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Text File | 2001-05-21 | 37KB | 268 lines

Disappearing Act This one wasnÆt the last war or a war to end war. They called it the War for the American Dream. General Carpenter struck that note and sounded it constantly. There are fighting generals (vital to an army), political generals (vital to an administration), and public relations generals (vital to a war). General Carpenter was a master of public relations. Forthright and FourSquare, he had ideals as high and as understandable as the mottoes on money. In the mind of America he was the army, the administration, the nationÆs shield and sword and stout right arm. His ideal was the American Dream. ôWe are not fighting for money, for power, or for world domination,ö General Carpenter announced at the Press Association dinner. ôWe are fighting solely for the American Dream,ö he said to the 137th Congress. ôOur aim is not aggression or the reduction of nations to slavery,ö he said at the West Point Annual OfficerÆs Dinner. ôWe are fighting for the meaning of civilization,ö he told the San Francisco PioneersÆ Club. ôWe are struggling for the ideal of civilization; for culture, for poetry, for the Only Things Worth Preserving,ö he said at the Chicago Wheat Pit Festival. ôThis is a war for survival,ö he said. ôWe are not fighting for ourselves, but for our dreams; for the Better Things in Life which must not disappear from the face of the earth.ö America fought. General Carpenter asked for one hundred million men. The army was given one hundred million men. General Carpenter asked for ten thousand H-Bombs. Ten thousand H-Bombs were delivered and dropped. The enemy also dropped ten thousand HBombs and destroyed most of AmericaÆs cities. ôWe must dig in against the hordes of barbarism,ö General Carpenter said. ôGive me a thousand engineers.ö One thousand engineers were forthcoming, and a hundrΘd cities were dug and hollowed out beneath the rubble. ôGive me five hundred sanitation experts, three hundred traffic managers, two hundred air-conditioning experts, one hundred city managers, one thousand communication chiefs, seven hundred personnel experts. . .ô The list of General CarpenterÆs demand for technical experts was endless. America did not know how to supply them. ôWe must become a nation of experts,ö General Carpenter informed the National Association of American Universities. ôEvery man and woman must be a specific tool for a specific job, hardened and sharpened by your training and education to win the fight for the American Dream.ö ôOur Dream,ö General Carpenter said at the Wall Street Bond Drive Breakfast, ôis at one with the gentle Greeks of Athens, with the noble Romans of. . . er ò Rome. It is a dream of the Better Things in Life. Of music and art and poetry and culture. Money is only a weapon to be used in the fight for this dream. Ambition is only a ladder to climb to this dream. Ability is only a tool to shape this dream.ö Wall Street applauded. General Carpenter asked for one hundred and fifty billion dollars, fifteen hundred ambitious dollar-a-year men, three thousand able experts in mineralogy, petrology, mass production, chemical warfare and air-traffic time study. They were delivered. The country was in high gear. General Carpenter had only to press a button and an expert would be delivered. In March of A.D. 2112 the war came to a climax and the American Dream was resolved, not on any one of the seven fronts where millions of men were locked in bitter combat, not in any of the staff headquarters or any of the capitals of the warring nations, not in any of the production centers spewing forth arms and supplies, but in Ward T of the United States Army Hospital buried three hundred feet below what had once been St. Albans, New York. Ward T was something of a mystery at St. Albans. Like any army hospital, St. Albans was organized with specific wards reserved for specific injuries. All right arm amputees were gathered in one ward, all left arm amputees in another. Radiation burns, head injuries, eviscerations, secondary gamma poisonings and so on were each assigned their specific location in the hospital organization. The Army Medical Corps had designated nineteen classes of combat injury which included every possible kind of damage to brain and tissue. These used up letters A to S. What, then, was in Ward T? No one knew. The doors were double locked. No visitors were permitted to enter. No patients were permitted to leave. Physicians were seen to arrive and depart. Their perplexed expressions stimulated the wildest speculations but revealed nothing. The nurses who ministered to Ward T were questioned eagerly but they were close-mouthed. There were dribs and drabs of information, unsatisfying and self-contradictory. A charwoman asserted that she had been in to clean up and there had been no one in the ward. Absolutely no one. Just two dozen beds and nothing else. Had the beds been slept in? Yes. They were rumpled, some of them. Were there signs of the ward being in use? Oh yes. Personal things on the tables and so on. But dusty, kind of. Like they hadnÆt been used in a long time. Public opinion decided it was a ghost ward. For spooks only. But a night orderly reported passing the locked ward and hearing singing from within. What kind of singing? Foreign language, like. What language? The orderly couldnÆt say. Some of the words sounded like.. . well, like: Cow dee on us eager tour. Public opinion started to run a fever and decided it was an alien ward. For spies only. St. Albans enlisted the help of the kitchen staff and checked the food trays. Twenty-four trays went in to Ward T three times a day. Twenty-four came out. Sometimes the returning trays were emptied. Most times they were untouched. Public opinion built up pressure and decided that Ward T was a racket. It was an informal club for goldbricks and staff grafters who caroused within. Cow de on us eager tour indeed! For gossip, a hospital can put a small town sewing circle to shame with ease, but sick people are easily goaded into passion by trivia. It took just three months for idle speculation to turn into downright fury. In January, 2112, St. Albans was a sound, well-run hospital. By March, 2112, St. Albans was in a ferment, and the psychological unrest found its way into the official records. The percentage of recoveries fell off. Malingering set in. Petty infractions increased. Mutinies flared. There was a staff shake-up. It did no good. Ward T was inciting the patients to riot. There was another shake-up, and another, and still the unrest fumed. The news finally reached General CarpenterÆs desk through official channels. ôIn our fight for the American Dream,ö he said, ôwe must not ignore those who have already given of them selves. Send me a Hospital Administration expert.ö The expert was delivered. He could do nothing to heal St. Albans. General Carpenter read the reports and broke him. ôPity,ö said General Carpenter, ôis the first ingredient of civilization. Send me a Surgeon General.ö A Surgeon General was delivered. He could not break the fury of St. Albans and General Carpenter broke him. But by this time Ward T was being mentioned in the dispatches. ôSend me,ö General Carpenter said, ôthe expert in charge of Ward T.ö St. Albans sent a doctor, Captain Edsel Dimmock. He was a stout young man, already bald, only three years out of medical school but with a fine record as an expert in psychotherapy. General Carpenter liked experts. He liked Dimmock. Dimmock adored the general as the spokesman for a culture which he had been too specially trained to seek up to now, but which he hoped to enjoy after the war was won. ôNow look here, Dimmock,ö General Carpenter began. ôWeÆre all of us tools, todayùsharpened and hardened to do a specific job. You know our motto: A job for everyone and everyone on the job. SomebodyÆs not on the job at Ward T and weÆve got to kick him Out. Now, in the first place, what the hell is Ward T?ö Dimmock stuttered and fumbled. Finally he explained that it was a special ward set up for special combat cases. Shock cases. ôThen you do have patients in the ward?ö ôYes, sir. Ten women and fourteen men.ö Carpenter brandished a sheaf of reports. ôSays here the St. Albans patients claim nobodyÆs in Ward T.ö Dimmock was shocked. That was untrue, he assured the general. ôAll right, Dimmock. So youÆve got your twenty-four crocks in there. Their jobÆs to get well. Your jobÆs to cure them. What the hellÆs upsetting the hospital about that?ö ôW-Well, sir. Perhaps itÆs because we keep them locked up.ö ôYou keep Ward T locked?ö ôYes, sir.ö ôWhy?ö ôTo keep the patients in, General Carpenter.ö ôKeep æem in? What dÆyou mean? Are they trying to get out? They violent, or something?ö ôNo, sir. Not violent.ö ôDiinmock, I donÆt like your attitude. YouÆre acting damned sneaky and evasive. And IÆll tell you something else I donÆt like. That T classification. I checked with a Filing Expert from the Medical Corps and there is no T classification. What the hell are you up to at St. Albans?ö ôW-Well, sir. . . We invented the T classification. It They.. . TheyÆre rather special cases, sir. We donÆt know what to do about them or how to handle them. W-WeÆve been trying to keep it quiet until weÆve worked out a modus operandi, but itÆs brand new, General Carpenter. Brand new!ö Here the expert in Dinimock triumphed over discipline. ôItÆs sensational. ItÆll make medical history, by God! ItÆs the biggest damned thing ever.ö ôWhat is it, Dimmock? Be specific.ö ôWell, sir, theyÆre shock cases. Blanked out. Almost catatonic. Very little respiration. Slow pulse. No response.ö ôIÆve seen thousands of shock cases like that,ö Carpenter grunted. ôWhatÆs so unusual?ö ôYes, sir. So far it sounds like the standard Q or R classification. But hereÆs something unusual. They donÆt eat and they donÆt sleep.ö ôNever?ö ôSome of them never.ö ôThen why donÆt they die?ö ôWe donÆt know. The metabolism cycleÆs broken, but only on the anabolism side. Catabolism continues. In other words, sir, theyÆre eliminating waste products but theyÆre not taking anything in. TheyÆre eliminating fatigue poisons and rebuilding worn tissue, but without sleep. God knows how. ItÆs fantastic.ö ôThat why youÆve got them locked up? Mean to say... DÆyou suspect them of stealing food and cat naps somewhere else?ö ôN-No, sir.ö Dimmock looked shamefaced. ôI donÆt know how to tell you this, General Carpenter. I. . . We lock them up because of the real mystery. They. . . Well, they disappear.ö ôThey what?ö ôThey disappear, sir. Vanish. Right before your eyes.ö ôThe hell you say.ö ôI do say, sir. TheyÆll be sitting on a bed or standing around. One minute you see them, tlie next minute you donÆt. Sometimes thereÆs two dozen in Ward T. Other times none. They disappear and reappear without rhyme or reason. ThatÆs why weÆve got the ward locked, General Carpenter. In the entire history of combat and combat injury thereÆs never been a case like this before. We donÆt know how to handle it.ö ôBring me three of those cases,ö General Carpenter said. Nathan Riley ate French toast, eggs benedict; consumed two quarts of brown ale, smoked a John Drew, belched delicately and arose from the breakfast table. He nodded quietly to Gentleman Jim Corbett, who broke off his conversation with Diamond Jim Brady to intercept him on the way to the cashierÆs desk. ôWho do you like for the pennant this year, Nat?ö Gentleman Jim inquired. ôThe Dodgers,ö Nathan Riley answered. ôTheyÆve got no pitching.ö ôTheyÆve got Snider and Furillo and Campanella. TheyÆll take the pennant this year, Jim. IÆll bet they take it earlier than any team ever did. By September 13th. Make a note. See if IÆm right.ö ôYouÆre always right, Nat,ö Corbett said. Riley smiled, paid his check, sauntered out into the street and caught a horsecar bound for Madison Square Garden. He got off at the corner of 50th and Eighth Avenue and walked upstairs to a handbook office over a radio repair shop. The bookie glanced at him, produced an envelope and counted out fifteen thousand dollars. ôRocky Marciano by a TKO over Roland La Starza in the eleventh,ö he said. ôHow the hell do you call them so accurate, Nat?ö ôThatÆs the way I make a living,ö Riley smiled. ôAre you making book on the elections?ö ôEisenhower twelve to five. Stevensonùö ôNever mind Adlai.ö Riley placed twenty thousand dollars on the counter. ôIÆm backing Ike. Get this down for me.ö He left the handbook office and went to his suite in the Waldorf where a tall, thin young man was waiting for him anxiously. ôOh yes,ö Nathan Riley said. ôYouÆre Ford, arenÆt you? Harold Ford?ö ôHenry Ford, Mr. Riley.ö ôAnd you need financing for that machine in your bicycle shop. WhatÆs it called?ö ôI call it an Ipsimobile, Mr. Riley.ö ôHmnim. CanÆt say I like that name. Why not call it an automobile?ö ôThatÆs a wonderful suggestion, Mr. Riley. IÆll certainly take it.ö ôI like you, Henry. YouÆre young, eager, adaptable. I believe in your future and I believe in your automobile. IÆll invest two hundred thousand dollars in your company.ö Riley wrote a check and ushered Henry Ford out. He glanced at his watch and suddenly felt impelled to go back and look around for a moment. He entered his bedroom, undressed, put on a gray shirt and gray slacks. Across the pocket of the shirt were large blue letters: U.S.A.H. He locked the bedroom door and disappeared. He reappeared in Ward T of the United States Army Hospital in St. Albans, standing alongside his bed which was one of twenty-four lining the walls of a long, light steel barracks. Before he could draw another breath, he was seized by three pairs of hands. Before he couldi struggle, he was shot by a pneumatic syringe and poleaxed~ by 1╜ cc of sodium thiomorphate. ò ôWeÆve got one,ö someone said. ôHang around,ö someone else answered. ôGeneral Carpenter said he wanted three.ö After Marcus Junius Brutus left her bed, Lela Machan clapped her hands. Her slave women entered the chamber and prepared her bath. She bathed, dressed, scented herself and breakfasted on Smyrna figs, rose oranges and a flagon of Lacrima Christi. Then she smoked a cigarette and ordered her litter. The gates of her house were crowded as usual by adoring hordes from the Twentieth Legion. Two centurions removed her chair-bearers from the poles of the litter and bore her on their stout shoulders. Lela Machan smiled. A young man in a sapphire-blue cloak thrust through the mob and ran toward her. A knife flashed in his hand. Lela braced herself to meet death bravely. ôLady!ö he cried. ôLady Lela!ö He slashed his left arm with the knife and let the crimson blood stain her robe. ôThis blood of mine is the least I have to give you,ö he cried. ò Lela touched his forehead gently. ôSilly boy,ö she murmured. ôWhy?ö ôFor love of you, my lady.ö ôYou will be admitted tonight at nine,ö Lela whispered. He stared at her until she laughed. ôI promise you. What is your name, pretty boy?ö ôBen Hur.ö ôTonight at nine, Ben Hur.ö The litter moved on. Outside the forum, Julius Caesar passed in hot argument with Marcus Antonius, Antony. When he saw the litter he motioned sharply to the centurions, who stopped at once. Caesar swept back the curtains and stared at Lela, who regarded him languidly. CaesarÆs face twitched. ôWhy?ö he asked hoarsely. ôI have begged, pleaded, bribed, wept, and all without forgiveness. Why, Lela? Why?ö ôDo you remember Boadicea?ö Lela murmured. ôBoadicea? Queen of the Britons? Good God, Lela, what can she mean to our love? I did not love Boadicea. I merely defeated her in battle.ö ôAnd killed her, Caesar.ö ôShe poisoned herself, Lela.ö ôShe was my mother, Caesar!ö Suddenly Lela pointed her finger at Caesar. ôMurderer. You will be punished. Beware the Ides of March, Caesar!ö Caesar recoiled in horror. The mob of admirers that bad gathered around Lela uttered a shout of approval. Amidst a rain of rose petals and violets she continued on her way across the Forum to the Temple of the Vestal Virgins where she abandoned her adoring suitors and entered the sacred temple. Before the altar she genuflected, intoned a prayer, dropped a pinch of incense on the altar flame and disrobed. She examined her beautiful body reflected in a silver mirror, then experienced a momentary twinge of homesickness. She put on a gray blouse and a gray pair of slacks. Across the pocket of the blouse was lettered U.S.A.H. She smiled once at the altar and disappeared. She reappeared in Ward T of the United States Army Hospital where she was instantly felled by 1╜ cc sodium thiomorphate injected subcutaneously by a pneumatic syringe. ôThatÆs two,ö somebody said. ôOne more to go.ö George Hanmer paused dramatically and stared around at the opposition benches, at the Speaker on the woolsack, at the silver mace on a crimson cushion before the SpeakerÆs chair. The entire House of Parliament, hypnotized by HanmerÆs fiery oratory, waited breathlessly for him to continue. ôI can say no more,ö Hanmer said at last. His voice was choked with emotion. His face was blanched and grim. ôI will fight for this bifi at the beachheads. I will fight in the cities, the towns, the fields and the hamlets. I will fight for this bill to the death and, God willing, I will fight for it after death. Whether this be a challenge or a prayer, let the consciences of the right honorable gentlemen determine; but of one thing I am sure and determined: England must own the Suez Canal.ö Hanmer sat down. The House exploded. Through the cheering and applause he made his way out into the divi. sion lobby where Gladstone, Canning and Peel stopped him to shake his hand. Lord Palmerston eyed him coldly, but Pam was shouldered aside by Disraeli who limped up, all enthusiasm, all admiration. ôWeÆll have a bite at TattersallÆs,ö Dizzy said. ôMy carÆs waiting.ö Lady Beaconfield was in the Rolls Royce outside the Houses of Parliament. She pinned a primrose on DizzyÆs lapel and patted HanmerÆs cheek affectionately. ôYouÆve come a long way from the schoolboy who used to bully Dizzy, Georgie,ö she said. Hanmer laughed. Dizzy sang: ôGaudeamus igitur. . and Hanmer chanted the ancient scholastic song until they reached TattersallÆs. There Dizzy ordered Guinness and grilled bones while Hanmer went upstairs in the club to change. For no reason at all he had the impulse to go back for a last look. Perhaps he hated to break with his past completely. He divested himself of his surtout, nankeen waistcoat, pepper and salt trousers, polished Hessians and undergarments. He put on a gray shirt and gray trousers and disappeared. He reappeared in Ward T of the St. Albans hospital where he was rendered unconscious by 1╜ cc of sodium thiomorphate. ôThatÆs three,ö somebody said. ôTake æem to Carpenter.ö So there they sat in General CarpentersÆ office, PFC Nathan Riley, M/Sgt Lela Machan, and Corp/2 George Hanmer. They were in their hospital grays. They were torpid with sodium thiomorphate. The office had been cleared and it blazed with blinding light. Present were experts from Espionage, CounterEspionage, Security and Central Intelligence. When Captain Edsel Dimmock saw the steel-faced ruthless squad awaiting the patients and himself, he started. General Carpenter smiled grimly. ôDidnÆt occur to you that we mightnÆt buy your disappearance story, eh, Dimmock?ö ôS-Sir?ö ôIÆm an expert too, Dimmock. IÆll spell. it out for you. The warÆs going badly. Very badly. ThereÆve been intelligence leaks. The St. Albans mess might point to you.ö ôB-But they do disappear, sir. Iù.--ùö ò ôMy experts want to talk to you and your patients about this disappearance act, Dimmock. TheyÆll start with you.ö The experts worked over Dimmock with preconscious softeners, id releases and superego blocks. They tried every truth serum in the books and every form of physical and mental pressure. They brought Dimmock, squealing, to the breaking point three times, but there was nothing to break. ôLet him stew for now,ö Carpenter said. ôGet on to the patients.ö The experts appeared reluctant to apply pressure to, the sick men and the woman. ôFor GodÆs sake, donÆt be squeamish,ö Carpenter raged. ôWeÆre fighting a war for civilization. WeÆve got to protect our ideals no matter what the price. Get to it!ö The experts from Espionage, Counter-Espionage, Security and Central Intelligence got to it. Like three candles, PFC Nathan Riley, M/Sgt Lela Machan and Corp/2 George Hanmer snuffed out and disappeared. One moment they were seated in chairs surrounded by violeffce. The next moment they were not. The experts gasped. General Carpenter did the handsome thing. He stalked to Dimmock. ôCaptain Dimmock, I apologize. Colonel Dimmock, youÆve been promoted for making an important discovery. . . only what the hell does it mean? WeÆve got to check ourselves first.ö Carpenter snapped up the intercom. ôGet me a combat-shock expert and an alienist.ö The two experts entered and were briefed. They exam ined the witnesses. They considered. ôYouÆre all suffering from a mild case of shock,ö the combat-shock expert said. ôWar jitters.ö ôYou mean we didnÆt see them disappear?ö The shock expert shook his head and glanced at the alienist who also shook his head. ôMass illusion,ö the alienist said. At that - moment PFC Riley, M/Sgt Machan and Corp/2 Hanmer reappeared. One moment they were a mass illusion; the next, they were back sitting in their chairs surrounded by confusion. ôDope æem again, Dinimock,ö Carpenter cried. ôGive æem a gallon.ö He snapped up his intercom. ôI want every expert weÆve got. Emergency meeting in my office at once.ö Thirty-seven experts, hardened and sharpened tools all, inspected the unconscious shock cases and discussed them for three hours. Certain facts were obvious: This must be a new fantastic syndrome brought on by the new and fantastic horrors of the war. As combat technique develops, the response of victims of this technique must also take new roads. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Agreed. This new syndrome must involve some aspects of teleportation. . . the power of mind over space. Evidently combat shock, while destroying certain known powers of the mind, must develop other latent powers hitherto unknown. Agreed. Obviously, the patients must only be able to return to the point of departure, otherwise they would not continue to return to Ward T nor would they have returned to General CarpenterÆs office. Agreed. Obviously, the patients must be able to procure food and sleep wherever they go, since neither was required in Ward T. Agreed. ôOne small point,ö Colonel Dimmock said. ôThey seem to be returning to Ward T less frequently. In the beginning they would come and go every day or so. Now most of them stay away for weeks and hardly ever return.ö ôNever mind that,ö Carpenter said. ôWhere do they go?ö ôDo they teleport behind the enemy lines?ö someone asked. ôThereÆs those intelligence leaks.ö ôI want Intelligence to check,ö Carpenter snapped. ôIs the enemy having similar difficulties with, say, prisoners of war who appear and disappear from their POW camps? They might be some of ours from Ward T.ö ôThey might simply be going home,ö Colonel Dimmock suggested. ôI want Security to check,ö Carpenter ordered. ôCover the home life and associations of every one of those twenty-four disappearers. Now. . . about our operations in Ward T. Colonel Dimmock has a plan.ö ôWeÆll set up six extra beds in Ward T,ö Edsel Dimmock explained. ôWeÆll send in six experts to live there and observe. Information must be picked up indirectly from the patients. TheyÆre catatonic and nonresponsive when conscious, and incapable of answering questions when drugged.ö ôGentlemen,ö Carpenter summed it up. ôThis is the greatest potential weapon in the history of warfare I donÆt have to tell you what it can mean to us to be able to teleport an entire army behind enemy lines. We can win the war for the American Dream in one day if we can win this secret hidden in those shattered minds. We must win!ö The experts hustled, Security checked, Intelligence probed. Six hardened and sharpened tools moved into Ward T in St. Albans Hospital and slowly got acquainted with the disappearing patients who appeared and departed less and less frequently. The tension increased. Security was able to report that not one case of strange appearance had taken place in America in the past year. Intelligence reported that the enemy did not seem to be having similar difficulties with their own shock cases or with POWs. Carpenter fretted. ôThis is all brand new. WeÆve got no specialists to handle it. WeÆve got to develop new tools.ö He snapped up his intercom. ôGet me a college,ö he said. They got him Yale. ôI want some experts in mind over matter. Develop them,ö Carpenter ordered. Yale at once introduced three graduate courses in Thaumaturgy, Extra Sensory Perception and Telekinesis. The first bceak came when one of the Ward T experts requested the assistance of another expert. He wanted a Lapidary. ôWhat the hell for?ö Carpenter wanted to know. ôHe picked up a reference to a gem stone,ö Colonel Dimmock explained. ôHe canÆt relate it to anything in his experience. HeÆs a personnel specialist.ö ôAnd heÆs not supposed to,ö Carpenter said approvingly. ôA job for every man and every mair on the job.ö He ffipped up the intercom. ôGet me a Lapidary.ö An expert Lapidary was given leave of absence from the army arsenal and asked to identify a type of diamond called Jim Brady. He could not. ôWeÆll try it from another angle,ö Carpenter said. He snapped up his intercom. ôGet me a Semanticist.ö The Semanticist left his desk in the War Propaganda Department but could make nothing of the words Jim Brady. They were names to him. No more. He suggested a Genealogist. A Genealogist was given one dayÆs leave from his post with the Un-American Ancestors Committee but could make nothing of the name of Brady beyond the fact that it had been a common name in America for five hundred years. He suggested an Archaeologist. An Archaeologist was released from the Cartography Division of Invasion Command and instantly identified the name Diamond Jim Brady. It was a historic personage who had been famous in the city of Little Old New York some time between Governor Peter Stuyvesant and Governor Fiorello La Guardia. ôChrist!ö Carpenter marveled. ôThatÆs centuries ago. Where the hell did Nathan Riley get that? YouÆd better join the experts in Ward T and follow this up.ö The Archaeologist followed it up, checked his references and sent in his report. Carpenter read it and was stunned. He called an emergency meeting of his staff of experts. ôGentlemen,ö he announced, ôWard T is something bigger than teleportation. Those shock patients are doing something far more incredible.. . far more meaningful. Gentlemen, theyÆre traveling through time.ö The staff rustled uncertainly. Carpenter nodded emphatically. ôYes, gentlemen. Time travel is here. It has not arrived the way we expected it.. . as a result of expert research by qualified specialists; it has come as a plague. . . an infection. . . a disease of the war... .. a result of combat injury to ordinary men. Before I continue, look through these reports for documentation.ö The staff read the stenciled sheets. PFC Nathan Riley disappearing into the early twentieth century in New York; M/Sgt Lela Machan.. . visiting the first century in Rome; Corp/2 George Hanmer. . . journeying into the nineteenth century in England. And all the rest of the twenty-four patients, escaping the turmoil and horrors of modern war in the twenty-second century by fleeing to Venice and æthe Doges, to Jamaica and the buccaneers, to China and the Han Dynasty, to Norway and Eric the Red, to any place and any time in the world. ôI neednÆt point out the colossal significance of this discovery,ö General Carpenter pointed out. ôThink what it would mean to the war if we could send an army back in time a week or a month or a year. We could win the war before it started. We could protect our Dream. . . poetry and beauty and the fine culture of America.. . from barbarism without ever endangering it.ö The staff tried to grapple with the problem of winning battles before they started. ôThe situation is complicated by the fact that these men and women of Ward T are non corn pos. They may or may not know how they do what they do, but in any case theyÆre incapable of communicating with the experts who could reduce this miracle to method. ItÆs for us to find the key. They canÆt help us.ö The hardened and sharpened specialists looked around uncertainly. ôWeÆll need experts,ö General Carpenter said. The staff relaxed. They were on familiar ground again. ôWeÆll need a Cerebral Mechanist, a Cybemeticist, a Psychiatrist, an Anatomist, an Archaeologist and a firstrate Historian. TheyÆll go into that ward and they wonÆt come out until their job is done. They must get the technique of time travel.ö The first five experts were easy to draft from other war departments. All America was a tool chest of hardened and sharpened specialists. But there was trouble locating a first-class Historian until the Federal Penitentiary operated with the army and released Dr. Bradley Scrim from his twenty years at hard labor. Dr. Scrim was acid and jagged. He had held the chair of Philosophic History at a Western university until he spoke his mind about the war for the American Dream. That got him the twenty years hard. Scrim was still intransigent, but induced to play ball by the intriguing problem of Ward T. ôBut IÆm not an expert,ö he snapped. ôIn this benighted nation of experts, IÆm the last singing grasshopper in the ant heap.ö Carpenter snapped up the intercom. ôGet me an Entomologist,ö he said. ôDonÆt bother,ö Scrim said. ôIÆll translate. YouÆre a nest of ants. . . all working and toiling and specializing. For what?ö ôTO preserve the American Dream,ö Carpenter answered hotly. ôWeÆre fighting for poetry and culture and education and the Finer Things in Life.ö ôYouÆre fighting to preserve me,ö Scrim said. ôThatÆs what IÆve devoted my life to. And what do you do with me? Put me in jail.ö ôYou were convicted of enemy sympathizing and fellow-traveling,ö Carpenter said. ôI was convicted of believing in the American Dream,ö Scrim said. ôWhich is another way of saying I had a mind of my own.ö Scrim was also intransigent in Ward T. He stayed one night, enjoyed three good meals, read the reports, threw them down and began hollering to be let out. ôThereÆs a job for everyone and everyone must be on the job,ö Colonel Dimmock told him. ôYou donÆt come out until youÆve got the secret of time travel.ö ôThereÆs no secret I can get,ö Scrim said. ôDo they travel in time?ö ôYes and no.ö ôThe answer has to be one or the other. Not both. YouÆre evading theùö ôLook,ö Scrim interrupted wearily. ôWhat are you an expert in?ö ôPsychotherapy.ö ôThen how the hell can you understand what IÆm talking about? This is a philosophic concept. I tell you thereÆs no secret here that the army can use. ThereÆs no secret any group can use. ItÆs a secret for individuals only.ö ôI donÆt understand you.ö ôI didnÆt think you would. Take me to Carpenter.ö They took Scrim to CarpenterÆs office where he grinned at the general malignantly, looking for all the world like a red-headed, underfed devil. ôIÆll need ten minutes,ö Scrim said. ôCan you spare them out of your tool box?ö Carpenter nodded. ôNow listen carefully. IÆm going to give you all the clues to something vast, so strange, so new, that it will need all your fine edge to cut into it.ö Carpenter looked expectant. ôNathan Riley goes back in time to the early twentieth century. There he lives the life of his fondest dreams. HeÆs a big-time gambler, the friend of Diamond Jim Brady and others. He wins money betting on events because be always knows the outcome in advance. He won money betting on Eisenhower to win an election. He won money betting on a prize fighter named Marciano to beat another prize fighter named La Starza. He made money investing in an automobile company owned by Henry Ford. There are the clues. They mean anything to you?ö ôNot without a Sociological Analyst,ö Carpenter answered. He reached for the intercom. ôDonÆt bother. IÆll explain. LetÆs try some more clues. Lela Machan, for example. She escapes into the Roman empire where she lives the life of her dreams as a femme jatale. Every man loves her. Julius Caesar, Brutus, the entire Twentieth Legion, a man named Ben Hur. Do you see the fallacy?ö ôShe also smokes cigarettes.ö ôWell?ö Carpenter asked after a pause. ôI continue,ö Scrim said. ôGeorge escapes into England of the nineteenth century where heÆs a Member of Parliament and the friend of Gladstone, Canning and Disraeli, who takes him riding in his Rolls Royce. Do you know what a Rolls Royce is?ö ôNo.ö ôIt was the name of an automobile.ö ôYou donÆt understand yet?ö - Scrim paced the floor in exaltation. ôCarpenter, this is a bigger discovery than teleportation or time travel. This can be the salvation of man. I donÆt think IÆm exag ò gerating. Those two dozen shock victims in Ward T have been H-Bombed into something so gigantic that itÆs no wonder your specialists and experts canÆt understand it.ö ôWhat the hellÆs bigger than time travel, Scrim?ö ôListen to this, Carpenter. Eisenhower did not run for office until the middle of the twentieth century. Nathan Riley could not have been a friend of Diamond Jim BradyÆs and bet on Eisenhower to win an election. . . not simultaneously. Brady was dead a quarter of a century before Ike was President. Marciano defeated La Starza fifty years after Henry Ford started his automobile company. Nathan RileyÆs time traveling is full of similar anachronisms.ö Carpenter looked puzzled. ôLela Machan could not have had Ben Hur for a lover. Ben Hur never existed in Rome. He never existed at all. He was a character in a novel. She couldnÆt have smoked. They didnÆt have tobacco then. You see? More anachronisms. Disraeli could never have taken George Hanmer for a ride in a Rolls Royce because automobiles werenÆt invented until long after DisraeliÆs death.ö ôThe hell you say,ö Carpenter exclaimed. ôYou mean theyÆre all lying?ö ôNo. DonÆt forget, they donÆt need sleep. They donÆt need food. They~ro not lying. TheyÆre going back in time all right. TheyÆre eating and sleeping back there.ö ôBut you just said their stories donÆt stand up. TheyÆre full of anachronisms.ö ôBecause they travel back into a time of their own mmagination. Nathan Riley has his own picture of what America was like in the early twentieth century. ItÆs faulty and anachronistic because heÆs no scholar; but itÆs real for him. He can live there. The same is true for the others.ö Carpenter goggled. ôThe concept is almost beyond understanding. These people have discovered how to turn dreams into reality. They know how -to enter their dream realities. They can stay there, live there, perhaps forever. My God, Carpenter, this is your American dream. ItÆs miracle-working, immortality, Godlike - creation, mind over matter... It must be explored. It must be studied. It must be given to the world.ö ôCan you do it, Scrhn?ö ôNo, I cannot. IÆm a historian. IÆm noncreative, so itÆs beyond me. You need a poet. . . a man who understands the creation of dreams. From creating dreams on paper or canvas it oughtnÆt to be too difficult to take the step to creating dreams in actuality.ö ôA poet? Are you serious?ö ôCertainly IÆm serious. DonÆt you know what a poet is? YouÆve been telling us for five years that this war is being fought to save the poets.ö ôDonÆt be facetious, Scrim, Iùö ôSend a poet into Ward T. HeÆll learn how they do it. HeÆs the only man who can. A poet is half doing it anyway. Once he learns, he can teach, your psychologists and anatomists. Then they can teach us; but the poet is the only man who can interpret between those shock cases and your experts.ö ôI believe youÆre right, Scrim.ö ôThen donÆt delay, Carpenter. Those patients are returning to this world less -and less frequently. WeÆve got to get at that secret before they disappear forever. Send a poet to Ward T.ö Carpenter snapped up his intercom. ôSend me a poet,ö be said. He waited, and waited. . . and waited. . . while America sorted feverishly through its two hundred and ninety millions of hardened and sharpened experts, its specialized tools to defend the American Dream of beauty and poetry and the Better Things in Life. He waited for them to find a poet, not understanding the endless delay, the fruitless searchÆ, not understanding why Bradley Scrim laughed and laughed and laughed at this final, fatal disappearance.