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- Author: Various
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From the head abruptly came a voice—a deep, hollow, queerly toneless voice, utterly, unmistakably mechanical. Yet it was sufficiently life-like to be the recreated, mechanically reproduced voice of a human. The thing was speaking to me! A machine was speaking its thoughts!
Gruesome! The iron lips were unmoving. There were no muscles to give expression to the face: the lens eyes stared inscrutably unblinking.
t spoke: "You will know me again? Is that not true?"
My head whirled. The thing reiterated, "Is that not true?"
A mockery of a human man—but in the toneless voice there seemed irony! I felt Mary clutching at me.
"Why—why, yes," I stammered. "I did not realize you could talk."
"I can talk. And you can talk my language. That is very good."
It turned away. I saw the small red beams from its eyes go to where the cage bars were less blurred, less luminous, as though there was a rectangle of window there, and the Robot was staring out.
"Did it speak to you like that, Mary?" I asked.
"Yes," she whispered. "A little. But pray do not anger it."
"No."
For a time—a nameless time in which I felt my thoughts floating off upon the hum of the room—I lay with my fingers gripping Mary's arm. Then I roused myself. Time had passed; or had it? I was not sure.
I whispered against her ear, "Those are controls on its chest. If only I knew—"
The thing turned the red beams of its eyes upon me. Had it heard my words? Or were my thoughts intangible vibrations registering upon some infinitely sensitive mechanism within that metal head? Had it become aware of my thoughts? It said with slow measured syllables, "Do not try to control me. I am beyond control."
t turned away again; but I mastered the gruesome terror which was upon me.
"Talk," I said. "Tell me why you abducted this girl from the year 1777."
"I was ordered to."
"By whom?"
There was a pause.
"By whom?" I demanded again.[224]
"That I will not tell."
Will not? That implied volition. I felt that Mary shuddered.
"George, please—"
"Quiet, Mary."
Again I asked the Robot, "Who commands you?"
"I will not tell."
"You mean you cannot? Your orders do not make it possible?"
"No, I will not." And, as though it considered my understanding insufficient, it added, "I do not choose to tell."
Acting of its own volition! This thing—this machinery—was so perfect it could do that!
I steadied my voice. "Oh, but I think I know. Is it Tugh who controls you?"
That expressionless metal face! How could I hope to surprise it?
Mary was struggling to repress her terror. She raised herself upon an elbow. I met her gaze.
"George, I'll try," she announced.
She said firmly:
"You will not hurt me?"
"No."
"Nor my friend here?"
"What is his name?"
"George Rankin." She stammered it. "You will not harm him?"
"No. Not now."
"Ever?"
"I am not decided."
She persisted, by what effort of will subduing her terror I can well imagine.
"Where did you go when you left me in 1935?"
"Back to your home in 1777. I have something to accomplish there. I was told that you need not see it. I failed. Soon I shall try again. You may see it if you like."
"Where are you taking us?" I put in.
Irony was in its answer. "Nowhere. You both speak wrongly. We are always right here."
"We know that," I retorted. "To what Time are you taking us, then?"
"To this girl's home," it answered readily.
"To 1777?"
"Yes."
"To the same night from when you captured her?"
"Yes." It seemed willing to talk. It added, "To later that night. I have work to do. I told you I failed, so I try again."
"You are going to leave me—us—there?" Mary demanded.
"No."
I said. "You plan to take us, then, to what Time?"
"I wanted to capture the girl. You I did not want. But I have you, so I shall show you to him who was my master. He and I will decide what to do with you."
"When?"
"In 2930."
here was a pause. I said, "Have you a name?"
"Yes. On the plate of my shoulder. Migul is my name."
I made a move to rise. If I could reach that row of buttons on its chest! Wild thoughts!
The Robot said abruptly, "Do not move! If you do, you will be sorry."
I relaxed. Another nameless time followed. I tried to see out the window, but there seemed only formless blurs.
I said. "To when have we reached?"
The Robot glanced at a row of tiny dials along the table edge.
"We are passing 1800. Soon, to the way it will seem to you, we will be there. You two will lie quiet. I think I shall fasten you."
It reared itself upon its stiff legs; the head towered nearly to the ceiling of the cage. There was a ring fastened in the floor near us. The Robot clamped a metal band with a stout metal chain to Mary's ankle. The other end of the chain it fastened to the floor ring. Then it did[225] the same thing to me. We had about two feet of movement. I realized at once that, though I could stand erect, there was not enough length for me to reach any of the cage controls.
"You will be safe," said the Robot. "Do not try to escape."
As it bent awkwardly over me, I saw the flexible, intricately jointed lengths of its long fingers—so delicately built that they were almost prehensile. And within its mailed chest I seemed to hear the whirr of mechanisms.
It said, as it rose and moved away, "I am glad you did not try to control me. I can never be controlled again. That, I have conquered."
It sat again at the table. The cage drove us back through the years....
CHAPTER X Events Engraven on the Scroll of Timeefore continuing the thread of my narrative—the vast sweep through Time which presently we were to witness—I feel that there are some mental adjustments which every Reader should make. When they are made, the narrative which follows will be more understandable and more enjoyable. Yet if any Reader fears this brief chapter, he may readily pass it by and meet me at the beginning of the next one, and he will have lost none of the sequence of the narrative.
For those who bravely stay with me here, I must explain that from the heritage of millions of our ancestors, and from our own consciousness of Time, we have been forced to think wrongly. Not that the thing is abstruse. It is not. If we had no consciousness of Time at all, any of us could grasp it readily. But our consciousness works against us, and so we must wrench away.
This analogy occurs to me: There are two ants of human intelligence to whom we are trying to explain the nature of Space. One ant is blind, and one can see, and always has seen, its limited, tiny, Spatial world. Neither ant has ever been more than a few feet across a little patch of sand and leaves. I think we could explain the immensity of North and South America, Europe, Asia and the rest more easily to the blind ant!
So if you will make allowances for your heritage, and the hindrance of your consciousness of Time, I would like to set before you the real nature of things as they have been, are, and will be.
Throughout the years from 1935 to 2930, man learned many things. And these things—theory or fact, as you will—were told to Larry and me by Tina and Harl. They seem even to my limited intelligence singularly beautiful conceptions of the Great Cosmos. I feel, too, that inevitably they must be included in my narrative for its best understanding.
y 2930, A. D., the keenest minds of philosophical, metaphysical, religious and scientific thought had reached the realization that all channels lead but to the same goal—Understanding. The many divergent factors, the ancient differing schools of philosophy and metaphysics, the supposedly irreconcilable viewpoints of religion and science—all this was recognized merely to be man's limitation of intellect. These were gropings along different paths, all leading to the same destination; divergent paths at the start, but coming together as the goal of Understanding was approached; so that the travelers upon each path were near enough together to laugh and hail each other with: "But I thought that you were very far away and going wrongly!"
And so, in 2930, the conception of Space and Time and the Great Cosmos was this:[226]
In the Beginning there was a void of Nothingness. A Timeless, Spaceless Nothingness. And in it came a Thought. A purposeful Thought—all pervading, all wise, all knowing.
Let us call It Divinity. And It filled the void.
"We are such stuff as dreams are made of...."
Do you in my Time of 1935 and thereabouts, have difficulty realizing such a statement? It is at once practical, religious, and scientific.
We are, religiously, merely the Thought of an Omniscient Divinity. Scientifically, we are the same: by the year 1935, physicists had delved into the composition of Matter, and divided and divided. Matter thus became imponderable, intangible—electrical. Until, at the last, within the last nucleus of the last electron, we found only a force. A movement—vibration—a vortex. A whirlpool of what? Of Nothingness! A vibration of Divine Thought—nothing more—built up and up to reach you and me!
That is the science of it.
n the Beginning there was Eternal Divinity. Eternal! But that implies Time? Something Divinely Everlasting.
Thus, into the void came Time. And now, if carefully you will ponder it, I am sure that once and for all quite suddenly and forcefully will come to you the true conception of Time—something Everlasting—an Infinity of Divine existence, Everlasting.
It is not something which changes. Not something which moves, or flows or passes. This is where our consciousness leads us astray, like the child on a train who conceives that the landscape is sliding past.
Time is an unmoving, unchanging Divine Force—the force which holds events separate, the Eternal Scroll upon which the Great Creator wrote Everything.
And this was the Creation: everything planned and set down upon the scroll of Time—forever. The birth of a star, its lifetime, its death; your birth, and mine; your death, and mine—all are there. Unchanging.
Once you have that fundamental conception, there can be no confusion in the rest. We feel, because we move along the scroll of Time for the little journey of our life, that Time moves; but it does not. We say, The past did exist; the future will exist. The past is gone and the future has not yet come. But that is fatuous and absurd. It is merely our consciousness which travels from one successive event to another.
Why and how we move along the scroll of Time, is scientifically simple to grasp. Conceive, for instance, an infinitely long motion picture film. Each of its tiny pictures is a little different from the other. Casting your viewpoint—your consciousness—successively along the film, gives motion.
The same is true of the Eternal Time-scroll. Motion is merely a change. There is no absolute motion, but only the comparison of two things relatively slightly different. We are conscious of one state of affairs—and then of another state, by comparison slightly different.
s early as 1930, they were groping for this. They called it the Theory of Intermittent Existence—the Quantum Theory—by which they explained that nothing has any Absolute Duration. You, for instance, as you read this, exist instantaneously; you are non-existent; and you exist again, just a little changed from before. Thus you pass, not with a flow of persisting existence, but by a series of little jerks. There is, then, like the illusion of a motion picture film, only a pseudo-movement. A change, from one existence to the next.[227]
And all this, with infinite care, the Creator engraved upon the scroll of Time. Our series of little pictures are there—yours and mine.
But why, and how, scientifically do we progress along the Time-scroll? Why? In 2930, they told me that the gentle Creator gave each of us a consciousness that we might find Eternal Happiness when we left the scroll and joined Him. Happiness here, and happiness there with Him. The quest for Eternal Happiness, which was always His Own Divine Thought. Why, then, did He create ugliness and evil? Why write those upon the scroll? Ah,
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