The Past Through Tomorrow

  “In the second place, even if this person’s claims were true—granting for the sake of argument such an absurdity”—Mr. Weems permitted himself a thin-lipped smile—“we contend that his activities are contrary to the public interest in general, and unlawfully injurious to the interests of my client in particular. We are prepared to produce numerous exhibits with the legal custodians to prove that this person did publish, or cause to have published, utterances urging the public to dispense with the priceless boon of life insurance to the great detriment of their welfare and to the financial damage of my client.”

  Pinero arose in his place. “Your Honor, may I say a few words?”

  “What is it?”

  “I believe I can simplify the situation if permitted to make a brief analysis.”

  “Your Honor,” cut in Weems, “this is most irregular.”

  “Patience, Mr. Weems. Your interests will be protected. It seems to me that we need more light and less noise in this matter. If Dr. Pinero can shorten the proceedings by speaking at this time, I am inclined to let him. Proceed, Dr. Pinero.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. Taking the last of Mr. Weems’ points first, I am prepared to stipulate that I published the utterances he speaks of—”

  “One moment, Doctor. You have chosen to act as your own attorney. Are you sure you are competent to protect your own interests?”

  “I am prepared to chance it, Your Honor. Our friends here can easily prove what I stipulate.”

  “Very well. You may proceed.”

  “I will stipulate that many persons have cancelled life insurance policies as a result thereof, but I challenge them to show that anyone so doing has suffered any loss or damage therefrom. It is true that the Amalgamated has lost business through my activities, but that is the natural result of my discovery, which has made their policies as obsolete as the bow and arrow. If an injunction is granted on that ground, I shall set up a coal oil lamp factory, then ask for an injunction against the Edison and General Electric companies to forbid them to manufacture incandescent bulbs.

  “I will stipulate that I am engaged in the business of making predictions of death, but I deny that I am practicing magic, black, white, or rainbow colored. If to make predictions by methods of scientific accuracy is illegal, then the actuaries of the Amalgamated have been guilty for years in that they predict the exact percentage that will die each year in any given large group. I predict death retail; the Amalgamated predicts it wholesale. If their actions are legal, how can mine be illegal?

  “I admit that it makes a difference whether I can do what I claim, or not; and I will stipulate that the so-called expert witnesses from the Academy of Science will testify that I cannot. But they know nothing of my method and cannot give truly expert testimony on it—”

  “Just a moment, Doctor. Mr. Weems, is it true that your expert witnesses are not conversant with Dr. Pinero’s theory and methods?”

  Mr. Weems looked worried. He drummed on the table top, then answered, “Will the Court grant me a few moments indulgence?”

  “Certainly.”

  Mr. Weems held a hurried whispered consultation with his cohorts, then faced the bench. “We have a procedure to suggest, Your Honor. If Dr. Pinero will take the stand and explain the theory and practice of his alleged method, then these distinguished scientists will be able to advise the Court as to the validity of his claims.”

  The judge looked inquiringly at Pinero, who responded, “I will not willingly agree to that. Whether my process is true or false, it would be dangerous to let it fall into the hands of fools and quacks—” he waved his hand at the group of professors seated in the front row, paused and smiled maliciously “—as these gentlemen know quite well. Furthermore it is not necessary to know the process in order to prove that it will work. Is it necessary to understand the complex miracle of biological reproduction in order to observe that a hen lays eggs? Is it necessary for me to re-educate this entire body of self-appointed custodians of wisdom—cure them of their ingrown superstitions—in order to prove that my predictions are correct? There are but two ways of forming an opinion in science. One is the scientific method; the other, the scholastic. One can judge from experiment, or one can blindly accept authority. To the scientific mind, experimental proof is all important and theory is merely a convenience in description, to be junked when it no longer fits. To the academic mind, authority is everything and facts are junked when they do not fit theory laid down by authority.

  “It is this point of view—academic minds clinging like oysters to disproved theories—that has blocked every advance of knowledge in history. I am prepared to prove my method by experiment, and, like Galileo in another court, I insist, ‘It still moves!’

  “Once before I offered such proof to this same body of self-styled experts, and they rejected it. I renew my offer; let me measure the life lengths of the members of the Academy of Science. Let them appoint a committee to judge the results. I will seal my findings in two sets of envelopes; on the outside of each envelope in one set will appear the name of a member, on the inside the date of his death. In the other envelopes I will place names, on the outside I will place dates. Let the committee place the envelopes in a vault, then meet from time to time to open the appropriate envelopes. In such a large body of men some deaths may be expected, if Amalgamated actuaries can be trusted, every week or two. In such a fashion they will accumulate data very rapidly to prove that Pinero is a liar, or no.”

  He stopped, and pushed out his little chest until it almost caught up with his little round belly. He glared at the sweating savants. “Well?”

  The judge raised his eyebrows, and caught Mr. Weems’ eye. “Do you accept?”

  “Your Honor, I think the proposal highly improper—”

  The judge cut him short. “I warn you that I shall rule against you if you do not accept, or propose an equally reasonable method of arriving at the truth.”

  Weems opened his mouth, changed his mind, looked up and down the faces of learned witnesses, and faced the bench. “We accept, Your Honor.”

  “Very well. Arrange the details between you. The temporary injunction is lifted, and Dr. Pinero must not be molested in the pursuit of his business. Decision on the petition for permanent injunction is reserved without prejudice pending the accumulation of evidence. Before we leave this matter I wish to comment on the theory implied by you, Mr. Weems, when you claimed damage to your client. There has grown up in the minds of certain groups in this country the notion that because a man or corporation has made a profit out of the public for a number of years, the government and the courts are charged with the duty of guaranteeing such profit in the future, even in the face of changing circumstances and contrary public interest. This strange doctrine is not supported by statute nor common law. Neither individuals nor corporations have any right to come into court and ask that the clock of history be stopped, or turned back, for their private benefit. That is all.”

  Bidwell grunted in annoyance. “Weems, if you can’t think up anything better than that, Amalgamated is going to need a new chief attorney. It’s been ten weeks since you lost the injunction, and that little wart is coining money hand over fist. Meantime every insurance firm in the country is going broke. Hoskins, what’s our loss ratio?”

  “It’s hard to say, Mr. Bidwell. It gets worse every day. We’ve paid off thirteen big policies this week; all of them taken out since Pinero started operations.”

  A spare little man spoke up. “I say, Bidwell, we aren’t accepting any new applications for United until we have time to check and be sure that they have not consulted Pinero. Can’t we afford to wait until the scientists show him up?”

  Bidwell snorted. “You blasted optimist! They won’t show him up. Aldrich, can’t you face a fact? The fat little blister has got something; how I don’t know. This is a fight to the finish. If we wait, we’re licked.” He threw his cigar into a cuspidor, and bit savagely into a fresh one. “Clear out of here, all of
you! I’ll handle this my own way. You too, Aldrich. United may wait, but Amalgamated won’t.”

  Weems cleared his throat apprehensively. “Mr. Bidwell, I trust you will consult with me before embarking on any major change in policy?”

  Bidwell grunted. They filed out. When they were all gone and the door closed, Bidwell snapped the switch of the inter-office announcer. “O.K.; send him in.”

  The outer door opened; a slight dapper figure stood for a moment at the threshold. His small dark eyes glanced quickly about the room before he entered, then he moved up to Bidwell with a quick soft tread. He spoke to Bidwell in a flat emotionless voice. His face remained impassive except for the live animal eyes. “You wanted to talk to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the proposition?”

  “Sit down, and we’ll talk.”

  Pinero met the young couple at the door of his inner office.

  “Come in, my dears, come in. Sit down. Make yourselves at home. Now tell me, what do you want of Pinero? Surely such young people are not anxious about the final roll call?”

  The boy’s honest young face showed slight confusion. “Well, you see, Dr. Pinero, I’m Ed Hartley and this is my wife, Betty. We’re going to have—that is, Betty is expecting a baby and, well—”

  Pinero smiled benignly. “I understand. You want to know how long you will live in order to make the best possible provision for the youngster. Quite wise. Do you both want readings, or just yourself?”

  The girl answered, “Both of us, we think.”

  Pinero beamed at her. “Quite so. I agree. Your reading presents certain technical difficulties at this time, but I can give you some information now, and more later after your baby arrives. Now come into my laboratory, my dears, and we’ll commence.” He rang for their case histories, then showed them into his workshop. “Mrs. Hartley first, please. If you will go behind that screen and remove your shoes and your outer clothing, please. Remember, I am an old man, whom you are consulting as you would a physician.”

  He turned away and made some minor adjustments of his apparatus. Ed nodded to his wife who slipped behind the screen and reappeared almost at once, clothed in two wisps of silk. Pinero glanced up, noted her fresh young prettiness and her touching shyness.

  “This way, my dear. First we must weigh you. There. Now take your place on the stand. This electrode in your mouth. No, Ed, you mustn’t touch her while she is in the circuit. It won’t take a minute. Remain quiet.”

  He dove under the machine’s hood and the dials sprang into life. Very shortly he came out with a perturbed look on his face. “Ed, did you touch her?”

  “No, Doctor.” Pinero ducked back again, remained a little longer. When he came out this time, he told the girl to get down and dress. He turned to her husband.

  “Ed, make yourself ready.”

  “What’s Betty’s reading, Doctor?”

  “There is a little difficulty. I want to test you first.”

  When he came out from taking the youth’s reading, his face was more troubled than ever. Ed inquired as to his trouble. Pinero shrugged his shoulders, and brought a smile to his lips.

  “Nothing to concern you, my boy. A little mechanical misadjustment, I think. But I shan’t be able to give you two your readings today. I shall need to overhaul my machine. Can you come back tomorrow?”

  “Why, I think so. Say, I’m sorry about your machine. I hope it isn’t serious.”

  “It isn’t, I’m sure. Will you come back into my office, and visit for a bit?”

  “Thank you, Doctor. You are very kind.”

  “But Ed, I’ve got to meet Ellen.”

  Pinero turned the full force of his personality on her. “Won’t you grant me a few moments, my dear young lady? I am old and like the sparkle of young folk’s company. I get very little of it. Please.” He nudged them gently into his office, and seated them. Then he ordered lemonade and cookies sent in, offered them cigarets, and lit a cigar.

  Forty minutes later Ed listened entranced, while Betty was quite evidently acutely nervous and anxious to leave, as the doctor spun out a story concerning his adventures as a young man in Tierra del Fuego. When the doctor stopped to relight his cigar, she stood up.

  “Doctor, we really must leave. Couldn’t we hear the rest tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow? There will not be time tomorrow.”

  “But you haven’t time today either. Your secretary has rung five times.”

  “Couldn’t you spare me just a few more minutes?”

  “I really can’t today, doctor. I have an appointment. There is someone waiting for me.”

  “There is no way to induce you?”

  “I’m afraid not. Come, Ed.”

  After they had gone, the doctor stepped to the window and stared out over the city. Presently he picked out two tiny figures as they left the office building. He watched them hurry to the corner, wait for the lights to change, then start across the street. When they were part way across, there came the scream of a siren. The two little figures hesitated, started back, stopped, and turned. Then the car was upon them. As the car slammed to a stop, they showed up from beneath it, no longer two figures, but simply a limp unorganized heap of clothing.

  Presently the doctor turned away from the window. Then he picked up his phone, and spoke to his secretary.

  “Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day… No… No one… I don’t care; cancel them.”

  Then he sat down in his chair. His cigar went out. Long after dark he held it, still unlighted.

  Pinero sat down at his dining table and contemplated the gourmet’s luncheon spread before him. He had ordered this meal with particular care, and had come home a little early in order to enjoy it fully.

  Somewhat later he let a few drops of Fiori d’Alpini roll around his tongue and trickle down his throat. The heavy fragrant syrup warmed his mouth, and reminded him of the little mountain flowers for which it was named. He sighed. It had been a good meal, an exquisite meal and had justified the exotic liqueur. His musing was interrupted by a disturbance at the front door. The voice of his elderly maidservant was raised in remonstrance. A heavy male voice interrupted her. The commotion moved down the hall and the dining room door was pushed open.

  “Madonna! Non si puo entrare! The Master is eating!”

  “Never mind, Angela. I have time to see these gentlemen. You may go.” Pinero faced the surly-faced spokesman of the intruders. “You have business with me; yes?”

  “You bet we have. Decent people have had enough of your damned nonsense.”

  “And so?”

  The caller did not answer at once. A smaller dapper individual moved out from behind him and faced Pinero.

  “We might as well begin.” The chairman of the committee placed a key in the lock-box and opened it. “Wenzell, will you help me pick out today’s envelopes?” He was interrupted by a touch on his arm.

  “Dr. Baird, you are wanted on the telephone.”

  “Very well. Bring the instrument here.”

  When it was fetched he placed the receiver to his ear. “Hello… Yes; speaking… What?… No, we have heard nothing… Destroyed the machine, you say… Dead! How?… No! No statement. None at all… Call me later…”

  He slammed the instrument down and pushed it from him.

  “What’s up?”—“Who’s dead now?”

  Baird held up one hand. “Quiet, gentlemen, please! Pinero was murdered a few moments ago at his home.”

  “Murdered?!”

  “That isn’t all. About the same time vandals broke into his office and smashed his apparatus.”

  No one spoke at first. The committee members glanced around at each other. No one seemed anxious to be the first to comment.

  Finally one spoke up. “Get it out.”

  “Get what out?”

  “Pinero’s envelope. It’s in there too. I’ve seen it.”

  Baird located it and slowly tore it open. He unfolded the single sheet o
f paper, and scanned it.

  “Well? Out with it!”

  “One thirteen p.m.—today.”

  They took this in silence.

  Their dynamic calm was broken by a member across the table from Baird reaching for the lock-box. Baird interposed a hand.

  “What do you want?”

  “My prediction—it’s in there—we’re all in there.”

  “Yes, yes. We’re all in here. Let’s have them.”

  Baird placed both hands over the box. He held the eye of the man opposite him but did not speak. He licked his lips. The corner of his mouth. twitched. His hands shook. Still he did not speak. The man opposite relaxed back into his chair.

  “You’re right, of course,” he said.

  “Bring me that waste basket.” Baird’s voice was low and strained but steady.

  He accepted it and dumped the litter on the rug. He placed the tin basket on the table before him. He tore half a dozen envelopes across, set a match to them, and dropped them in the basket. Then he started tearing a double handful at a time, and fed the fire steadily. The smoke made him cough, and tears ran out of his smarting eyes. Someone got up and opened a window. When he was through, he pushed the basket away from him, looked down, and spoke.

  “I’m afraid I’ve ruined this table top.”

  The Roads Must Roll

  “WHO MAKES THE ROADS ROLL?”

  The speaker stood still on the rostrum and waited for his audience to answer him. The reply came in scattered shouts that cut through the ominous, discontented murmur of the crowd.

  “We do!”—“We do!”—“Damn right!”

  “Who does the dirty work ‘down inside’—so that Joe Public can ride at his ease?”

  This time it was a single roar, “We do!”

  The speaker pressed his advantage, his words tumbling out in a rasping torrent. He leaned toward the crowd, his eyes picking out individuals at whom to fling his words. “What makes business? The roads! How do they move the food they eat? The roads! How do they get to work? The roadsl How do they get home to their wives? The roads!” He paused for effect, then lowered his voice. “Where would the public be if you boys didn’t keep them roads rolling?—Behind the eight ball and everybody knows it. But do they appreciate it? Pfui! Did we ask for too much? Were our demands unreasonable? ‘The right to resign whenever we want to.’ Every working stiff in other lines of work has that. ‘The same pay as the engineers.’ Why not? Who are the real engineers around here? D’yuh have to be a cadet in a funny little hat before you can learn to wipe a bearing, or jack down a rotor? Who earns his keep: The ‘gentlemen’ in the control offices, or the boys ‘down inside’? What else do we ask? ”The right to elect our own engineers.‘ Why the hell not? Who’s competent to pick engineers? The technicians?—or some damn, dumb examining board that’s never been ’down inside‘, and couldn’t tell a rotor bearing from a field coil?”