 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jerome Lawson, January 2008. Tight Squeeze by Dean Charles Ng. Quote, he knew the theory of repairing the gizmo all right. He had that nicely taped. But there was the little matter of threading a wire through a too small hole while under zero G and working in a space suit. End quote. McNamara ambled across the loading ramp, savoring the dry, dusty air that smelled unmistakable of spaceship. He half-consciously separated the odors. The sweet, volatile scent of fuel. The sharp aroma of lingering exhaust gases from early morning test firing. The delicate odor of silicon plastic which was being stored as payload. He shielded his eyes against the sun, watching his men struggled with the last plastic girders to be strapped down, high above the dazzling ground of white sands. The slender cargo door stood open around Vallier's girth, awaiting his own personal OK. This flight would be the fourth for Major Edward McNamara. As he neared the great, squatting shock absorbers, he could feel the tension begin to nod his stomach. He had, of course, been overwhelmed by the opportunity to participate in Operation Donut. The fact that he had been one of the best mechanical engineers in the Air Force never occurred to him at the time. He was a pilot, and a good one, but he had languished as CEO of a maintenance squadron for nearly two years before he was given another crack at glory. Now he wasn't at all sure he was happy with the transition. They needed master mechanics for Operation Donut, but he felt they should be left on the ground when the towering supply rock is lifted. He stopped, leaning against scaffolding as he saw a familiar figure turn toward him. He cupped his hands before his face. Hey, dust that butt, can't you? Oh, Mac. The commanding voice trailed off in a chuckle. Better to clown his way through the inspection, McNamara thought, than to let Ruiz notice his nervousness. The co-pilot, Ruiz, walked toward him, still smiling. One of these days, boy, you're gonna go too far. Thought you were a real 18-carat saboteur. He clapped McNamara on the shoulder and gazed aloft. Good day for it. No weather, no hangover, no nothing. Yeah. You know, Johnny, I've been thinking about a modification for our breathing oxy. He sniffed appreciatively. What's that? Put a little dust in it. A few smells. A stuff we breathed is just too sanitary. I know what you mean. I sure begin to crave this filthy germ filled air after a few hours up there. They both smiled at the thought, then turned to the business at hand. By the way, Johnny, what are you doing out so early? Didn't expect to see you cabbies before 10. I don't know, the bronze Ruiz replied. Went to bed early, woke up at six, and couldn't drop off again. There I am. Carl had to be along around 9.30. Thought I'd help you preflight if you want me to. Sure. He wanted nothing of the sort, but he had the tack not to say so. Edward McNamara was as familiar with the valier as he was with the tip of his nose. He had been on the scene when Dan Burke test hopped the third stage, had made improvements in rerouting jobs, and had memorized every serial number of every bearing that went into valier, as flight engineer he was supposed to. With Johnny Ruiz helping a little and hindering a little, he finished his tour of the cargo sections and grinned his approval to a muscular loading technician. I can button her up, Sergeant. Couldn't do a better job myself. It was a compliment of the highest order, and they both knew it. Riding the tiny lift down to ground level, McNamara stopped him every 10 feet or so to circle the catwalks. He noticed Ruiz impatience about halfway down. No hurry, Johnny. I don't want another wild on our hands. He knew he shouldn't have said it, but it slipped out anyway. Everyone tried to forget the wild disaster, particularly the flight personnel. The wild, one of the first ships to be built, had made only two orbits before being destroyed. Observers stated that a cargo hatch had somehow swung open when the wild was only a thousand feet in the air. At any rate, the pilot reported damage to one second-stage fin, and they tried to break his way down. The wild settled beautifully, tilted, then fell headlong. The resultant explosion caused such destruction that, had there not been a number of men in orbit and waiting for supplies, the project might have been halted. Temporarily. It was generally conceded that a more thorough pre-flight could have prevented the wild's immolation. Ruiz was noticeably quieter during the remainder of the inspection. The external check completed, McNamara strapped a small flashlight to his wrist, and began the internal inspection, jokingly called the autopsy. An hour and over a hundred and fifty feet later, McNamara wheezed as he swung over the bulkhead at the base of Vallier's third and top stage. His aching limbs persuaded him to take a breather. After all, his complete inspection of the day before really made a final pre-flight unnecessary, and passing near the frigid oxygen tanks was a day's work in itself. He listened to the innumerable noises around and below him. The clicks and hums near him meant that Ruiz, having given up following him, was checking out the flight controls, with power on only in the top stage. From below came a vibrational rushing noise, eerily subsonic, which told him of the fueling operation. He thought of the electrical relays governing the fuel input and shuttered. He violently disliked the idea of having hot wires near a fuel of any kind, and rocket fuel in particular. McNamara swept his light over his wristwatch, fifteen after. Logan should be along soon, he thought, and hastened to finish checking the conduits, servos, pumps, and hydraulic actuators below the cabin level. This done, he crawled up the final ladder to the cabin, or dome. Well, credible voice, if it isn't our grimy Irishman. McNamara shook his wet from his brow and muttered. Irishman, is it? How about Logan? That's a good Scandinavian name. How about Logan? He's great as usual. Just look at me, Mac. What a specimen. Logan, the inevitable optimist, bounced out of his acceleration couch and spread his arms wide, as if to show the world what a Superman he, Carl Logan, was. The gesture and its intimations made McNamara smile. Logan wasn't much over five feet tall, and his flight suit made him look like a bald pussycat. His small physique covered a fantastic set of reflexes, however, and Logan's sense of humor was a quality of utmost importance. He hadn't an enemy in the world. His enemy was out of this world by definition. Logan wanted to conquer space, and so far was doing just that. Okay, okay, laugh. Just remember this, Gargantua. I mean, I'll be tall, but I'll share him skinny. McNamara smiled again, nodding in agreement. Well, don't everybody talk at once. I wish you Mac. With luck, answered McNamara, we might get ten feet off the turf. He paused for effect. Seriously, Carl, she never looked better. You could take her up right now. Say, where's Johnny? I thought you'd just be checking into the medics. Looks like everybody's early today. He's probably over in some corner making out his will. He was down below a while ago with the face a mile long. Probably, thought Mac. He's still thinking about the wild. Why did I have to bring that up? All out, he said. I ought to check the ground crew. Did you bring the forms? Nope. Just my magnificent self. If anything had gone astray, they'd have told you. All the same, I think I'll go down and question the troops. Don't leave without me. He clambered out onto the catwalk, leaving the airlock open. The sun was writing higher every minute. In a little over an hour, he'd be a thousand miles away, vertically. The nod in his stomach began to form again. He wasn't scared, exactly. He kept telling himself, excited, was a nicer word. The inspection forms signed, Mac held a short interrogation with the crew chief. The grizzled lieutenant, commissioned because of his long experience and responsibilities, gave Valier a clean bill of health. Each engine of the booster stage had been fired separately before dawn. A cubic foot of mercury seemed to roll for Mac's shoulders, as he saw Logan and Ruiz lounging at the bottom of the lift. There wasn't anything to worry about. He recalled feeling the tension before the other three flights, then chided himself. You... you scaredy cat? Well, why not? It's a risk every time you make a shot, in spite of all the propaganda. Oh, if you didn't know everything's okay, you wouldn't be getting ready to make the shot. Yeah, but you never can tell. He stopped his inward battle and forced him spring into a step as he moved toward Logan and Ruiz. I'll try my best to abort this big bug, but I can't find anything to miss. That's Granny McNamara for ya. Drive Logan. Always trying to find fault. He winked at Ruiz and rubbed his hands together. Well, tennis anyone? Mac knew without asking that Logan, for all his apparent indifference, had painstakingly gone over every phase of the flight. Checking distribution, radar, final instructions from operations, weather, etc. Ruiz, as usual, watched and took notes as Logan gathered data. At minus 15 minutes, the trio was in the dome, checking personal equipment, while outside, the scaffolding ponderously slid away, section by section. There was little time for soliloquies of... to go or not to go. Within the quarter hour, Captain Ruiz and Majors McNamara and Logan would be in readiness for the final countdown. With the emergency bailout equipment checked, the men busied themselves on another continuity test of the myriad circuits spread like a human neural system throughout the ship. All relays, servos, systems and instrument leads were in perfect condition as expected, and the trio was settled comfortably in acceleration couches, with minutes to spare. Logan contacted ground control a few seconds after the minus three minute signal, informing all and sundry that Gridley could fire one ready. McNamara sighed, thinking that if Logan's humor wasn't exactly original, it was surely tenacious. The ship was brought to dim half-life at minus one minute by Logan's agile fingers, and as the final countdown rasped in his headset, Mack felt his innards wrestle among themselves. Valié bellowed her enthusiasm suddenly, lifting her 8,000 odd tons from the ground almost instantly. Inside, her occupants grimaced helplessly as they watched various instruments guide tiny pointers across calibrated faces. Max throat mic threatened to crush his Adam's apple, weighing five times its usual few ounces. Of his senses, Sound was the one that dominated him. An intolerable, continuous explosion from the motors racked his mind like tidal waves of formic acid. He forced himself to overcome the numbness which his brain cast up to defend itself. Then as quickly as it had begun, Valié felt definitely silent. That meant Mach 1 was passed. It was an eternity before Stage 1 separated. The loss of the empty Hulk was hardly felt as Valié streaked high over the Texas border. Ruiz, watching the radar scope, saw Lubbock slide into focus miles below. Next up, Fort Worth. He thought, I used to drive that in five hours. The jagged line of the Caprock told him they were well on their way to Fort Worth already. The altimeter showed slightly over 42 miles when Stage 2 detached itself. Logan, in constant contact with white sands, was informed that they were tracking perfectly as Valié erode over central Texas toward Rendezvous at the donut. The exhausted lower stages were forgotten now. Only the second stage was of any concern anyway. The radar boys tracked it all the way down, ready to detonate it high in the air if its huge chutes wafted it near any inhabited community. The motors of Stage 3 blasted for a carefully calculated few seconds, then cut out automatically. With the destitution of its weight, Mack felt its spirit soar also. They were almost in orbit now, climbing at a slight angle with a velocity sufficient to carry them around Earth forever, a streamlined, tiny satellite. After the first few moments of disorientation, rocket crews found that a weightless condition gave them, ambiguously, a buoyant feeling. Only the donut crew had really adapted to this condition, living as they did without the effects of gravity for hours at a time every day. The temporary housing was rotated for comfort of the crews during rest periods, but while moving the plates and girders of the giant donut into place, they had no such luxury. For these men, weightlessness became an integral part of their activities. But the rocket crews were subjected to this phenomenon only during the few hours needed to Rendezvous, unload the cargo, and coast back after another initial period of acceleration. Hence, Mack felt a strange elation when he tapped his fingers on the arm of his couch and saw his arm float upward due to reaction from the tap. Against all regulations, Logan unstrapped himself and motioned his comrades to do the same. This unorthodox, seventh-inning stretch was prohibited because it left the pilot's armrest controls without an operator, hence could prove disastrous if, through some malfunction, the ship should veer off course. The autopilot functioned perfectly, however, and Logan trusted it to the point of insouciance. The three men lounged in mid-air, grinning foolishly as they swam about the tiny cabin. No more satisfying stretch was ever enjoyed. A few minutes of this was enough. Ruiz was the first to gingerly pull himself into his couch, and his companions followed. Not a word had passed between them since they were at all times in contact with monitor stations spaced across the world below. The first time they had enjoyed this irregular horseplay on the second trip, Logan had made the mistake of saying, Race you to the airlock, and was hard put to explain those words. Nor could Logan switch to intercom only, since a sudden radio silence would create anxiety below. Only their heavy breathing would indicate unusual activity to Earthside. They were nearing the intercept point a thousand miles above the Atlantic when they realized their predicament. A minute fixed, Carl, said Ruiz, meaning that he had tentatively fixed a position of intercept. Correct out elevation, but .9 degrees high. Rideau, correction in five seconds from my mark. Mark. For slight corrections in the flight path, small steering motors were utilized. These motors were located near the rear lip of Vallier's conical cargo sections on retractable booms. Extension of the motors with no resultant air friction gave a longer pivot arm and consequently better efficiency. Mack pressed the auxiliary steer stud, and immediately three amber lights winked on in their respective instrument consoles. Carl Logan fired the 12 o'clock motor briefly, only it didn't fire. The change in momentum wouldn't be much in any case, but it was always perceptible by feel and by instrument. There was no change. Logan tried the firing circuit again, and again. Still, Vallier streaked along, now miles above the intended point of intercept. By this time, the embryo space station was quite near, sailing along in the scope beneath them. It slowly moved toward the top of the scope, passing Vallier in its slightly higher relative velocity. We've got troubles, Mack! Find him! Logan had finally lost the Devil May Care attitude, but that fact was small consolation to McNamara. Keep your mitts off those firing studs, Carl, he growled, unstrapping himself quickly. The malfunction was definitely in the auxiliary motor setup, he thought. A common trouble? It wouldn't pay to find out. If the other motors fired, it would only throw them further off course. If worst came to worst, they could roll Vallier over and use the six o'clock auxiliary. There was a small arc through which the motors could turn on their mounts, but the trouble was unknown, and they might end up rifling or pinwheeling if they didn't let bad enough alone. During his mental troubleshooting, Mack was busily warming his bulk into a balloonish-looking suit identical to those worn by the doughnuts construction crew. Rue has gave him some aid, helping him thrust his arms past the spring-folded elbow joints. For some reason, the legs gave less trouble. Within a fumbling few moments, he was ready for work. He glanced at Logan through his visor, feeling a precious pleasure over the beads of sweat on Logan's forehead. Timey sweated a little, thought the mechanic. A final check of his headset followed, after which Mack oozed into the Liliputian airlock at the bottom, now rear, while of the cabin. He nodded to Rue's, who secured the airlock, then adjusted his suit control to force a little pressure into his suit. Gradually, the suit became livable. Then he cracked the other airlock valve and allowed pressure to leak out around him. His suit puffed out with soft popping noises, and Mack heard the last vestige of air hiss out of the chambers. He found the hatchway too tight for comfort, and had a moment of fear when his tool-pack caught in the orifice, wedging him neatly. He could hear Logan and Rue's through his earphones, explaining their plight to ground control. They wanted to know why in blue blazes, Valier hadn't contacted the doughnut when it came within range, and Logan had no defense save preoccupation with his own plight. Belatedly, Rue's made radio contact with the doughnut, which was still well within range. All this time, Mack busied himself with his inspection light, tracing the electrical leads to the small, turbine-operated auxiliary motor fuel pumps. Mack? Logan's voice startled him. Can you brace yourself? I'm going to try to match velocities with the doughnut. Won't take over one G for a few seconds. Wait a minute. He looked wildly around him. Valier hadn't been built with a view towards stowways, and every cubic inch of space was crammed with something, except for the passageway with its ladder, leading up from the main motor section. Well, if it wasn't over a G, he could hang on to the ladder. Suit weighs another fifty pounds, though. My weight plus fifty, he thought. Give me a chance to get set, he said aloud. He hooked one bulbous leg over a ladder rung and braced the other against a lower rung, hugging the ladder with both arms. Any time you say, but kill it if you hear me holler. Then five seconds from my mark. Mark! Mack tightened his grip, and then sagged backward as the main motor's fired. The vibration shook him slightly but deeply, and he fought to keep his hold. He felt his back creak and pop with a sudden surge of weight. Then the motor shut off, and Mack skidded several feet up the ladder. No matter how fast a man's reactions were, they couldn't be applied quickly enough to keep him from starting an involuntary leap after bracing against a suddenly removed gravity load. All over, Mack, you okay? Guess so, but I feel like a ping-pong ball. How are we sitting? Just fine. Rui's cut in. Find anything? Not yet. Mack started his search anew. He went to the turbine pumps. Then, he feared, the trouble was near the little motors. That was tough, really tough. With the motors retracted, it was next to impossible to get to them, past their hydraulically operated booms and actuators. Extended, he'd have to go outside. He cringed from the thought, although he knew that there was little to fear if he linked himself to the ship. He peered along the beam of light, searching for some tell-tale discoloration and wiring, or a gleaming icy patch, which would indicate a fuel leak. Might be the firing plugs, he muttered. Let's hope not. Where are you, Mack? Maybe you better give us a blow-by-blow. Logan sounded worried. Good idea. Right now, I'm at the nine o'clock actuator, nothing so far. He looked around himself, forgetting for the moment how he was supposed to get past the equipment to the other auxiliary motor stations. Johnny, he said slowly. I think you best break out the tapes. On auxiliary motor system, you'll find them under power plant. Months before, Mack and Mara had made a complete set of tape recordings of his own voice, recorded as he made a thorough, going rundown of every system and its components. This was a personal innovation which his fellow flight engineers considered folly. Extra weight, they scoffed. Undo complication. Mack nodded and went on with his impromptu speech-making. A professional psychiatrist might have said, correctly, that Mack felt an unconscious need for supervision, a forgivable deficiency dating back to his cadetes. Mack simply claimed that the best of men could forget or omit when alone with a few million dollars worth of Uncle Sam's equipment. This way he could remind himself of each step to be taken ahead of time in his own way. The copilot rushed to comply. Mack, waiting, suddenly remembered how to get past his obstacle. Internal braces which helped keep the tanks rigidly in place on Earth were of little use while in free-loading or gravity-less state. The braces were removable, and Mack had loosed a single wing nut to let the brace swing loose when he heard Johnny Rua's answer. Ready with your tape, Mack? Where should I start it? Run through it till you get to a blank spot, then another, then stop it. He was certain he didn't really need the tape, but it was a maintenance aid and he was determined to use it. He heard a click, then a hum, as the recorder was jacked into his headset circuit. Immediately, a familiar voice began a slow dissertation on power leads from the dome, speeded up in the space of a second or two to a high-pitched alien gibberish, then to a faint scream. He began squirming around the turbine banks, got past the first brace, and turned to attach it again. Of course it wasn't necessary, but play it safe was embroidered on his brain by years of maintenance experience. Back in his old maintenance squadron, he'd been called the old lady instead of the old man due to his insistence on precautions. Ruiz slowed the tape suddenly on cue, and Mack heard himself saying, brace back in its slot and pin it. Be careful of those linkages on the turbine pumps, and I'll crawl around to the next brace and unpin it. Pause, scraping noises, and muttered oaf. Pinch sticks, but it went without a load on it. It didn't. He worked slower than he had on the ground, fumbling with the heavy gloves and cursing mightily. His voice rambled on, warning him of obstacles and reminding him about minor points that could give trouble. He listened carefully, discarding each suggestion. Floating near the twelve o'clock auxiliary, Mack peered at each tubing connection, tugging and twisting. Wait a minute, he said. His light flashed out at the motor, writing perched on its swivel, lined against cold, hard points of light that were the stars. His heart gave a bound. I think I found it. His other voice droned on morbidly. Turn that thing off a minute, Johnny. Listen, there's a lead to the twelve o'clock fuel valve solenoid that looks like... Yes, I'm sure of it. It's pulled away from a bracket and it looks like it might be charred. Mack twisted around a few of the wiring better. Can you fix it? Sure, if that's all there is wrong, but I'd rather do the work with the motor to attract it. Tell you what, attract them about forty-five degrees when I give the word. Mack judged the distance the booms would cover during semi-retraction and half floated, half crawled out of the way. He found himself breathing heavily, despite the freeload conditions. His suit was simply too cumbersome. The thought came to him that he didn't even know how long he'd been out of the dome. His breathing oxygen gauge showed half empty, so he must have been on the job for around a half hour. He rationed his supply a bit, hoping he could finish the job without a refill. Okay, Johnny, you can run the tape again, and retract the motors while you're at it. He heard the tape start again on its course, watching the booms. They leaped inward then, and Mack felt a crushing blow across his back. He shook his head gruggly and yelled. He tried to scramble from his place between motor and turbine fuel lines without success. He was trapped like a wild animal by the heavy actuator which had swung past his head. He heard himself say, and be sure to stay clear of the actuator. It swings through a ninety-degree arc when it's operated. Oh, shut up! I know what I just judged it wrong. The tape moved on unperturbedly, reminding him to inspect the actuator bearings and extension rods. Mack came Logan's voice. You might try to hurry it. If you can't get it fixed in an hour or two, we'll have to try rolling valet down to the donut. But it's up to you, fella. Take your time. Well, you might help me a bit by raising this hydraulic unit off of my shoulders. I'm lucky it didn't squash me. The actuator stayed where it was. Johnny? Carl? Do you read me? No answer. Obviously the actuator had smashed its transmitter, but left the receiver section intact. Then all he could hope for would be a suspicion from one of the others that all was not well. If they asked him any questions and he failed to reply, they'd figure something was wrong. Well, he couldn't count on that. He struggled with his vulcanized suit, trying to squeeze from under the actuator. If I'd had them retracted completely, he thought, I'd be a dead man. It was a tight squeeze, but he inched his way out of the trap by using every ounce of strength at his command. If his suit tore, he'd know it in a hurry. Gasping for breath, Mack drew himself into a crouch and regarded the offending wire. His flashlight still operated, and he could see the heavy insulation which had been scraped away. No charring. Then it must have been the extension rods that had scissored through the insulation. The wire hung together by a thread, the strands of metal severed completely. He groped for his tool kit, trying to ignore the voice in his headset. Well, that takes care of the actuators, now for these dinky motors. The swivel mounts have to work without any lubricant to look for indications of wear and Mack cursed under his breath. He sounded so cocksure, so all-knowing. He felt like beating himself, his earlier self, who would blightly toured Vallier trailing the microphone wires without any real premonition of trouble. It always happens to the other guy. Not this time, Chum, he reminded himself. The gloves were systematically foiling his attempts to withdraw the coil of wire at his side. The tool kit was the ultimate and maintenance work, compact and complete with extension handles for the cutters and wrenches. Everything was there, but practically impossible to use. His fingers finally closed over the wire. He jerked it out and with it the splice tool. The little pliers carromed from the brace above him and sailed out towards the motor, beyond the ship. He watched horrified as the tool slowly cartwheeled away into space. All right, he muttered. Scratch one splice tool. That's also my only pair of pliers, I'll manage. He knew he could use the wire cutters in a pinch. In a pinch. He repeated. That's about all that's happened this trip so far. Pinch me, pinch the wiring. What a pinch. Holding the roll of wire tightly in one hand, he grasped the cutters and pulled them from the kit with utmost care. He unrolled a footlong section of wire and clipped it off, laying his flashlight in the tool kit so that it would shine out in front of him. He managed to attach the tiny splice plugs by pinching them with the cutters, then moved cautiously into the tool kit. Drooped wasn't precisely the word. Actually, the wire had been bent into its position and stayed that way. As the harried major reached for the brace on which the wire had been bracketed, his tool kit vomited flashlight, wrenches and screwdrivers, leaving him in total darkness. His cursing was regular now, monotonous and uninspired. There was another pencil light in the kit, snapped tightly to the case, and Mack reached for the whole business. This bare light was a maintenance problem in itself. Question, how to retrieve a fountain pen-sized object when it's held by a small snap and the retriever is encumbered by three pairs of Arctic mittens? Mark saw his errant flashlight out of the corner of his eye. It's been fastened on a collapsed screwdriver while both swam sluggishly toward the inspection ladder. He located the pencil light and jerked it loose. Mark saw his errant flashlight out of the corner of his eye. It's been fastened on a collapsed screwdriver while both swam sluggishly toward the inspection ladder. He located the pencil light and jerked it loose. Holding the short wire and cutters in his other hand. This Mack knew was the crucial point. If he could splice the wire hanging in front of him, Valier would once more be in perfect shape. He would have welcomed an extra hand or two as he straddled a brace and shoved the tiny flash between his headpiece and shoulder fabric. The wire should be stripped, he knew, but he didn't have the tools. They were scarcely ten feet from him, but they could have rested to top the Kremlin for all the good they did him. He got most of the strands of one end of wire shoved into a spliced lug and called it good enough. It was like trying to thread a needle whose eye was deeper than it was wide, while in a diving suit, using the business end of a paintbrush to start the thread. He withdrew one hand and searched the kit for friction tape. It might be mentioned that an insulating tape which would be adhesive at minus 200 degrees centigrade, yet keep its properties at plus 1000, was the near culmination of chemical science. Silicon plastic research provided the adhesive, an inert gum which changed almost none through a fantastic range of temperatures and pressures. The tape macked used to ensure his connection had an asbestos base with adhesive gum insinuated into the tape. He wrapped the wire tightly, then bound it to the brace. He noticed his visor fogging up and felt a faint, giddy sensation. Anoxemia. He let the tape drift as he reached for his regulator dial, what a fool he was, he thought, to starve his lungs. He turned the dial to energy maximum and gulped precious liters of oxygen helium mixture. The gauge showed a store of the gas which might possibly be enough to last him, if nothing else went wrong, perhaps 10 minutes. The pencil flash mercifully still rested in a fold of his shoulder joint fabric. The insulation tape floated near his waist. He grabbed it and stowed it between his knee and the brace, then reached once again for the wiring. This time the splice went on without a hitch. He pinched the splice lug and taped the whole works feverishly. It was done, he had won. The trip back should only take a couple of minutes. Replacing the wire cutters in his kit, he held the pencil flash before him and started retracing his route. He passed the 12 o'clock brace, pinned it in again, and saw one of these tools floating to the right of his head. He gathered it in and swept his tiny flash around in search of other jetsam from his tool kit. He collected a wrench in the skittish flashlight, started toward the last brace between him and the ladder, and felt his legs go limp. He wasn't particularly alarmed about it, his arms and vision failed him too, but his brain hadn't enough incoming oxygen to care much one way or the other. The few remaining feet seemed to lengthen into a sewer-like passageway that vanished as did all else as his perceptions died. McNamara was not the sort to wonder about heaven or hell when he first awoke. He saw a faintly rounded ceiling, a soft yellow tint accentuating its featurelessness. How the devil, he began, his voice failed him. Hi, Mac. Logan's beaming face loomed over him. You rugged character, you. Cold as a pickle an hour ago, and already you're asking silly questions. He held up his hand as Mac started to speak. I hear you thinking, how the devil did I get here, and where is here? In reverse order, this is the most comfortable berth in the donut's facilities, and you got here courtesy of one Johnny Ruiz. Myself, I wouldn't have taken the trouble. Mac rimmed back at his pilot and cleared his throat. Well, where is he? I want to shake his hand, or give him half my kingdom or something. You know Johnny, the shy type. He'll be long after a while. You know, I think he kind of likes you. When you quit transmitting out there, Johnny was like a cat on a hot skillet. Finally decided to go back and have a look for himself, but I told him you probably had a hot game of solitaire going. Anyway, he went back and found you asleep on the job, and lost a good ten pounds getting your fat carcass through the airlock. That was the job that must have taxed both Ruiz and Logan, but Mac held a silence. And that was about the size of it. Valiers parked outside with some of the boys, good as ever. Come on, let's up up some coffee. Mac swung himself up to a sitting position and realized dizzily that he was mother-naked. His ribs felt pulverized. You guys sure mauled me up, said accusingly. Unavoidable, my dear greased monkey, you needed a little artificial respiration. I never was too good at that. Well, whoever did the job rate surprise of some sort, Mac answered, but my ribs told me he had more enthusiasm in the practice. Logan smiled his old familiar smile, the relief to find his engineer in joking spirits. The credit again goes to Johnny, but, he added, try not to be too hard on him. Try giving artificial respiration to a big lump like yourself some time, without any gravity. Mac digested this tidbit as he pulled on a fresh pair of overalls. Okay, he said, standing on the Fomex floor. How did he do it? Strapped you into your couch face down and locked his legs around it. I didn't dare apply any Gs. Come on, he finished. You've managed to upset every timetable in the project. Johnny's shaking like a leaf, or was when I left him. A bowl of coffee will do us both a world of good. I'm sold, Mac grunted, zipping up a flight boot. But there's something I'd like to do, first chance I get. Which is? Which is jettison every last strip of tape I have on valier. I'll tell you, Logan, he went on as they entered the recreation bar. You'll never know how degrading it is to hear useless and sipid information offered to you when you're in a tight spot, knowing full well the voice is your own. The End. End of Tight Squeeze by Dean Charles Ng. Recording by Jerome Lawson. January 2008. Time and time again. This is a LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org. Recording by RJ Davis. Time and time again by Henry Bean Piper. To upset the stable, mighty stream of time would probably take an enormous concentration of energy. But it's not to be expected that a man would get a second chance at life. But atomic might accomplish both. Blinded by the bomb flash and numb by the narcotic injection, he could not estimate the extent of his injuries, but he knew that he was dying. Around him in the darkness, voices sounded as through a thick wall. They might have left most of those joes where they was. Half of them won't even last till the truck comes. No matter as long as they're alive, they must be treated. Another voice, crisp and cultivated rebuked. Better start taking names while we're waiting. Yes, sir. Fingers fumbled at his identity badge. Hartley Allen. Captain. G5. Chemical research. A.N. S.O. 238. 60403.J. Allen Hartley, the medic officer, spoke in shock surprise. Why, he's a man who wrote Children of the Mist, Rose of Death and Conqueror's Road. He tried to speak and must have stirred the Corson voice sharpened. Major, I think he's part conscious. Maybe I better give him another shot. Yes. Yes, by all means, sergeant. Something jabbed Allen Hartley in the back of the neck. Soft billows of oblivion closed in upon him, and all that remained to him was a tiny spark of awareness, glowing alone and lost in a great darkness. The spark grew brighter. He was more than a something that merely knew that it existed. He was a man and he had a name and a military rank and memories. Memories of the shearing blue-green flash and of what he had been doing outside the shelter the moment before. And memories of the month-long siege and of the retreat from the north. And memories of the days before the war, back to the time when he had been little Allen Hartley, a schoolboy, the son of a successful lawyer in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. His mother he could not remember. There was only a vague impression of the house full of people who had tried to comfort him for something he could not understand. But he remembered the old German woman who had kept house for his father afterward. And he remembered his bedroom with the chinch-covered chairs and the warm-colored patch quilt on the old cherry bed and the tan curtains at the windows, edge with dusky red, and the morning sun shining through them. He could almost see them now. He blinked. He could see them. For a long time he lay staring at them unbelievably. And then he deliberately closed his eyes and counted ten seconds. And as he counted, terror gripped him. He was afraid to open them again, least he find himself blind or gazing at the filth and wreckage of the blasted city. But when he reached ten he forced himself to look and gave a sigh of relief. The sunlit curtains and the sun-guilted mist outside were still there. He reached out to check one sense against another, feeling the rough monk's cloth and the edging of maroon silk thread. They were tangible as well as visible. Then he saw that the back of his hand was unscarred. There should have been a scar, souvenir of a rough and tumble brawl of his cub reporter days. He examined both hands closely. An instant later he had set up in bed and thrown off the covers, partially removing his pajamas and expecting as much of his body as was visible. It was the smooth body of a little boy. That was ridiculous. He was a man of forty-three, an army officer, a chemist, once a best-selling novelist. He had been married and divorced ten years ago. He looked again as his body. It was only twelve years old, fourteen at the very oldest. His eyes swept the room wide with wonder. Every detail was familiar. The flowers splashed chair covers, the table that served a desk and catch-off for his possessions. The dresser with his mirror stuck full of pictures of aircraft. It was a bedroom of his childhood home. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. They were six inches too short to reach the floor. For an instant, the room spun digitally and he was in the grip of her panic. All confidence in the evidence of his senses lost. Was he insane or delirious or had the bomb really killed him? Was this what death was like? What was that thing about? He'd become as little children. He started to laugh and his juvenile larynx made giggling sounds. They seemed funny too and aggravated his mirth. For a little while, he was on the edge of hysteria and then when he managed to control his laughter he grew felt calmer. If he were dead, then he must be a dis-incarnate entity and would be able to penetrate matter. To his relief, he was unable to push his hand through the bed. So he was alive. He was also fully awake and he hoped rational. He rose to his feet and prowled about the room taking stock of his contents. There was no calendar in sight and he could find no newspapers or dated periodicals. But he knew that it was prior to July 18, 1946. On that day, his 14th birthday his father had given him a light 22 rifle and it had been hung on a pair of rustic forts on the wall. It was not there now nor ever had been. On the table he saw the boy's book of military aircraft with a clean new dust jacket. The fly-leaf was inscribed to Alan Hartley from his father on his 13th birthday, 7, 18, 45. Glancing out the window at the foliage on the trees he estimated the date at late July or early August, 1945. That would make him just 13. His clothes were draped on a chair beside the bed. Stripping off his pajamas he donned shorts, then sat down and picked up a pair of lemon-colored socks which he regarded with disfavor. As he pulled one on a church bell began to clang, sent Boniface up on the hill ringing for early mass. So this was Sunday. He paused a second sock in his hand. There was no question that his present environment was actual. Yet on the other hand he possessed a set of memories completely at variance with it. Now suppose, since his environment were not an illusion, everything else were. Suppose all those troublesome memories were no more than a dream. Why he was just little Alan Hartley, safe in his room on a Sunday morning, badly scared by a nightmare, too much science fiction Alan, too many comic books. That was a wonderfully comforting thought and he hugged it to him contently. He lasted all the while he was buttoning up his shirt and pulling on his pants, but when he reached for his shoes it evaporated. Ever since he had awakened he realized he had been occupied with thoughts otherly incomprehensible. to any 13 year old. Even thinking in words that would have been so much Sanskrit to himself at 13. He shook his head regretfully. The just-a-dream hypothesis went by the deep six. He picked up a second shoe and glared at it as though it were responsible for his predicament. He was going to have to be careful. An unexpected display of adult characteristics might give rise to some questions he would find hard to answer credibly. Fortunately he was an only child. There were no brothers or sisters to trip him up. Old Mrs. Stauber, the housekeeper, wouldn't be much of a problem. Even in his normal childhood he had bulked like an intellectual giant in comparison to her. But he's father. Now there the going would be tough. He was a true attorney's mind whitted keen on a generation of lying and reluctant witnesses. Sooner or later he would forget for an instant and betray himself. Then he smiled, remembering the books he had discovered in his late teens on his father's shelves and recalls the character of the open-minded agnostic lawyer. If he could only avoid the inevitable unmasking until he had a plausible explanationary theory. Blake Hartley was leaving the bathroom as Alan Hartley opened his door and stepped into the hall. The lawyer was bare-armed and in slippers. At forty-eight there was only a faint powdering of gray in his dark hair and not a gray thread in his clipped mustache. The old Mary Whittler himself, Alan thought, grinning as he remembered the white-haired but still vigorous man from whom he had parted at the outbreak of the war. Morning dad, he greeted. Morning son, you're up early. Going to Sunday school? Now there was the advantage of his father who had cut his first intellectual tooth on Tom Payne and Bob Ingersoll. Attendance at the Divine Services was on a strictly voluntary basis. Well, I don't think so. I want to do some reading this morning. That's always a good thing to do, Blake Hartley approved. Suppose you take a walk down to the station and get me a time. He dug in his trouser pocket and came out with a half dollar. Get anything you want for yourself while you're at it. Alan thanked his father and pocketed the coin. Mr. Stover will still be at mass, he suggested. Say I get the paper now. Breakfast won't be ready till she gets here. Good idea, Blake Hartley nodded please. You'll have three-quarters of an hour at least. So far he congratulated himself. Everything had gone smoothly. Finishing his toilet he went downstairs and onto the street. Turning left at Brandon to Campbell and left again in the direction of the station. Before he reached the underpass a dozen half-forgotten memories had revived. Here was a house that would in a few years be gutted by fire. Here were four dwellings standing where he had last seen a five-story apartment building. A gasoline station with a weed-grown lot would shortly be replaced by a supermarket. The environments of the station itself were a complete puzzle to him until he orientated himself. He bought a New York Times glancing first of all at the dateline Sunday, August 5, 1945. He had estimated pretty closely the battle of Okinawa had been won. The Potsdam conference had just ended. There were still pictures of the B-25 Christ against the Empire State Building a week ago Saturday. And Japan was still being pounded by bombs from the air and shells from offshore naval guns. While tomorrow, Hiroshima was due for the big job. It amused him to reflect that he was probably the only person in Williamsport who knew that. On the way home, a boy said he on the top step of a front porch hailed him. Alan replied cordially, trying to remember who it was. Of course, Larry Morton. He and Alan had been buddies. They probably had been swimming or playing commandos in Germans the afternoon before. Larry had gone to Cornell the same year that Alan had gone to Penn State. They had both graduated in 1954. Larry had gotten into some government bureau and then he had married a Pittsburgh girl and had become 12th Vice President of her father's firm. He had been killed in 1968 in a plane crash. You go on a Sunday school, Larry asked mercifully unaware of the fate Alan foresaw for him. Why no, I have some things I want to do at home. He'd have to watch himself. Larry would spot a difference in any adult. Heck with it, he added. Golly, I wish I could stay home from Sunday school whenever I wanted to. Larry envied. How about us going swimming as a canoe club safter? Alan thought fast. Gee, I wish I could, he replied lowering his grammar, local sites. I've got to stay home safter. We're expecting company. Couple of ants of mine. Dad wants me to stay home when they come. That went over all right. Everybody knew that there was no rational accounting for the majorities of the adult mind and no appeal from adult demands. The prospect of company at the Hartley home would keep Larry away that afternoon. He showed his disappointment. Aw, Jeepers Creepers, he'd blast to meet you fantastically. Maybe tomorrow Alan said, if I can make it, I got to go now and had breakfast yet. He scuffed his feet voicelessly, exchanged so long with his friend and continued homework. As he hoped, the Sunday paper kept his father occupied at breakfast to the exclusion of any dangerous table talk. Blake Hartley was still deep in the financial section when Alan left the table and went to the library. There should be two books there to which he wanted badly to refer. For a while, he was afraid that his father had not acquired them prior to 1945, but he finally found them and carried them onto the front porch, along with a pintle and a ruled yellow scratch pad. In an experienced future, or his past to come, Alan Hartley had been accustomed to doing his thinking with a pintle. As reporter, as novelist plotting his work, as amateur chemist in his home laboratory, as scientific warfare research officer, his ideas had always been clarified by making notes. He pushed a chair to the table and built up the seat with cushions, wondering how soon he would become used to the proportional disparity between himself and the furniture. As he opened the books and took his pencil in hand, there was one thing missing. His father came out and stretched in a wicked chair with the Times Book Review Section. The morning hours passed. Alan Hartley leased through one book and then the other. His pencil moved rapidly at times and others he doodled absently. There was no question anymore in his mind as to what or who he was. He was Alan Hartley, a man of 43, marooned in his own 13-year- old body, 30 years back in his own past. That was a course against all common sense, but he was easily able to ignore that objection. It had been made before against the astronomy of Copernicus and the geography of Columbus and the biology of Darwin and the industrial technology of Samuel Colt and the military doctrines of Charles de Gaulle. Today's common sense had he taken into tomorrow's other nonsense. What he needed right now, but bad, was a theory that would explain what had happened to him. Understanding was beginning to dawn when Mrs. Stauber came out to announce midday dinner. I hope you've felt mind how when it's so early she apologized. My sister Jenny over in Nipah knows she is sick. I want to go see her this Monday in time to get supper, Mr. Hartley. Hey, Dad, Alan spoke up. Why can't we get our own supper and have a picnic like? That'd be fun. And Mrs. Stauber could say as long as she wanted to. His father looked at him. Such consideration for others was a most gratifying deviation from the juvenile norm. Dawn of altruism or something, he gave hearty consent. Why, of course, Mrs. Stauber, Alan and I can shift for ourselves this evening. Can't we, Alan? You needn't come back till tomorrow morning. Thank you. Thank you so much, Mr. Hartley. At dinner, Alan got out from under the burden of conversation by questioning his father about the war and luring him into a lengthy dissertation on the difficulties of the forthcoming invasion of Japan . In view of what he remembered of the next 24 hours, Alan was secretly amused. His father was sure that the war would run on to mid-1946. After dinner, they returned to the porch. Hartley peered smoking a cigar and curing out several law boats. He only glanced at those occasionally. For the most part, he sat in blue smoke drains and watched them float away. At the end of the night, Alan and his wife, Alton, were about to be triumphantly acquitted by a weeping jury. Alan could recognize a courtroom masterpiece in the process of incubation. It was several hours later that the crunch of feet on the walk caused father and son to look up simultaneously. The approaching visitor was a tall man in a ruffled black suit. He looked at him. Frank Goochall living on Campbell Street, a religious phonetic and some sort of lay preacher. Maybe he needed legal advice. Alan could vaguely remember some incidents. Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Goochall. Lovely day, isn't it? Blake Hartley said. Goochall cleared his throat. Mr. Hartley, I wonder if you could lend me a gun for my little dog. My little dog's been hurt and is suffering something terrible. I want a gun to put the poor thing out of its pain. Well, yes, of course. How would a 20 gauge shotgun do? Blake Hartley asked. You wouldn't want anything heavy. Goochall fidgeted. I was hoping you'd let me put a pistol that I could put in my pocket. It wouldn't look right to carry a hunting gun on the Lord's Day. People wouldn't understand that it was for a work of mercy. The law, you're not it. In view of Goochall's religious beliefs, the objection made sense. Well, I have a Colt 38 spatially said, but you know, I belong to this auxiliary police outfit. This evening I'd need it. How soon could you bring it back? Something clicked in Alan Hartley's mind. He remembered now what that incident had been. He knew too what he had to do. Dad, aren't there some cartridges left for the Luger? He asked. Blake Hartley snapped his fingers by George. Yes, I have a German automatic I can let you have. As soon as possible, I'll get it for you. Before he could rise, Alan was on his feet. Just still dead, I'll get it. I know where the cartridges are. With that, he darted into the house and upstairs. The Luger hung on a wall over his father's bed. Getting it down, he dismounted it, worked with rapid precision. He used the blade of his pocket knife to unlock the end piece of the breech slot. Then he went back into his shirt pocket. Then he reassembled the harmless pistol and filled the clip with nine millimeter cartridges from the Bureau drawer. There was an extension telephone beside the bed. Finding Gutschall's address in the directory, he lifted the telephone and stretched his handkerchief over the mouthpiece. Then he dialed police headquarters. This is Blake Hartley, he lied, deepening his voice, Gutschall, who lives at, take this down, he gave Gutschall's address. He had just borrowed a pistol from me. Austinously took to shoot a dog. He has no dog. He intends shooting his wife. Don't argue about how I know there isn't time. Just take it for granted that I do. I disabled the pistol, took out the firing pin. But if he finds out what I did, he may get some other weapon. He's on his way home. But he's on foot. If you hurry, you may get a man there before he arrives and grab him before he finds out the pistol won't shoot. Okay, Mr. Hartley, we'll take care of it, thanks. And I wish you'd get my pistol back as soon as you can. It's something I brought home from the other war and I shouldn't like to lose it. We'll take care of that too. Thank you, Mr. Hartley. I just came back from the military. I was a soldier hunting a dog and loaded the clip down to the porch. Look, Mr.oucha. Here's how it works. He said. Showing it to the visitor, then he slapped in the clip, yanked on the toggle, loading the chamber. It's ready to shoot now. This is a safety, when you're through shooting. Did you load this chamber by Blake Hartley demanded? Sure, it's on safe now. Let me see. His father took the pistol being careful to keep his finger out of the trigger guard and looked at it. Yes, that's all right. He repeated the instructions Allen had given, stressing the importance of putting the safety on after using. Understand how it works now, you ask? Yes, I understand how it works. Thank you, Mr. Hartley. Thank you too, young man. Good y'all put the Luger in his hip pocket, made sure it wouldn't fall out and took his departure. You shouldn't have loaded it, Hartley Peer, of reproved when he was gone. Allen sighed, this was it. The masquerade was over. I had to, to keep you from fooling with it, he said. I didn't want you finding out that I'd taken out the firing pin. You what? Good y'all didn't want that gun to shoot a dog. He has no dog. He meant to shoot his wife with it. He's a religious maniac, sees visions, hears voices, receives revelations, talks with the Holy Ghost. The Holy Ghost probably put him up to this caper. I'll submit that any man who holds long conversations with the deity isn't to be trusted with a gun. And neither is any man who lies about why he wants one. And while I was at it, I called the police on the upstairs phone. I had to use your name. I deepened my voice and talked to a handkerchief. You, like Hartley jumped as though beast down. Why did you have to do that? You know why? I couldn't have told him, this is little Allen Hartley, just 13 years old. Please, Mr. Policeman, go and arrest Frank Guchoff before he goes root toot toot at his wife with my papa's luger. That would have gone over big now, wouldn't it? And suppose he really wants to shoot a dog. What sort of mess will I be in? No mess at all. If I'm wrong, which I'm not, I'll take the thumb for it myself. It'll pass for a dumb kid trick and nothing will be done. But if I'm right, you'll have to front for me. They'll keep your name out of the pit and they'd give me a lot of cheap boy hero publicity, which I don't want. He picked up his pencil again. We should have the complete returns in about 20 minutes. That was a 10 minute understatement. And it was under a quarter hour before the detective sergeant who returned the luger had finished congratulating Blake Hartley and giving him the thanks of the department. Before he had gone, the lawyer picked up the luger, withdrew the clip and ejected the round in the chamber. Well, he told his son, you were right. You saved that woman's life. He looked at the automatic clip and then handed it across the table. Now let's see you put that firing pin back. Alan Hartley dismantled the weapon, inserted the missing part and put it together again. Then snapped it experimentally and returned it to his father. Blake Hartley looked at it again and laid it on the table. Now, son, suppose we have a little talk, he said softly. But I explained everything Alan objected innocently. You did not, his father retorted. Yesterday, you had never thought of a trick like this. Why you wouldn't even have known how to take this pistol apart. And at dinner, I caught you using language and expressing ideas that were entirely outside anything you've ever known before. Now, I want to know and I mean this literally. Alan chuckled, I hope you're not toying with the rather medieval notion of obsession, he said. Blake Hartley started, something very like that must have been filtering through his mind. He opened his mouth to say something then closed it abruptly. The trouble is, I'm not sure you aren't right. His son continued, you say you find me changed. When did you first notice a difference? Last night, you were still my little boy. This morning, Blake Hartley was talking more to himself than Alan. I don't know. You were unusually silent at breakfast and come to think of it, there was something strange about you when I saw you in the hall upstairs. Alan, he burst out vehemently, what has happened to you? Alan Hartley felt a twinge of pain. What his father was going through was almost what he himself had endured in the first few minutes after waking. I wish I could be sure myself, dad, he said. You see, when I woke this morning, I hadn't the least recollection of anything I've done yesterday. August 4th, 1945, that is, he specified, I was positively convinced that I was a man of 43 and my last memory was a lying on a stretcher injured by a bomb explosion. And I was equally convinced that this had happened in 1975. Huh, his father straightened. Did you say 1975? He thought for a moment. That's right, in 1975, you will be 43. A bomb, you say? Alan nodded. During the siege of Buffalo in the Third World War, he said, I was a captain in G5 scientific warfare general staff. There'd been a transpolar air invasion of Canada and I'd been sent to the front to check on service failures of a new lubricating oil for combat equipment. The week after I got there, Ottawa fell and the retreat started. We made a stand at Buffalo and that was where I copped it. I remember being picked up and getting a narcotic injection. The next thing I knew, I was in bed upstairs and it was 1945 again and I was back in my own little 13 year old body. Oh, Alan, you just had a nightmare to end nightmares. His father assured him, laughing a trifle too heartily. That's all. That was one of the first things I thought of. I had to reject it. It just wouldn't fit the facts. Look, a normal dream is part of the dreamer's own physical brain, isn't it? Well, here is a part about 2000% greater than the whole from which it was taken, which is absurd. You mean all this battle of Buffalo stuff? That's easy. All the radio commentators have been harping on the horrors of World War III and you couldn't have avoided hearing some of it. You just have an undigested chunk of H.V. Colterborn raising hell in your subconscious. It wasn't just World War III, it was everything. My four years at high school, my four years at Penn State and my seven years as a reporter at the Philadelphia Record and my novels, Children of the Mist, Rows of Death and Conqueror's Road. They were no kid stuff. While yesterday, I'd never even have thought of some of the ideas I used in my detective stories that I published under a nom de plume. And my hobby chemistry, I was pretty good at that. Patented a couple of processes that made me as much money as my writing. You think a 13 year old just dreamed all that up? Or here, you speak French, don't you? He switched languages and spoke at some length in good conversational slang, spice, Parisian. Too bad you don't speak Spanish too, he added, reverting to English. Except for a Mexican accent you could cut with a machete. I'm even better there than in French. And I know some German and a little Russian. Blake Hartley stared at his son stunned. He was some time before he could make himself speak. I could barely keep up with you in French, he admitted. I can swear that in the last 13 years of your life, you had absolutely no chance to learn it. All right, you lived till 1975, you say. Then all of a sudden you found yourself back here, 13 years old in 1945. I suppose you remember everything in between, he asked. Did you ever read James Branch Cabell? Remember Florian de Poissagne in the high place? Yes, you find the same idea in Jurgen too, Allen said. You know, I'm beginning to wonder if Cabell might have known something he didn't want to write. But it's impossible. Blake Hartley hit the table with his hand so hard that the heavy pistol bounced. The loose round he had ejected from the chamber toppled over and started to roll, falling off the edge. He stooped and picked it up. How can you go back against time? And the time you claim you came from doesn't exist now. It hasn't happened yet. He reached for the pistol magazine to insert the cartridge and as he did, he saw the books in front of his son. Dune's Experiment with Time, he commented. And J. N. M. Tyrell's Science and Physical Phenomena. Are you trying to work out a theory? Yes, it encouraged Allen to see that his father had unconsciously adopted an adult to adult manner. I think I'm getting somewhere too. You've read these books. Well, look dad, what's your attitude on precognition? The ability of the human mind to exhibit real knowledge apart from logical inference or future events. You think Dune is telling the truth about his experiences? Or that the cases of Tyrell's book are properly verified and can't be explained away on the basis of chance? Blake Hartley frowned. I don't know he confessed. The evidence is a sort that any court in the world would accept if it concerned ordinary, normal events. Especially the cases investigated by the Society of Physical Research. They have been verified. And how can anyone know something that hasn't happened yet? If it hasn't happened yet, it doesn't exist. And you can't have real knowledge of something that has no real existence. Tyrell discusses that dilemma and doesn't dispose of it. I think I can. If somebody has real knowledge of the future, then the future must be available to the present mind. And if any moment other than the bare present exists, then all time must be totally present. Every moment must be perpetually co-existent with every other moment, Alan said. Yes, I think I see what you mean. That was Dune's idea, wasn't it? No, Dune postulated that infinite series of time dimensions, the entire extent of each being to bear a distant moment of the next. What I'm postulating is the perpetual coexistence of every moment of time in this dimension. Just as every graduation of a yardstick exists equally with every other graduation, but each at a different point in space. Well, as far as duration and sequence go, that's all right, the father agreed. But how about the passage of time? Well, time does appear to pass. So does the landscape you see from a moving car window. I'll suggest that both are illusions of the same kind. We imagine time to be dynamic because we've never viewed it from a fixed point. But if it is totally present, then it must be steady. And in that case, we're moving through time. Well, seems all right, but what's your car window? If all time is totally present, then you must exist simultaneously at every moment along your individual lifespan, Alan said. Your physical body and your mind and all the thoughts contained in your mind, each at its appropriate moment in sequence. But what is it that exists only at the bare moment we think of as now? Blake Hartley Grant, already he was accepting his small son as an intellectual equal. Please, teacher, what? Your consciousness, and don't say what's that, teacher doesn't know. But we're only conscious of one moment, the illusionary now. This is now, and it was now. And when you ask that question and it'll be now when I stop talking. But each is a different moment. We imagine that all these nows are rushing past us. Really, they're standing still and our consciousness is whizzing past them. His father thought that over for some time. Then he set up, hey, he cried suddenly. If some part of our ego is time free and passes from moment to moment, it must be extra physical. Because a physical body exists at every moment through which the consciousness passes. And if it's extra physical, there's no reason whatever for assuming that it passes out of existence when it reaches a moment of the death of the body. Why, there's logical evidence for survival, independent of any alleged spirit communication. You can toss out patient worth and Mrs. Auburn Leonard Spetta and Sir Oliver Lodge's son and Wilford Brandon and all the other spirit communicators and still have evidence. I hadn't thought of that, Alan confessed. I think you're right. Well, let's put that at the bottom of the agenda and get on with this time business. You lose consciousness as in sleep. Where does your consciousness go? I think it simply detaches from the moment at which you go to sleep and moves backward or forward along the line of moment sequence through some prior or subsequent moment attaching there. Well, why don't we know anything about that? Blake Hartley asked. It never seems to happen. You go to sleep tonight and it's always tomorrow morning when we wake. Never day before yesterday or last month or next year. It never or almost never seems to happen. You're right there. Know why? Because if the consciousness goes forward, it attaches to a moment when the physical brain contains memories of the previous consciously unexperienced moment. You wake remembering the evening before because that's the memory contained in your mind at that moment. And back of it are memories of all the events in the interim, see? Yes, but how about backward movement like the experience of yours? This experience of mine may not be unique, but I never heard of another case like it. What usually happens is that the memories carried back by the consciousness are buried in the subconscious mind. You know how thick the wall between the subconscious and conscious mind is. Those dreams of Dune's and the case of Tyrell's book are leakage. That's why precognitions are usually incomplete and distorted and generally trivial. The wonder isn't that good cases are so few, it's surprising that there are any at all. Alan looked at the papers in front of him. I haven't begun to theorize about how I managed to remember everything. It may have been the radiations from the bomb or the effect of the narcotic or both together or something at this end or a combination of all three. But the fact remains that my subconscious barrier didn't function and everything got through. So you see, I am obsessed by my own future identity. And I've been afraid that you'd been well taken over by some outsider. Blake Hartley grinned weakly. I don't mind admitting Alan that what's happened has been a shock but that other, I just couldn't have taken that. No, not in stage same, but really I am your son, the same entity I was yesterday. I just had what you might call an educational shortcut. I'll say you have, his father laughed in real amusement. He discovered that his cigar had gone out and relid it. Here, if you can remember the next 30 years, suppose you tell me when the war is going to end. This one I mean. The Japanese surrender will be announced at exactly 1901, 701 PM present style on August 14th, a week from Tuesday. Better make sure we have plenty of grub in the house by then. Everything will be closed up tight until Thursday morning, even the restaurants. I remember we had nothing to eat in the house but some scraps. Well, it is handy having a profit in the family. I'll see to it that Mr. Stalberg gets plenty of groceries in. Tuesday a week. That's pretty sudden, isn't it? The Japs are going to think so, Alan replied. He went on to describe what was going to happen. His mother swore softly. You know, I've heard talk about atomic energy, but I thought it was just Buck Rogers stuff. Was that the sort of bomb that got you? That was a firecracker to the bomb that got me. That thing exploded a good 10 miles away. Lake Hartley whistled softly. And that's going to happen in 30 years? You know, son, if I were you, I wouldn't like to have to know about a thing like that. He looked at Alan for a moment. Please, if you know, don't tell me when I'm going to die. Alan smiled. I can't. I got a letter from you just before I left for the front. You were 78 then and you were still hunting and fishing and flying your own plane. But I'm not going to get killed in any battle of Buffalo this time. And if I can prevent it, and I think I can, there won't be any World War III. But you say all time exists, perpetually, coexistent, and totally present, his father said. Then it's right there in front of you and you're getting closer to it every watch tick. Alan Hartley shook his head. You know what I remembered when Frank Gutshaw came to borrow a gun, he asked? Well, the other time I hadn't been home. I'd been swimming at the canoe club with Larry Morton. When I got home about half an hour from now, I found a house full of cops. Gutshaw talked to 38 officers modeled out of you and gone home. He'd shot his wife four times through the body, finished her off with another one back of the ear and then used his sixth shot to blast his brains out. The cops traced a gun. They took a very poor view of your lending it to him. You never got it back. Trust that gang to keep a good gun, the lawyer said. I didn't want us to lose it this time. I didn't want to see you lose face around City Hall. Gutshaw's, of course, are expendable, Alan said. But my main reason for fixing Frank Gutshaw up with a patted cell is that I wanted to know whether or not the future could be altered. I have it on experimental authority that it can be. There must be additional dimensions of time, lines of alternate probabilities, something like William Seabrooks, which Dr. Frans fan-shaped destiny. When I brought memories of the future back to the present, I added certain factors to the usual chain. That set up an entirely new line of probabilities. On no notice at all, I stopped a murder and a suicide. With 30 years to work, I can stop the world war. I'll have the means to do it, too. The means, unlimited wealth and influence. Here, Alan picked up a sheet and handed it to his father. Used properly, we can make two or three million on that alone. A list of all the Kentucky Derby, Preakness and Belmont winners to 1970. That'll furnish us primary capital. Then remember, I was something of a chemist. I took it up originally to get background material for one of my detective stories. It fascinated me and I made her to hobby and then a source of income. I'm 30 years ahead of any chemist in the world now. You remember IG, carbon industry? 10 years from now, we'll make them look like pikers. His father looked at the yellow sheet. Assault at eight to one, he said. I can scrape up about 5,000 for that now. In 10 years, any other little operations you have mind, he asked? About 1950, we start building a political organization here in Pennsylvania. In 1960, I think we can elect you president. The world situation will be crucial by that time. And we had a good nature non-initiate in the White House then who let things go till war became inevitable. I think President Hartley can be trusted to take a strong line of policy. In the meantime, you can read Machiavelli. That's my little boy talking. Blake Hartley said softly, all right son, I'll do just what you tell me. And when you grow up, I'll be president. Let's go get supper now. That concludes the reading of Time and Time Again by Henry Veeam Piper.