don’t quite see how she fit in the old Reality.”
Harlan hardly heard. “But—but the Change was such a small one.”
“I know. A funny combination of factors. Here, you want the flimsies?”
Harlan’s hand closed over them, unfeeling. Noÿs gone? Noÿs nonexistent? How could that be?
He felt a hand on his shoulder and Voy’s voice clashed on his ear. “Are you ill, Technician?” The hand drew away asthough it already regretted its careless contact with a Technician’s body.
Harlan swallowed and with an effort composed his features. “I’m quite well. Would you take me to the kettle?”
He
must not
show his feelings. He must act as though this were what he represented it to be, a mere academic investigation. He must disguise the fact that with Noÿs’s nonexistence in the new Reality he was almost physically overwhelmed by a flood of pure elation, unbearable joy.
7. PRELUDE TO CRIME
Harlan stepped into the kettle at the 2456th and looked backward to make certain that the barrier that separated the shaft from Eternity was truly flawless; that Sociologist Voy was not watching. In these last weeks it had grown to be a habit with him, an automatic twitch, there was always the quick backward glance across the shoulder to make sure no one was behind him in the kettle shafts.
And then, though already in the 2456th, it was for
up
when that Harlan set the kettle controls. He watched the numbers on the temporometer rise. Though they moved with blurry quickness, there would be considerable time for thought.
How the Life-Plotter’s finding changed matters! How the very nature of his crime had changed!
And it had all hinged on Finge. The phrase caught at him with its ridiculous rhyme and its heavy beat circled dizzyingly inside his skull: It hinged on Finge. It hinged on Finge. . . .
Harlan had avoided any personal contact with Finge on his return to Eternity after those days with Noÿs in the 482nd. As Eternity closed in about him, so did guilt. A broken oath of office, which seemed nothing in the 482nd, was enormous in Eternity.
He had sent in his report by impersonal air-chute and took himself off to personal quarters. He needed to think this out, gain time to consider and grow accustomed to the new orientation within himself.
Finge did not permit it. He was in communication with Harlan less than an hour after the report had been coded for proper direction and inserted into the chute.
The Computer’s image stared out of the vision plate. His voice said, “I expected you to be in your office.”
Harlan said, “I delivered the report, sir. It doesn’t matter where I wait for a new assignment.”
“Yes?” Finge scanned the roll of foil he held in his hands, holding it up, squint-eyed, and peering at its perforation pattern.
“It is scarcely complete,” he went on. “May I visit your rooms?”
Harlan hesitated a moment. The man was his superior and to refuse the self-invitation at this moment would have a flavor of insubordination. It would advertise his guilt, it seemed, and his raw, painful conscience dared not permit that.
“You will be welcome, Computer,” he said stiffly.
Finge’s sleek softness introduced a jarring element of epicureanism into Harlan’s angular quarters. The 95th, Harlan’s homewhen, tended toward the Spartan in house furnishings and Harlan had never completely lost his taste for the style. The tubular metal chairs had been surfaced with a dull veneer that had been artificially grained into the appearance of wood (though not very successfully). In one corner of the room was a small piece of furniture that represented an even wider departure from the customs of the times.
It caught Finge’s eye almost at once.
The Computer put a pudgy finger on it, as though to test its texture. “What is this material?”
“Wood, sir,” said Harlan.
“The real thing? Actual wood? Amazing! You use wood in your homewhen, I believe?”
“We do.”
“I see. There’s
Harlan hardly heard. “But—but the Change was such a small one.”
“I know. A funny combination of factors. Here, you want the flimsies?”
Harlan’s hand closed over them, unfeeling. Noÿs gone? Noÿs nonexistent? How could that be?
He felt a hand on his shoulder and Voy’s voice clashed on his ear. “Are you ill, Technician?” The hand drew away asthough it already regretted its careless contact with a Technician’s body.
Harlan swallowed and with an effort composed his features. “I’m quite well. Would you take me to the kettle?”
He
must not
show his feelings. He must act as though this were what he represented it to be, a mere academic investigation. He must disguise the fact that with Noÿs’s nonexistence in the new Reality he was almost physically overwhelmed by a flood of pure elation, unbearable joy.
7. PRELUDE TO CRIME
Harlan stepped into the kettle at the 2456th and looked backward to make certain that the barrier that separated the shaft from Eternity was truly flawless; that Sociologist Voy was not watching. In these last weeks it had grown to be a habit with him, an automatic twitch, there was always the quick backward glance across the shoulder to make sure no one was behind him in the kettle shafts.
And then, though already in the 2456th, it was for
up
when that Harlan set the kettle controls. He watched the numbers on the temporometer rise. Though they moved with blurry quickness, there would be considerable time for thought.
How the Life-Plotter’s finding changed matters! How the very nature of his crime had changed!
And it had all hinged on Finge. The phrase caught at him with its ridiculous rhyme and its heavy beat circled dizzyingly inside his skull: It hinged on Finge. It hinged on Finge. . . .
Harlan had avoided any personal contact with Finge on his return to Eternity after those days with Noÿs in the 482nd. As Eternity closed in about him, so did guilt. A broken oath of office, which seemed nothing in the 482nd, was enormous in Eternity.
He had sent in his report by impersonal air-chute and took himself off to personal quarters. He needed to think this out, gain time to consider and grow accustomed to the new orientation within himself.
Finge did not permit it. He was in communication with Harlan less than an hour after the report had been coded for proper direction and inserted into the chute.
The Computer’s image stared out of the vision plate. His voice said, “I expected you to be in your office.”
Harlan said, “I delivered the report, sir. It doesn’t matter where I wait for a new assignment.”
“Yes?” Finge scanned the roll of foil he held in his hands, holding it up, squint-eyed, and peering at its perforation pattern.
“It is scarcely complete,” he went on. “May I visit your rooms?”
Harlan hesitated a moment. The man was his superior and to refuse the self-invitation at this moment would have a flavor of insubordination. It would advertise his guilt, it seemed, and his raw, painful conscience dared not permit that.
“You will be welcome, Computer,” he said stiffly.
Finge’s sleek softness introduced a jarring element of epicureanism into Harlan’s angular quarters. The 95th, Harlan’s homewhen, tended toward the Spartan in house furnishings and Harlan had never completely lost his taste for the style. The tubular metal chairs had been surfaced with a dull veneer that had been artificially grained into the appearance of wood (though not very successfully). In one corner of the room was a small piece of furniture that represented an even wider departure from the customs of the times.
It caught Finge’s eye almost at once.
The Computer put a pudgy finger on it, as though to test its texture. “What is this material?”
“Wood, sir,” said Harlan.
“The real thing? Actual wood? Amazing! You use wood in your homewhen, I believe?”
“We do.”
“I see. There’s
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