It was she alone, of them all, who had a violent presentiment of trouble. Quite the wrong trouble, of course.
Jonas Foster was nearly half an hour late in arriving at the Potterleys' off-campus house. Up to that very evening, he had not quite decided he would go. Then, at the last moment, he found he could not bring himself to commit the social enormity of breaking a dinner appointment an hour before the appointed time. That, and the nagging of curiosity.
The dinner itself passed interminably. Foster ate without appetite. Mrs. Potterley sat in distant absent-mindedness, emerging out of it only once to ask if he were married and to make a deprecating sound at the news that he
was not. Dr. Potterley himself asked neutrally after his professional history and nodded his head primly.
It was as staid, stodgy-boring, actually-as anything could be.
Foster thought: He seems so harmless.
Foster had spent the last two days reading up on Dr. Potterley. Very casually, of course, almost sneakily. He wasn't particularly anxious to be seen in the Social Science Library. To be sure, history was one of those borderline affairs and historical works were frequently read for amusement or edification by the general public.
Still, a physicist wasn't quite the 'general public.' Let Foster take to reading histories and he would be considered queer, sure as relativity, and after a while the Head of the Department would wonder if his new instructor were really 'the man for the job.'
So he had been cautious. He sat in the more secluded alcoves and kept his head bent when he slipped in and out at odd hours.
Dr. Potterley, it turned out, had written three books and some dozen articles on the ancient Mediterranean worlds, and the later articles (all in 'Historical Reviews') had all dealt with pre-Roman Carthage from a sympathetic viewpoint.
That, at least, checked with Potterley's story and had soothed Foster's suspicions somewhat. . . . And yet Foster felt that it would have been much wiser, much safer, to have scotched the matter at the beginning.
A scientist shouldn't be too curious, he thought in bitter dissatisfaction with himself. It's a dangerous trait.
After dinner, he was ushered into Potterley's study and he was brought up 1 sharply at the threshold. The walls were simply lined with books.
Not merely films. There were films, of course, but these were far outnumbered by the books-print on paper. He wouldn't have thought so many books would exist in usable condition.
That bothered Foster. Why should anyone want to keep so many books at home? Surely all were available in the university library, or, at the very worst, at the Library of Congress, if one wished to take the minor trouble of checking out a microfilm.
There was an element of secrecy involved in a home library. It breathed of intellectual anarchy. That last thought, oddly, calmed Foster. He would rather Potterley be an authentic anarchist than a play-acting agent provocateur.
And now the hours began to pass quickly and astonishingly.
'You see,' Potterley said, in a clear, unflurried voice, 'it was a matter of finding, if possible, anyone who had ever used chronoscopy in his work. Naturally, 1 couldn't ask baldly, since that would be unauthorized research.'
'Yes,' said Foster dryly. He was a little surprised such a small consideration would stop the man.
'I used indirect methods-'
He had. Foster was amazed at the volume of correspondence dealing with small disputed points of ancient Mediterranean culture which somehow managed to elicit the casual remark over and over again: 'Of course, having never made use of chronoscopy-' or, 'Pending approval of my request for chronoscopic data, which appear unlikely at the moment-'
'Now these aren't blind questionings,' said Potterley. 'There's a monthly booklet put out by the Institute for Chronoscopy in which items concerning the past as determined by time viewing are printed. Just one or two items.
'What impressed me first was the triviality of most of the items, their insipidity. Why should such researches get priority over my work? So I wrote to people who would be most likely to do research in the directions described in the booklet. Uniformly, as I have shown you, they did not make use of the chronoscope. Now let's go over it point by point.'
At last Foster, his head swimming with Potterley's meticulously gathered details, asked, 'But why?'
'I don't know why,' said Potterley, 'but I have a theory. The original invention of the chronoscope was by Sterbinski-you see, I know that much -and it was well publicized. But then the government took over the instrument and decided to suppress further research in the matter or any use of the machine. But then, people might be curious as to why it wasn't being used. Curiosity is such a vice, Dr. Foster.'
Yes, agreed the physicist to himself.
'Imagine the effectiveness, then,' Potterley went on, 'of pretending that the chronoscope was being used. It would then be not a mystery, but a commonplace. It would no longer be a fitting object for legitimate curiosity or an attractive one for illicit curiosity.'
'You were curious,' pointed out Foster.
Potterley looked a trifle restless. 'It was different in my case,' he said angrily. 'I have something that must be done, and I wouldn't submit to the ridiculous way in which they kept putting me off.'
A bit paranoid, too, thought Foster gloomily.
Yet he had ended up with something, paranoid or not. Foster could no longer deny that something peculiar was going on in the matter of neutrin-ics.
But what was Potterley after? That still bothered Foster. If Potterley didn't intend this as a test of Foster's ethics, what did he want?
Foster put it to himself logically. If an intellectual anarchist with a touch of paranoia wanted to use a chronoscope and was convinced that the pow-ers-that-be were deliberately standing in his way, what would he do?
Supposing it were I, he thought. What would I do?
He said slowly, 'Maybe the chronoscope doesn't exist at all?'
Potterley started. There was almost a crack in his general calmness. For an
instant, Foster found himself catching a glimpse of something not at all calm.
But the historian kept his balance and said, 'Oh, no, there must be a chronoscope.'
'Why? Have you seen it? Have I? Maybe that's the explanation of everything. Maybe they're not deliberately holding out on a chronoscope they've got. Maybe they haven't got it in the first place.'
'But Sterbinski lived. He built a chronoscope. That much is a fact.'
'The books say so,' said Foster coldly.
'Now listen.' Potterley actually reached over and snatched at Foster's jacket sleeve. '1 need the chronoscope. I must have it. Don't tell me it doesn't exist. What we're going to do is find out enough about neutrinics to be able to-'
Potterley drew himself up short.
Foster drew his sleeve away. He needed no ending to that sentence. He supplied it himself. He said, 'Build one of our own?'
Potterley looked sour as though he would rather not have said it point-blank. Nevertheless, he said, 'Why not?'
'Because that's out of the question,' said Foster. 'If what I've read is
correct, then it took Sterbinski twenty years to build his machine and several
millions in composite grants. Do you think you and I can duplicate that
illegally? Suppose we had the time, which we haven't, and suppose I could
learn enough out of books, which I doubt, where would we get the money
' and equipment? The chronoscope is supposed to fill a five-story building, for
: Heaven's sake.'
'Then you won't help me?'
'Well, I'll tell you what. I have one way in which I may be able to find out something-'
'What is that?' asked Potterley at once.
'Never mind. That's not important. But I may be able to find out enough to tell you whether the government is deliberately suppressing research by chronoscope. I may confirm the evidence you already have or I may be able to prove that your evidence is misleading. I don't know what good it will do you in either case, but it's as far as I can go. It's my limit.'
Potterley watched the young man go finally. He was angry with himself. Why had he allowed himself to grow so careless as to permit the fellow to guess that he was thinking in terms of a chronoscope of his own. That was premature.
But then why did the young fool have to suppose that a chronoscope might not exist at all?
It had to exist. It had to. What was the use of saying it didn't?
And why couldn't a second one be built? Science had advanced in the fifty years since Sterbinski. All that was needed was knowledge.
Let the youngster gather knowledge. Let him think a small gathering would be his limit. Having taken the path to anarchy, there would be no limit. If the boy were not driven onward by something in himself, the first steps would be error enough to force the rest. Potterley was quite certain he would not hesitate to use blackmail.
Potterley waved a last good-by and looked up. It was beginning to rain.
Certainly! Blackmail if necessary, but he would not be stopped.
Foster steered his car across the bleak outskirts of town and scarcely noticed the rain.
He was a fool, he told himself, but he couldn't leave things as they were. He had to know. He damned his streak of undisciplined curiosity, but he had to know.
But he would go no further than Uncle Ralph. He swore mightily to himself that it would stop there. In that way, there would be no evidence against him, no real evidence. Uncle Ralph would be discreet.
In a way, he was secretly ashamed of Uncle Ralph. He hadn't mentioned him to Potterley partly out of caution and partly because he did not wish to witness the lifted eyebrow, the inevitable half-smile. Professional science writers, however useful, were a little outside the pale, fit only for patronizing contempt. The fact that, as a
