“Mmm, yes, perhaps.” But Helen held up a hand.
“No good. The boodle might come bouncing back with me. I’ll go over without any return instructions. I like the sound of this world of Bob’s anyway. I may stay there. Cut out the chivalry, Bob. One of the things I liked about your world was the notion of treating men and women alike. Get unstuck from that stuff and start hanging it on me. I’m going.”
She looked like a Christmas tree when the dozen-odd books had been tied to various parts of her solid little figure, the automatic pistol strapped on, and the two slide rules, one long and one short, stuck in the pistol belt.
Howard fondled the large slide rule before he fastened it on. “Take good care of this slipstick, Bob,” he said, “I gave up smoking for six months to pay for it.”
Frost seated the two side by side on the sofa in the study. Helen slipped a hand into Bob’s. When the shining ball had been made to spin, Frost motioned for Jenkins to leave, closed the door after him and switched out the light. Then he started repeating hypnotic suggestions in a monotone.
Ten minutes later he felt a slight swish of air and ceased. He snapped the light switch. The sofa was empty, even of books.
Frost and Jenkins kept an uneasy vigil while awaiting Estelle’s return. Jenkins wandered nervously around the study, examining objects that didn’t interest him and smoking countless cigarets. The Professor sat quietly in his easy chair, simulating a freedom from anxiety that he did not feel. They conversed in desultory fashion.
“One thing I don’t see,” observed Jenkins, “is why in the world Helen could go a dozen places and not change, and Bob goes just one place and comes back almost unrecognizable—shorter, heavier, decked out in outlandish clothes. What happened to his ordinary clothes anyhow? How do you explain those things, Professor?”
“Eh? I don’t explain them—I merely observe them. I think perhaps he changed, while Helen didn’t, because Helen was just a visitor to the places she went to, whereas Monroe belonged over there—as witness he fitted into the pattern of that world. Perhaps the Great Architect intended for him to cross over.”
“Huh? Good heavens, Doctor, surely you don’t believe in divine predestination!”
“Perhaps not in those terms. But, Howard, you mechanistic skeptics make me tired. Your naive ability to believe that things ‘jest growed’ approaches childishness. According to you a fortuitous accident of entropy produced Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.”
“I think that’s unfair, Doctor. You certainly don’t expect a man to believe in things that run contrary to his good sense without offering him any reasonable explanation.”
Frost snorted. “I certainly do—if he has observed it with his own eyes and ears, or gets it from a source known to be credible. A fact doesn’t have to be understood to be true. Sure, any reasonable mind wants explanations, but it’s silly to reject facts that don’t fit your philosophy.
“Now these events tonight, which you are so anxious to rationalize in orthodox terms, furnish a clue to a lot of things that scientists have been rejecting because they couldn’t explain them. Have you ever heard the tale of the man who walked around the horses? No? Around 1810 Benjamin Bathurst, British Ambassador to Austria, arrived in his carriage at an inn in Perleberg, Germany. He had his valet and secretary with him. They drove into the lighted courtyard of the inn. Bathurst got out, and, in the presence of bystanders and his two attaches, walked around the horses. He hasn’t been seen since.”
“What happened?”
“Nobody knows. I think he was preoccupied and inadvertently wandered into another time track. But there are literally hundreds of similar cases, way too many to laugh off. The two-time-dimensions theory accounts for most of them. But I suspect that there are other as-yet-undreamed-of natural principles operating in some of the rejected cases.”
Howard stopped pacing and pulled at his lower lip. “Maybe so, Doctor. I’m too upset to think. Look here—it’s one o’clock. Oughtn’t she to be back by now?”
“I’m afraid so, son.”
“You mean she’s not coming back.”
“It doesn’t look like it.”
The younger man gave a broken cry and collapsed on the sofa. His shoulders heaved. Presently he calmed down a little. Frost saw his lips move and suspected that he was praying. Then he showed a drawn face to the Doctor.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“That’s hard to answer, Howard. We don’t know where she’s gone; all we do know is that she left here under hypnotic suggestion to cross over into some other loop of the past or future.”
“Can’t we go after her the same way and trace her?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t had any experience with such a job.”
“I’ve got to do something or I’ll go nuts.”
“Take it easy, son. Let me think about it.” He smoked in silence while Howard controlled an impulse to scream, break furniture, anything!
Frost knocked the ash off his cigar and placed it carefully in a tray. “I can think of one chance. It’s a remote one.”
“Anything!”
“I’m going to listen to the record that Estelle heard, and cross over. I’ll do it wide awake, while concentrating on her. Perhaps I can establish some rapport, some extra-sensory connection, that will serve to guide me to her.” Frost went immediately about his preparations as he spoke. “I want you to remain in the room when I go so that you will really believe that it can be done.”
In silence Howard watched him don the earphones. The Professor stood still, eyes closed. He remained so for nearly fifteen minutes, then took a short step forward. The earphones clattered to the floor. He was gone.
Frost felt himself drift off into the timeless limbo which precedes transition. He noticed again that it was exactly like the floating sensation that ushers in normal sleep, and wondered idly, for the hundredth time, whether or not the dreams of sleep were real experiences. He was inclined to think they were. Then he recalled his mission with a guilty start, and concentrated hard on Estelle.
He was walking along a road, white in the sunshine. Before him were the gates of a city. The gateman stared at his odd attire, but let him pass. He hurried down the broad tree-lined avenue which (he knew) led from the space port to Capitol Hill. He turned aside into the Way of the Gods and continued until he reached the Grove of the Priestesses. There he found the house which he sought, its marble walls pink in the sun, its fountains tinkling in the morning breeze. He turned in.
The ancient janitor, nodding in the sun, admitted him to the house. The slender maidservant, barely nubile, ushered him into the inner chamber, where her mistress raised herself on one elbow and regarded her visitor through languid eyes. Frost addressed her.
“It is time to return, Estelle.”
Her eyebrows showed her surprise. “You speak a strange and barbarous tongue, old man, and yet, here is a mystery, for I know it. What do you wish of me?”
Frost spoke impatiently. “Estelle, I say it is time to return!”
“Return? What idle talk is this? Return where? And my name is Star Light, not Ess Tell. Who are you, and from where do you come?” She searched his face, then pointed a slender finger at him. “I know you now! You are out of my dreams. You were a Master and instructed me in the ancient wisdom.”
“Estelle, do you remember a youth in those dreams?”
“That odd name again! Yes, there was a youth. He was sweet—sweet and straight and tall like pine on the mountain. I have dreamed of him often.” She swung about with a flash of long white limbs. “What of this youth?”
“He waits for you. It is time to return.”
“Return!—There is no return to the place of dreams!”
“I can lead you there.”
“What blasphemy is this? Are you a priest, that you should practice magic? Why should a sacred courtesan go to the place of dreams?”
“There is no magic in it. He is heartsick at your loss. I will lead yo
u back to him.”
She hesitated, doubt in her eyes, then she replied. “Suppose you could; why should I leave my honorable sacred station for the cold nothingness of that dream?”
He answered her gently, “What does your heart tell you, Estelle?”
She stared at him, eyes wide, and seemed about to burst into tears. Then she flung herself across the couch, and showed him her back. A muffled voice answered him,
“Be off with you! There is no youth, except in my dreams. I’ll seek him there!”
She made no further reply to his importunities. Presently he ceased trying and left with a heavy heart.
Howard seized him by the arm as he returned. “Well, Professor? Well? Did you find her?”
Frost dropped wearily into his chair. “Yes, I found her.”
“Was she all right? Why didn’t she come back with you?”
“She was perfectly well, but I couldn’t persuade her to return.”
Howard looked as if he had been slapped across the mouth. “Didn’t you tell her I wanted her to come back?”
‘I did, but she didn’t believe me.”
“Not believe you?”
“You see she’s forgotten most of this life, Howard. She thinks you are simply a dream.”
“But that’s not possible!”
Frost looked more weary than ever. “Don’t you think it is about time you stopped using that term, son?”
Instead of replying he answered, “Doctor, you must take me to her!” Frost looked dubious. “Can’t you do it?”
“Perhaps I could, if you have gotten over your disbelief, but still—”
“Disbelief!—I’ve been forced to believe. Let’s get busy.”
Frost did not move. “I’m not sure that I agree. Howard, conditions are quite different where Estelle has gone. It suits her, but I’m not sure that it would be a kindness to take you through to her.”
“Why not? Doesn’t she want to see me?”
“Yes—I think she does. I’m sure she would welcome you, but conditions are very different.”
“I don’t give a damn what the conditions are. Let’s go.”
Frost got up. “Very well. It shall be as you wish.”
He seated Jenkins in the easy chair and held the young man’s eyes with his gaze. He spoke slowly in calm, unmodulated tones.
Frost assisted Howard to his feet and brushed him off. Howard laughed and wiped the white dust of the road from his hands.
“Quite a tumble, Master. I feel as if some lout had pulled a stool from under me.”
“I shouldn’t have had you sit down.”
“I guess not.” He pulled a large multi-flanged pistol from his belt and examined it. “Lucky the safety catch was set on my blaster or we might have been picking ourselves out of the stratosphere. Shall we be on our way?”
Frost looked his companion over; helmet, short military kilt, short sword and accoutrements slapping at his thighs. He blinked and answered, “Yes. Yes, of course.”
As they swung into the city gates, Frost inquired, “Do you know where you are headed?”
“Yes, certainly. To Star Light’s villa in the Grove.”
“And you know what to expect there?”
“Oh, you mean our discussion. I know the customs here, Master, and am quite undismayed, I assure you. Star Light and I understand each other. She’s one of these ‘out of sight, out of mind’ girls. Now that I’m back from Ultima Thule, she’ll give up the priesthood and we’ll settle down and raise a lot of fat babies.”
“Ultima Thule? Do you remember my study?”
“Of course I do—and Robert and Helen and all the rest.”
“Is that what you meant by Ultima Thule?”
“Not exactly. I can’t explain it, Master. I’m a practical military man. I’ll leave such things to you priests and teachers.”
They paused in front of Estelle’s house. “Coming in, Master?”
“No, I think not. I must be getting back.”
“You know best.” Howard clapped him on the shoulder. “You have been a true friend, Master. Our first brat shall be named for you.”
“Thank you, Howard. Good-bye, and good luck to both of you.”
“And to you.” He entered the house with a confident stride.
Frost walked slowly back toward the gates, his mind preoccupied with myriad thoughts. There seemed to be no end to the permutations and combinations; either of matter, or of mind. Martha, Robert, Helen—now Howard and Estelle. It should be possible to derive a theory that would cover them all. As he mused, his heel caught on a loose paving block and he stumbled across his easy chair.
The absence of the five students was going to be hard to explain, Frost knew—so he said nothing to anyone. The weekend passed before anyone took the absences seriously. On Monday a policeman came to his house, asking questions.
His answers were not illuminating, for he had reasonably refrained from trying to tell the true story. The District Attorney smelled a serious crime, kidnapping or perhaps a mass murder. Or maybe one of these love cults—you can never tell about these professors!
He caused a warrant to be issued Tuesday morning; Sergeant Izowski was sent to pick him up.
The professor came quietly and entered the black wagon without protest. “Look, Doc,” said the sergeant, encouraged by his docile manner, “why don’t you tell us where you hid ’em? You know we’re bound to dig them up in time.”
Frost turned, looked him in the eyes, and smiled, “Time,” he said softly, “ah, time . . . yes, you could dig them up, in Time.” He then got into the wagon and sat down quietly, closed his eyes, and placed his mind in the necessary calm receptive condition.
The sergeant placed one foot on the tailboard, braced his bulk in the only door, and drew out his notebook. When he finished writing he looked up.
Professor Frost was gone.
Frost had intended to look up Howard and Estelle. Inadvertently he let his mind dwell on Helen and Robert at the crucial moment. When he “landed” it was not in the world of the future he had visited twice before. He did not know where he was—on earth apparently, somewhere and somewhen.
It was wooded rolling country, like the hills of southern Missouri, or New Jersey. Frost had not sufficient knowledge of botany to be able to tell whether the species of trees he saw around him were familiar or not. But he was given no time to study the matter.
He heard a shout, an answering shout. Human figures came bursting out of the trees in a ragged line. He thought that they were attacking him, looked wildly around for shelter, and found none. But they kept on past him, ignoring him, except that the one who passed closest to him glanced at him hastily, and shouted something. Then he, too, was gone.
Frost was left standing, bewildered, in the small natural clearing in which he had landed.
Before he had had time to integrate these events one of the fleeing figures reappeared and yelled to him, accompanying the words with a gesture unmistakable—he was to come along.
Frost hesitated. The figure ran toward and hit him with a clean tackle. The next few seconds were very confused, but he pulled himself together sufficiently to realize that he was seeing the world upside down; the stranger was carrying him at a strong dogtrot, thrown over one shoulder.
Bushes whipped at his face, then the way led downward for several yards, and he was dumped casually to the ground. He sat up and rubbed himself.
He found himself in a tunnel which ran upwards to daylight and downward the Lord knew where. Figures milled around him but ignored him. Two of them were setting up some apparatus between the group and the mouth of the tunnel. They worked with extreme urgency, completing what they were doing in seconds, and stepped back. Frost heard a soft gentle hum.
The mouth of the tunnel became slightly cloudy. He soon saw why—the apparatus was spinning a web from wall to wall, blocking the exit. The web became less tenuous, translucent, opaque. The hum persisted for minutes thereafter and the strange mach
ine continued to weave and thicken the web. One of the figures glanced at its belt, spoke one word in the tone of command, and the humming ceased.
Frost could feel relief spread over the group like a warm glow. He felt it himself and relaxed, knowing intuitively that some acute danger had been averted.
The member of the group who had given the order to shut off the machine turned around, happened to see Frost, and approached him, asking some questions in a sweet but peremptory soprano. Frost was suddenly aware of three things; the leader was a woman, it was the leader who had rescued him, and the costume and general appearance of these people matched that of the transformed Robert Monroe.
A smile spread over his face. Everything was going to be all right!
The question was repeated with marked impatience. Frost felt that an answer was required, though he did not understand the language and was sure that she could not possibly know English. Nevertheless—
“Madame,” he said in English, getting to his feet and giving her a courtly bow, “I do not know your language and do not understand your question, but I suspect that you have saved my life. I am grateful.”
She seemed puzzled and somewhat annoyed, and demanded something else—at least Frost though it was a different question; he could not be sure. This was getting nowhere. The language difficulty was almost insuperable, he realized. It might take days, weeks, months to overcome it. In the meantime these people were busy with a war, and would be in no frame of mind to bother with a useless incoherent stranger.
He did not want to be turned out on the surface.
How annoying, he thought, how stupidly annoying! Probably Monroe and Helen were somewhere around, but he could die of old age and never find them. They might be anywhere on the planet. How would an American, dumped down in Tibet, make himself understood if his only possible interpreter were in South America? Or whereabouts unknown? How would he make the Tibetans understand that there even was an interpreter? Botheration!
Still, he must make a try. What was it Monroe had said his name was here? Egan—no, Igor. That was it—Igor.