We stepped into this passage and were at once at its far end. “Through there,” Lazarus said, pointing.
An archway melted out of a stone wall. The passage beyond it was gloomy. I looked around to speak to Lazarus; he was gone.
I said to myself, Lazarus, I told you not to play games with me…and turned around to go back down the long passage, back through Uncle Jock’s den, find Hazel and leave. I had had it, fed up with his games.
There was no passage behind me.
I promised Lazarus a clop in the head and followed the only available route. It remained gloomy but always with a light a little farther ahead. Shortly, five minutes or less, it ended in a small, comfortable lounge, well-lighted from nowhere. A brassy uninflected voice said, “Please sit down. You will be called.”
I sat down in an easy chair and laid my cane aside. A small table by it held magazines and a newspaper. I glanced at each one, looking for anachronisms, but found none. The periodicals were all ones that I recalled as available in Iowa in the seventies; they carried dates of July 2177 or earlier. The newspaper was the Grinnell Herald-Register, dated Friday, June 27, 2177.
I started to put it down, as the Herald-Register is not exactly exciting. Uncle subscribed to a daily printout from Des Moines and, of course, the Kansas City Star, but our local paper was good only for campus notes, local notices, and the sort of “news” and “society” items that are published to display as many local names as possible.
But an ad caught my eye: On Sunday, July twentieth, one night only, at Des Moines Municipal Opera House, the Halifax Ballet Theater will present Midsummer Night’s Dream, with the sensational new star Luanna Pauline as Titania.
I read it twice…and promised myself that I would take Hazel to see it. It would be a special anniversary: I had met Mistress Gwendolyn Novak at Golden Rule’s Day One Ball, Neil Armstrong Day, July twentieth a year ago (never mind that silly time loop) and this would make a delightful reprise of the gala eve of our wedding day (without, this time, some unmannerly oaf crashing our party and dying at our table).
Would a one-gravity performance be disappointing after having seen the Queen of Fairies cutting didoes high in the air? No, this was a sentimental journey; it would not matter. Besides, Luanna Pauline had made (would make, will make) her reputation dancing in one gravity—it would be a fascinating contrast. We could go backstage and tell her that we saw her dance Titan at one-third gravity in the Circus Room of Golden Rule. Oh, certainly—when Golden Rule does not yet exist for another three years! I began to understand why the Code had limitations on loose talk.
Never mind. On Neil Armstrong Day I would gift my beautiful bride with this sentimental celebration.
While I was looking at the Herald-Register, an abstract design on the wall changed to a motto in glowing letters:
A Stitch in Time Saves Nine Billion
While I watched, it changed to:
A Paradox Can Be Paradoctored
Then:
The Early Worm Has a Death Wish
Followed by:
Don’t Try Too Hard; You Might Succeed
I was trying to figure out that last one when it suddenly changed to “Why Are You Staring at a Blank Wall?”—and it was a blank wall. Then on it appeared, large, the World Snake, and, inside the circle it made by its nauseating way of eating, letters were chasing themselves. Then they leveled out into a straight line:
Making Order Out of Chaos
Then under that:
THE
CIRCLE
OF
OUROBOROS
This was displaced by another archway; that brassy voice said: “Please enter.”
I grabbed my cane and went through the archway and found myself translated to the exact center of a large circular room. There is such a thing as too much service.
There were a dozen-odd people seated around the room on a dais about a meter high—a theater in the round, with me in the leading role…in the sense in which an insect pinned to the stage of a microscope is the star of the show. That brassy voice said, “State your full name.”
“Richard Colin Ames Campbell. What is this? A trial?”
“Yes, in one sense.”
“You can adjourn court right now; I’m not having any. If anyone is on trial, it is all of you—as I want nothing from you but you seem to want something from me. It is up to you to convince me, not the other way around. Keep that clear in your mind.”
I turned slowly around, looking over my “judges.” I found a friendly face, Hilda Burroughs, and felt enormously better. She threw me a kiss; I caught it and ate it. But I was enormously surprised, too. I would expect to find this tiny beauty at any gathering requiring elegance and grace…but not as a member of a group that had been represented to me as being the most powerful council in all history and any universe.
Then I recognized another face: Lazarus. He nodded; I returned his nod. He said, “Please don’t be impatient. Colonel. Allow protocol to proceed.”
I said, “Protocol is either useful or it should be abolished. I am standing and all of you are seated. That is protocol establishing dominance. And you can stuff it! If I don’t have a chair in ten seconds I am leaving. Your chair will do.”
That invisible robot with the brassy voice placed an upholstered easy chair back of my knees so fast that I had no excuse to leave. I sank back into it and put my cane across my knees. “Comfortable?” Lazarus inquired.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Good. The next item is protocol, too—introductions. I do not think you will find it objectionable.”
The brassy voice started in again, naming members—“Companions”—of the Circle of Ouroboros, governing body of the omniversal Time Corps. Each time one was named, my chair faced that companion. But I felt no movement.
“Master Mobyas Toras, for Barsoom, time line one, coded ‘John Carter.’”
“Barsoom”? Poppycock! But I found myself standing up and bowing in answer to a gentle smile and a gesture suggesting a blessing. He was ancient, and hardly more than skin and bones. He wore a sword but I felt sure that he had not wielded one in generations. He was huddled in a heavy silk wrap much like that worn by Buddhist priests. His skin was polished mahogany, more strongly red than any North American “redskin”—in short he looked exactly like the fictional descriptions in the tales of Barsoom…a result easy to achieve with makeup, a couple of meters of cloth, and a prop sword.
So why did I stand up? (Because Aunt Abby had striped my calves for any failure whatever in politeness to my elders?
Nonsense. I knew that he was authentic when I laid eyes on him. That my conviction was preposterous did not alter it.)
“Her Wisdom Star, Arbiter of the Ninety Universes, composite time lines, code ‘Cyrano.’”
Her Wisdom smiled at me and I wiggled like a puppy. I’m no judge of wisdom but I am certain that males with high blood pressure and any history of cardiac problems or T.I.A. should not be too close to her. Star, Mrs. Gordon, is as tall or taller than I, weighs more and all of it muscle but her breasts and that slight layer that smooths female body lines. She was wearing too little for Poweshiek County, quite a lot for Boondock.
Star may not be the most beautiful woman in all her many universes but she may be the sexiest—in a sultry. Girl Scout fashion. Just walking through a room she is in should change a boy into a man.
“Woodrow Wilson Smith, Senior of the Howard Families, time line two, code ‘Leslie LeCroix.’” Lazarus and I again exchanged nods.
“Dr. Jubal Harshaw, time line three, code ‘Neil Armstrong.’”
Dr. Harshaw raised his hand in a half salute and smiled; I answered the same way—and made a note to buttonhole him, back in Boondock perhaps, about the many legends of the “Man from Mars.” How much was truth, how much was fiction?
“Dr. Hilda Mac Burroughs, time line four, code ‘Ballox O’Malley.’” Hilda and I exchanged smiles.
“Commander Ted Smith, time line five,
code ‘DuQuesne.’” Commander Smith was a square-jawed athlete with ice-blue eyes. He was dressed in an undecorated gray uniform, carrying a bolstered hand gun, and wearing a bejeweled heavy bracelet.
“Captain John Sterling, time line six, code ‘Neil Armstrong alternate time line.’” I looked at my boyhood hero and considered the possibility that I was asleep and having a vivid dream. Hazel had told me and told me again that the hero of her space opera was real…but not even the repeated use of the code phrase “Operation Galactic Overlord” had convinced me…and now here he was: the foe of the Overlord.
Or was it he? What proof?
“Sky Marshal Samuel Beaux, time line seven, code ‘Fair-acre.’” Marshal Beaux was over two meters tall, massed at least a hundred and ten kilos, all of it muscle and rhinoceros hide. He was dressed in a midnight black uniform and a frown, and was as beautiful as a black panther. He stared at me with jungle eyes.
Lazarus announced, “I declare quorum. The Circle is closed. Dr. Hilda Burroughs now speaks for the Circle.”
Hilda smiled at me and said, “Colonel Campbell, I have been conscripted to explain to you our purposes and enough of our methods to enable you to see how the job you are being asked to do fits into the master plan, and why it must be done. Don’t hesitate to interrupt, or to argue, or to demand more details. We can continue this discussion from now until lunch-time. Or for the next ten years. Or for a truly long time. As long as necessary.”
Sky Marshal Beaux cut in with: “Speak for yourself, Mrs. Burroughs. I’m leaving in thirty minutes.”
Hilda said, “Sambo, you really should address the chair. I can’t let you leave until you speak your piece, but, if you need to leave, you can speak now. Please explain what you do and why.”
“Why is this man being coddled? I’ve never been asked to explain my duties to a raw recruit before. This is ridiculous.”
“Nevertheless I ask you to do so.”
The sky marshal settled back in his chair and said nothing.
Lazarus said, “Sambo, I know this is without precedent but all the Companions including the three who are not here have agreed that Task Adam Selene is essential to Operation Galactic Overlord, that Overlord is essential to Campaign Boskone, that Boskone is essential to our Plan Long View…and that Colonel Campbell is essential to Task Adam Selene. The Circle is closed on this, no dissent. We need Campbell’s services, given fully and freely. So we must persuade him. You need not go first…but, if you expect to be excused from the Circle in thirty minutes, you had better speak up.”
“And if I don’t choose to?”
“Your problem. You are free to resign; all of us are, anytime. And the Circle is free to terminate you.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“No.” Lazarus glanced at his wrist. “You’ve stalled for four minutes against the unanimous decision of the Circle. If you expect to comply with the Circle’s decision, you are running out of minutes.”
“Oh, very well. Campbell, I am commanding officer of the armed forces of the Time Corps—”
“Correction,” Lazarus Long interrupted. “Sky Marshal Beaux is the chief of staff of—”
“It’s the same thing!”
“It is not the same thing and I knew exactly what I was doing when I set it up that way. Colonel Campbell, the Time Corps sometimes intervenes in key battles in history. Histories. The Corps’ board of historians seeks to identify cusps where judicious use of force might change history in fashions that we believe, in our limited wisdom, would be better for the human race—and this policy strongly affects and is affected by Task Adam Selene, I must add. If the Circle closes on a recommendation by the historians, military action is mounted, and a commander in chief for that operation is selected by the Circle.”
Lazarus turned and looked directly at Beaux. “Sky Marshal Beaux is a highly skilled military commander, perhaps the best in all history. He is usually selected to command. But the Circle picks the commander of each task force. This policy keeps ultimate power out of the hands of military commanders. I must add that the Chief of Staff is an auditor without a vote; he is not a Companion of this Circle. Sambo, do you have anything to add?”
“You seem to have made my speech.”
“Because you were stalling. You are free to correct, amend, and elaborate.”
“Oh, never mind. You should give elocution lessons.”
“Do you now wish to be excused?”
“Are you telling me to leave?”
“No.”
“I’ll hang around awhile as I want to see what you do with this joker. Why didn’t you simply conscript him and assign him to Task Selene? He’s an obvious criminal type; look at his skull, note his attitude toward authority. On my home planet we never use anything as sloppy and unreliable as volunteers…and we don’t have a criminal class because we draft them into the forces as fast as they show their heads. There are no better fighters than the criminal type if you catch ’em young, rule them with iron discipline, and keep them more scared of their sergeants than they can possibly be of the enemy.”
“That will do. Sambo. Please refrain from expressing opinion uninvited.”
“I thought you were the great champion of free speech?”
“I am. But there is no free lunch. If you want to make a speech, you can hire your own hall; this one is paid for by the Circle. Hilda. Speak up, dear.”
“Very well. Richard, most interventions recommended by our historians and mathematicians are not brute force, but actions far more subtle, carried out by individual field operatives…such as your gal Hazel, who is a real fox when it comes to robbing a henhouse. You know what we are trying to do in Task Adam Selene; you don’t know what it is for, I believe. Our methods of prognosticating the results of a change introduced into history are less than perfect. Whether it’s digging in on one side in a key battle, or something as simple as supplying a high school student with a condom some midnight and thereby avoiding the birth of a Hitler or a Napoleon, we can never predict the results as well as we need to. Usually we have to do it, then send a field operative down that new time line to report the changes.”
“Hilda,” said Lazarus, “may I offer a horrible example?”
“Certainly, Woodie. But make it march. I plan to finish before lunch.”
“Colonel Campbell, I come from a world identical with yours to about 1939. Divergence, as usual, showed most at the start of space flight. Both your world and mine showed a tendency toward religious hysteria. In mine it peaked with a television evangelist named Nehemiah Scudder. His brand of fire and brimstone and scapegoatism—Jews of course; no novelty—peaked at a time when unemployment also peaked and public debt and inflation got out of hand; the result was a religious dictatorship, a totalitarian government as brutal as my world has ever seen.
“So this Circle set up an operation to get rid of Nehemiah Scudder. Nothing as crass as assassination; the specific method Hilda mentioned was used. A high school boy without a rubber was provided with one by a field operative, and the little bastard who became Nehemiah Scudder was never born. So time line two—mine—was split and time line eleven was created, allee samee but without Nehemiah Scudder, the Prophet. Bound to be better, right?
“Wrong. In my time line World War Three, the nuclear war—sometimes known by other names—badly damaged Europe but did not spread; North America under the Prophet had opted out of international affairs. In time line eleven the war started a little sooner, in the Middle East, spread to all the world overnight…and a hundred years later it was still impossible to find any life superior to cockroaches on the land masses of what had once been the cool green hills of Earth. Take it, Hilda.”
“Thank you, too much! Lazarus leaves me with a planet glowing in the dark to show why we need better prediction methods. We hope to use Adam Selene—supervising computer Holmes IV known as ‘Mike’—the programs and memories that make him unique—to tie the best computers of Tertius and some other planets into
a mammoth logic that can correctly project the results of a defined change in history…so that we won’t swap Nehemiah Scudder—who can be endured—for a ruined planet that cannot be endured. Lazarus, should I mention the supersnooperscope?”
“You just did, so you had better.”
“Richard, I’m way out of my depth; I’m just a simple housewife—”
A groan went up in that hall. Lazarus may have led it but it seemed to be unanimous.
“—who lacks a technical background. But I do know that engineering progress depends on accurate instruments, and that accurate instruments ever since the twentieth century—my century—have depended on progress in electronics. My number-one husband Jake Burroughs and Dr. Libby Long and Dr. Deety Carter are whipping up a little doozy combining Jake’s space-time twister with television and the ordinary snooper-scope. With it you will be able not only to watch what your wife is doing while you are away overnight but also to watch what she will be doing ten years from now. Or fifty. Or five hundred.
“Or it could let the Circle of Ouroboros see what would be the result of an intervention before it is too late to refrain. Maybe. With the unique power of Holmes IV—maybe yes. We’ll see. But it is as certain as anything can be in this quicksand world that Mike Holmes IV can improve the performance of the Circle of Ouroboros enormously even if the supersnooperscope never comes on line.
“Since we are trying hard to make things better, more decent, happier for everyone, I hope that you will see that Task Adam Selene is worth doing. Any questions?”
“I have one, Hilda.”
“Yes, Jubal?”
“Has our friend Richard been indoctrinated in the concept of the World as Myth?”
“I barely mentioned it, once, in telling him how we four—Zeb and Deety, Jake and I—were hounded off our planet and erased out of the script. I think Hazel has done better. Richard?”
“Not anything I could get my teeth into. Nothing that made sense. And—forgive me, Hilda—I found your story hard to swallow.”
“Of course, dear; I don’t believe it myself. Except late at night. Jubal, you had better take it.”