'Not a time machine,' I heard John's voice saying in my mind. 'That's an automobile you drive up and down the corridors of time and it's theoretically impossible. What we have here is temporal transference. Minds can exert their influence across time. Or, rather, subatomic particles can, and if organized as complexly as in an advanced brain, their influence is multiplied to the point where it can be detected and, I think, used. If two minds are similar enough, they can resonate to the point where consciousness can shift back and forth across the time gap. Temporal transference.'
'Can you actually control that?'
'I think so. I dare say each mind resonates with many others and God knows what this would account for in terms of dreams, of feelings of deja vu, of sudden inspiration and so on. - But to make an actual transfer means an overriding resonance between two particular minds, and requires the proper amplification.'
I was one of hundreds he tested. There was no use trying animals. Only the human brain set up a field strong enough to detect. - Dolphins, perhaps, but how would one go about working with them?
'Just about everyone shows detectable resonance,' said John. 'You show a strong one, for instance, in one particular direction.'
'With whom?' I asked, interested.
'Impossible to tell that, Herb,' he said, 'and we can't be sure how accurate our estimates of time and place are, but you seem to resonate with someone in London in 1871.'
'In London in 1871?'
'Yes. We can't check our measurements through until we can subject someone to amplification great enough to effect a transfer and frankly I don't expect to find many volunteers.'
'I'll volunteer,' I said.
It took me some time to convince him I was serious. We were old friends and he knew of my attachment to the G & S mystique but I imagine he could not conceive its depth.
Mary could! She was as excited as I was.
I said to her, 'Imagine the luck of the draw! Thespis was produced in London in 1871. If I suddenly found myself in that place at that time, I could hear it, I could--'
It was an overwhelming thought. Thespis was the first of the fourteen Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, a slight piece, and certainly unsuccessful, but it was Gilbert and Sullivan just the same and the music was irretrievably lost. - All except one introductory chorus which was used in Pirates of Penzance very successfully, and one ballad.
If I could hear it!
I said, enthusiastically, 'And not just hear it. If I could lay my hands on the score and study it. If I could put a copy in a safe-deposit box and somehow get to open it now. If I could--'
Mary's eyes were gleaming but she did not lose her sense of the practical. 'But could it be done? Granted that anything from Thespis would be the G & S find of the century, there's still no use having false hopes. If you got into the mind of whoever it is in 1871, could you make him do what you want?'
'I could try,' I said. 'He would have to be much like me if our minds resonated so strongly over a time-gap of more than a century. He would have my tastes.'
'But what if something happened to you?'
'Some goals are worth the risk,' I said firmly, and she agreed. She wouldn't have been my Mary if she hadn't in this case.
Just the same I didn't tell her that John had warned me that brain damage was the great risk. 'There's no way of predicting how great the risk of damage is,' he said, 'or if there's any at all, till we try it. I'd rather not try it with my best friend.'
'Your best friend insists,' I said, and signed all the releases that the lawyers of John's Temporal Transfer Foundation had set up.
But I took one precaution. I didn't tell Mary exactly when it would happen. If something went wrong, I didn't want her there at the time. She would soon be making her annual trek to Canada to visit her parents and why not then?
'John won't be ready till the fall at the earliest,' I said, and did my best to look disappointed.
Three days after Mary left, it was all ready.
I wasn't conscious of any nervousness at all, even when John said, 'The sensations may be unpleasant.'
I shrugged it off. 'John,' I said, 'when I'm in England will I be able to do anything? Voluntarily, I mean?'
John said, 'That's another question I can't answer categorically until you return - which will be automatic by the way. Even if I drop dead or the power fails, the resonance will eventually snap and you'll be back here. It's fail-safe because your physical body never leaves. You understand?'
'I understand.' John was convinced that to relax me on this point would relieve tension and lower the chance of brain damage. He had reassured me over and over. I said, 'Will I be able to do anything?'
'I don't think so. You'll only be able to observe.'
'Can I affect history?'
'That would introduce paradoxes, which is what make the ordinary notion of time-travel impossible. You can observe, bring those observations back and change history from this point on - and that introduces no paradoxes.'
'Better than nothing,' I muttered.
'Of course,' he said. 'You'll be able to hear that operetta of yours possibly and that would be something.'
Something, but not enough. I wasn't a trained musician; I couldn't reproduce every note.
I consoled myself with the hope that John was wrong or, perhaps, was lying. If there were the possibility of changing history the Office of Technological Assessment would not allow the experiments to continue. Surely, John had to maintain there was no such possibility or his research funds would be cut off.
They wheeled in my breakfast and the nurse said, with synthetic cheer, 'Well, you seem quite yourself now.'
She had broken into my memories and it wasn't much of a breakfast but I was hungry enough for even the hot oatmeal to taste good.
It was a good sign and in my mind a voice sang,' Well, well, that's the way of the world, and will be through all its futurity; while noodles are baroned and earled, there's nothing for clever obscurity.'
I recognized it. It was the chorus to Mercury's solo from the first act of Thespis. Or at least I recognized the words. The music was new to me - but it was Sullivan. No question about it.
John Sylva arrived at 10 A.M. He said, 'They called to tell me you're off the intravenous and you're still asking for me. How do you feel? You look pretty normal.' His relief seemed limited. There was a worried look in his eye.
'I was asking for you?' I tried to remember.
'Constantly, while you were semiconscious. I was here yesterday, but you weren't quite awake.'
'I think I remember,' I said, then brushed it aside. 'Listen, John,' I said. -My voice was rather weak but I started from the beginning of Mercury's solo. 'Oh, I'm the celestial drudge, From morning to night I must stop at it; On errands all day--' and carried it through to the end.
John nodded, having kept time as I sang. 'Pretty,' he said.
'Pretty! It's Thespis. I attended three performances in London. I didn't even have to work to do it. My alter ego -a stockbroker by the way, named Jeremy Bentford - did it on his own. I even tried to get a copy of the score. I managed to get Bentford to break into Sullivan's dressing room during the third performance. It didn't take much. It was his own urge, too; we were very much alike, which is why we resonate, of course.
'Trouble is, he was caught and ejected. He actually had the score in his hand but couldn't hang on to it. So you're right. We can't change history. - But we can change future history because I've got all the important tunes of Thespis right in my head John said, 'What are you talking about, Herb?'
'England! 1871! - For God's sake, John. Temporal transference!'
John nearly jumped. 'Is that why you wanted to see me?'
'Yes, of course. How can you question that? Weren't you here all the time? My God, you sent me back in time. My mind, anyway.'
John looked absolutely at sea. Wasn't I making sense? Had my brain been damaged after all? Is what I'm saying not what I think I am saying?
He sai
d, 'We talked about temporal transference a good deal. Yes, Herb. But--'
'But what?'
'It never worked. You remember that, don't you? It was a failure.'
It was my turn to feel stupefied. 'How can it be a failure? You sent me back.'
John thought a while, then got up. 'Let me get the doctor, Herb.'
I tried to grasp his sleeve. 'No, you did! How else do I know the tunes to Thespis? You don't think I'm making them up, do you? Do you think I'm capable of inventing the tune I just sang?'
But he had rung for the nurse, and he left. Eventually the doctor arrived and went through the ridiculous ritual of examination.
Why was John lying? Had he had trouble with the government over sending my mind back into time? Was he going to save his project by forcing me to lie too? Or representing me to be insane?
It was an upsetting and depressing thought. I had the music to Thespis, but could I prove that that was what it was? Would it not be much easier to suppose it a forgery? Would the Gilbert and Sullivan Society to able to help out? There would have to be people there who could judge Sullivan's musical fingerprints, so to speak. Or would anything carry conviction if John remained firm in his denial?
By the next morning, I felt pugnacious about it. In fact, I thought of nothing else. I called John (or had the nurse call him, at any rate) and told him I had to see him again. And I forgot completely to ask him to bring my mail, which would have to include letters from Mary, among other things.
When John arrived, I said, as soon as the door opened and his face appeared in the opening, 'John, I have the music to Thespis. I sang it to you. Do you deny I'm telling the truth about that?'
'No, of course not, Herb,' he said, placatingly. 'I know the tunes, too.'
That almost stopped me. I swallowed and said, 'How can you--'
'Look, Herb, I understand. I can imagine that you would want the music of Thespis to be missing. But it isn't. You've got to face that. Look at this.'
He held out a book with its soft covers in blue. The title was Thespis, lyrics by William Schwenck Gilbert, music by Arthur Sullivan.
I opened it and leafed through it in utter astonishment.
'Where did you get this?'
'In a music store near Lincoln Center. You can get it anywhere that sells the Gilbert and Sullivan scores.'
I was silent for a while. Then I said, petulantly, 'I want you to make a call for me.'
To whom?'
'To the president of the Gilbert and Sullivan Society.'
'Certainly, if you'll give me his name and number.'
'Ask him to come see me. Just as soon as he can. It's very important.'
Again I forgot to ask about my mail. - No. Thespis first.
Saul Reeve was in my room immediately after lunch, his gentle face and comfortable paunch an element of solidity I clung to with relief. He was virtually the personification of the Society and I was mildly astonished that he wasn't wearing his Gilbert and Sullivan T-shirt.
He said, 'I'm awfully glad you pulled through, Herb. The Society has been worried sick.'
(Pulled through what? Worried over what? How did they know about the temporal transference experiment? If they did know, why was John lying and saying there hadn't been one?) I said, sharply, 'What's this about Thespis?' 'What's what about Thespis?' 'Does the music exist?'
Poor Saul is no actor. He knows everything there is to know about Gilbert and Sullivan, but if he knows anything else, he's fooled everyone. The look of astonishment on his face had to be the mark of a genuine, unfaked emotion.
He said, 'Of course it exists - but it nearly didn't, if that's what you mean.'
'What do you mean, nearly?'
'You know the story.'
'Tell me, anyway. - Tell me!'
'Well, Sullivan was disgusted at the reception of the play and he wasn't going to publish the score. Then there was an attempted burglary. Some stockbroker tried to steal the score, actually had it in his hand when he was caught. Sullivan said that if the score was good enough to steal, it was good enough to publish. If it hadn't been for the stockbroker, we might not have the music today. - Not that it's popular. It's hardly ever performed. You know that.'
I didn't listen after that.
--If it hadn't been for the stockbroker!
I had changed history, then.
Did that explain matters? Did even so small a thing as the publication of Thespis set up its ripples and create an alternate time-path, and was I in that alternate time-path?
Where did the ripples come from? Did the music matter so much? Did it inspire someone to do something or say something that would otherwise have been undone or unsaid? Or did the stockbroker's career take a turn as a result of apprehension for attempted burglary, and did that set up the ripples?
And did that somehow so alter events that John Sylva had never worked out the technology of temporal transference so that I was trapped forever in the new world?
I was alone by now. I hadn't even been conscious of Saul's leaving.
I shook my head. How was it possible? How could the yes of temporal transference become a no? John Sylva hadn't changed. Saul Reeve hadn't changed. How could there be so large a change without there being many small changes?
I rang for the nurse. 'Can you get me a copy of the Times, please. Today's, yesterday's, last week's. It doesn't matter.'
Would she find an excuse not to bring one? Was there a conspiracy to keep me confused for some reason I couldn't fathom?
She brought one at once.
I looked at the date. It was four days after the temporal transference experiment.
The headlines seemed normal - President Carter - the Mideast crisis - satellite launchings.
I went from page to page, looking for discrepancies I could recognize. Senator Abzug had introduced a bill that would bring federal aid to a financially troubled New York City.
Senator Abzug?
Hadn't she lost the Democratic senatorial primary to Patrick Moynihan in 1976?
I had changed history. I had saved Thespis, and in doing that I had somehow wiped out John's working out of temporal transference, and won the primary and election for Bella Abzug.
What other changes? Millions of trifling changes to trifling people that I wouldn't recognize? If I had a New York Times for this day from my world and could compare it with the Times I was holding, would even a single inch of the paper in any column on any page be exactly duplicated?
If that were so, what about my own life? I felt exactly the same. Of course, I could only remember my life from the other time-path. My own. In this one - I could have kids. - My father could still be alive. - I might be unemployed.
Now I remembered my mail, and I needed it. I rang for my nurse and had her call John Sylva again. He was to bring me my mail. He had a key to my apartment. (Did he in this time-path?) Particularly, he was to bring me the letters from Mary.
John never came, but long after dinner, the doctor came in. It was not entirely for the usual routine of prod and poke. He sat down and looked at me thoughtfully.
He said, 'Mr Sylva tells me you were under the impression that the music to the play Thespis was lost.'
I was on my guard at once. They were not going to have me in a mental institution. I said, 'Are you a Gilbert and Sullivan enthusiast, Doctor?'
'Not an enthusiast, but I've seen several of the operettas; including, in fact, Thespis, about a year ago. Have you ever seen Thespis?' I nodded my head, 'I have,' and I hummed Mercury's solo. I didn't think I had to tell him that the only times I had seen Thespis were in 1871.
He said, 'Then you don't think the music to Thespis was lost?'
'Obviously not, since I know the music.'
That stopped him. He cleared his throat and tried a new tack. 'Mr Sylva seems to think you were under the impression you had gone back in time--'
I felt like a matador withstanding the rush of the bull. I almost enjoyed it. 'Private joke,' I said.
&
nbsp; 'Joke?'
'Mr Sylva and I used to discuss time travel.'
'Still,' said the doctor with a kind of heavy patience, 'it was this particular matter you decided to joke about? That the music to Thespis was lost?'
'Why not?'
'Do you have any reason for wishing the music did not exist?'
'No, of course not.'
He stared at me thoughtfully. 'You said you saw a production of Thespis. When?'
I shrugged. 'I can't pinpoint it offhand. Must I?'
'Could it have been a year ago December?'
'Is that when you saw it, Doctor?'
'Yes.'
'It's very possible I saw it then.'
The doctor said, 'It was a very bad day when I saw it. Freezing rain. Does that help you remember?'
Was he trying to trap me? Would I be agreeing to nonsense if I pretended to remember that?
I said, 'Doctor, I'm obviously not well and I won't pretend I have every detail of my memories clear. What do you remember?' That put the ball clearly in his court.
He said, 'I understand that there was a full house that day despite the weather. Many went only because it was Thespis, a play very rarely performed, and therefore one that most had not heard. It was the only reason I had gone. If the music to Thespis were lost, and if it had been any other play, I probably would not have gone. - Is that why you told Mr Sylva when you regained consciousness that the music did not exist?'
'What do you mean?'
'That then you wouldn't have gone? Or been in the taxi coming back?'
'I don't understand you.'
'But you were in an accident, sir.'
'Are you telling me that that's why I'm here?' I stared at him, hostilely.
'No, sir. That was a year ago. It was your wife.'