo stirred uneas-
ily.
'Well,' said Araman, 'when did it begin? A year ago? Five minutes ago? One second ago? Isn't it obvious that the past begins an instant ago? The dead past is just another name for the living present. What if you focus the chronoscope in the past of one-hundredth of a second ago? Aren't you watching the present? Does it begin to sink in?'
Nimmo said, 'Damnation.'
'Damnation,' mimicked Araman. 'After Potterley came to me with his
story night before last, how do you suppose I checked up on both of you? I did it with the chronoscope, spotting key moments to the very instant of the present.'
'And that's how you knew about the safety-deposit box?' said Foster.
'And every other important fact. Now what do you suppose would happen if we let news of a home chronoscope get out? People might start out by watching their youth, their parents and so on, but it wouldn't be long before they'd catch on to the possibilities. The housewife will forget her poor, dead mother and take to watching her neighbor at home and her husband at the office. The businessman will watch his competitor; the employer his employee.
'There will be no such thing as privacy. The party line, the prying eye behind the curtain will be nothing compared to it. The video stars will be closely watched at all times by everyone. Every man his own peeping Tom and there'll be no getting away from the watcher. Even darkness will be no escape because chronoscopy can be adjusted to the infrared and human figures can be seen by their own body heat. The figures will be fuzzy, of course, and the surroundings will be dark, but that will make the titillation of it all the greater, perhaps. . . . Hmp, the men in charge of the machine now experiment sometimes in spite of the regulations against it.'
Nimmo seemed sick. 'You can always forbid private manufacture-'
Araman turned on him fiercely. 'You can, but do you expect it to do good? Can you legislate successfully against drinking, smoking, adultery or gossiping over the back fence? And this mixture of nosiness and prurience will have a worse grip on humanity than any of those. Good Lord, in a thousand years of trying we haven't even been able to wipe out the heroin traffic and you talk about legislating against a device for watching anyone you please at any time you please that can be built in a home workshop.'
Foster said suddenly, 'I won't publish.'
Potterley burst out, half in sobs, 'None of us will talk. I regret-'
Nimmo broke in. 'You said you didn't tab me on the chronoscope, Araman.'
'No time,' said Araman wearily. 'Things don't move any faster on the chronoscope than in real life. You can't speed it up like the film in a book viewer. We spent a full twenty-four hours trying to catch the important moments during the last six months of Potterley and Foster. There was no time for anything else and it was enough.'
'It wasn't,' said Nimmo.
'What are you talking about?' There was a sudden infinite alarm on Araman's face.
'I told you my nephew, Jonas, had called me to say he had put important information in a safety-deposit box. He acted as though he were in trouble. He's my nephew. I had to try to get him off the spot. It took a while, then I
came here to tell him what I had done. I told you when I got here, just after your man conked me that I had taken care of a few items.'
'What? For Heaven's sake-'
'Just this: I sent the details of the portable chronoscope off to half a dozen of my regular publicity outlets.'
Not a word. Not a sound. Not a breath. They were all past any demonstration.
'Don't stare like that,' cried Nimmo. 'Don't you see my point? I had popular publication rights. Jonas will admit that. I knew he couldn't publish scientifically in any legal way. I was sure he was planning to publish illegally and was preparing the safety-deposit box for that reason, i thought if I put through the details prematurely, all the responsibility would be mine. His career would be saved. And if 1 were deprived of my science-writing license as a result, my exclusive possession of the chronometric data would set me up for life. Jonas would be angry, I expected that, but I could explain the motive and we would split the take fifty-fifty. . . Don't stare at me like that. How did I know-'
'Nobody knew anything,' said Araman bitterly, 'but you all just took it for granted that the government was stupidly bureaucratic, vicious, tyrannical, given to suppressing research for the hell of it. It never occurred to any of you that we were trying to protect mankind as best we could.'
'Don't sit there talking,' wailed Potterley. 'Get the names of the people who were told-'
'Too late,' said Nimmo, shrugging. 'They've had better than a day. There's been time for the word to spread. My outfits will have called any number of physicists to check my data before going on with it and they'll call one another to pass on the news. Once scientists put neutrinics and pseudo-gravities together, home chronoscopy becomes obvious. Before the week is out, five hundred people will know how to build a small chronoscope and how will you catch them all?' His plum cheeks sagged. 'I suppose there's no way of putting the mushroom cloud back into that nice, shiny uranium sphere.'
Araman stood up. 'We'll try, Potterley, but I agree with Nimmo. It's too late. What kind of a world we'll have from now on, I don't know, I can't tell, but the world we know has been destroyed completely. Until now, every custom, every habit, every tiniest way of life has always taken a certain amount of privacy for granted, but that's all gone now.'
He saluted each of the three with elaborate formality.
'You have created a new world among the three of you. I congratulate you. Happy goldfish bowl to you, to me, to everyone, and may each of you fry in hell forever. Arrest rescinded.'
The Foundation of S.E Success
(WITH APOLOGIES TO W. S. GILBERT)
If you ask me how to shine in the science-fiction line as a pro of luster bright, I say, practice up the lingo of the sciences, by jingo (never mind if not quite right). You must talk of Space and Galaxies and tesseractic fallacies in slick and mystic style, Though the fans won't understand it, they will all the same demand it with a softly hopeful smile.
And all the fans will say,
As you walk your spatial way,
If that young man indulges in flights through all the Galaxy, Why, what a most imaginative type of man that type of man must be.
So success is not a mystery, just brush up on your history, and borrow day by day. Take an Empire that was Roman and you'll find it is at home in all the starry Milky Way. With a drive that's hyperspatial, through the parsecs you will race, you'll find that plotting is a breeze,
Copyright (c) 1954 by Fantasy House, inc.
With a tiny bit of cribbin' from the works of Edward Gibbon and that Greek, Thucydides.
And all the fans will say,
As you walk your thoughtful way,
If that young man involves himself in authentic history,
Why, what a very learned kind of high IQ, his high IQ must be.
Then eschew all thoughts of passion of a man-and-woman fashion from
your hero's thoughtful mind. He must spend his time on politics, and thinking up his shady tricks, and
outside that he's blind. It's enough he's had a mother, other females are a bother, though they're
jeweled and glistery. They will just distract his dreaming and his necessary
scheming with that psychohistory.
And all the fans will say As you walk your narrow way, If all his yarns restrict themselves to masculinity, Why, what a most particularly pure young man that pure young man must be.
Franchise
Linda, age ten, was the only one of the family who seemed to enjoy being awake.
Norman Muller could hear her now through his own drugged, unhealthy coma. (He had finally managed to fall asleep an hour earlier but even then it was more like exhaustion than sleep.)
She was at his bedside now, shaking him. 'Daddy, Daddy, wake up. Wake up!'
He suppressed a groan. 'All right, Linda.'
