Noys Lambent's estate was fairly isolated, yet within easy reach of one of the larger cities of the Century. Harlan knew that city well; he knew it better than any of its inhabitants could. In his exploratory Observations into this Reality he had visited every quarter of the city and every decade within the purview of the Section.
He knew the city both in Space and Time. He could piece it together, view it as an organism, living and growing, with its catastrophes and recoveries, its gaieties and troubles. Now he was in a given week of Time in that city, in a moment of suspended animation of its slow life of steel and concrete.
More than that, his preliminary explorations had centered themselves more and more closely about the "perioeci," the inhabitants who were the most important of the city, yet who lived outside the city, in room and relative isolation.
The 482nd was one of the many Centuries in which wealth was unevenly distributed. The Sociologists had an equation for the phenomenon (which Harlan had seen in print, but which he understood only vaguely). It worked itself out for any given Century to three relationships, and for the 482nd those relationships stood near the limits of what could be permitted. Sociologists shook their heads over it and Harlan had heard one say at one time that any further deterioration with new Reality Changes would require "the closest Observation."
Yet there was this to be said for unfavorable relationships in the wealth-distribution equation. It meant the existence of a leisure class and the development of an attractive way of life which, at its best, encouraged culture and grace. As long as the other end of the scale was not too badly off, as long as the leisure classes did not entirely forget their responsibilities while enjoying their privileges, as long as their culture took no obviously unhealthy turn, there was always the tendency in Eternity to forgive the departure from the ideal wealth-distribution pattern and to search for other, less attractive maladjustments.
Against his will Harlan began to understand this. Ordinarily his overnight stays in Time involved hotels in the poorer sections, where a man might easily stay anonymous, where strangers were ignored, where one presence more or less was nothing and therefore did not cause the fabric of Reality to do more than tremble. When even that was unsafe, when there was a good chance that the trembling might pass the critical point and bring down a significant part of the card house of Reality, it was not unusual to have to sleep under a particular hedge in the countryside.
And it was usual to survey various hedges to see which would be least disturbed by farmers, tramps, even stray dogs, during the night.
But now Harlan, at the other end of the scale, slept in a bed with a surface of field-permeated matter, a peculiar welding of matter and energy that entered only the highest economic levels of this society. Throughout Time it was less common than pure matter but more common than pure energy. In any case it molded itself to his body as he lay down, firm when he lay still, yielding when he moved or turned.
Reluctantly he confessed the attraction of such things, and he accepted the wisdom which caused each Section of Eternity to live on the median scale of its Century rather than at its most comfortable level. In that way it could maintain contact with the problems and "feel" of the Century, without succumbing to too close an identification with a sociological extreme.
It is easy, thought Harlan, that first evening, to live with aristocrats.
And just before he fell asleep, he thought of Noys.
He dreamed he was on the Allwhen Council, fingers clasped austerely before him. He was looking down on a small, a very small, Finge, listening in terror to the sentence that was casting him out of Eternity to perpetual Observation of one of the unknown Centuries of the far, far upwhen. The somber words of exile were coming from Harlan's own mouth, and immediately to his right sat Noys Lambent.
He hadn't noticed her at first, but his eyes kept sliding to his right, and his words faltered.
Did no one else see her? The rest of the members of the Council looked steadily forward, except for Twissell. He turned to smile at Harlan, looking through the girl as though she weren't there.
Harlan wanted to order her away, but words were no longer coming out of his mouth. He tried to beat at the girl, but his arm moved sluggishly and she did not move. Her flesh was cold.
Finge was laughing-louder--louder- -and it was Noys Lambent laughing.
Harlan opened his eyes to bright sunlight and stared at the girl in horror for a moment before he remembered where she was and where he was.
She said, "You were moaning and beating the pillow. Were you having a bad dream?"
Harlan did not answer.
She said, "Your bath is ready. So are your clothes. I've arranged to have you join the gathering tonight. It felt queer to step back into my ordinary life after being in Eternity so long."
Harlan felt acutely disturbed at her easy flow of words. He said, "You didn't tell them who I was, I hope."
"Of course not."
Of course not! Finge would have taken care of that little matter by having her lightly psychoed under narcosis, if he felt that necessary. He might not have thought it necessary, however. After all, he had given her "close observation."
The thought annoyed him. He said, "I'd prefer to be left to myself as much as possible."
She looked at him uncertainly a moment or two and left.
Harlan went through the morning ritual of washing and dressing glumly. He had no great hopes of an exciting evening. He would have to say as little as possible, do as little as possible, be a part of the wall as much as possible. His true function was that of a pair of ears and a pair of eyes. Connecting those senses with the final report was his mind, which, ideally, had no other function.
Ordinarily it did not disturb him that, as an Observer, he did not know what he was looking for. An Observer, he had been taught as a Cub, must not have preconceived notions as to what data is desired or what conclusions are expected. The knowledge, it was said, would automatically distort his view, however conscientious he tried to be.
But under the circumstances ignorance was irritating. Harlan suspected strongly that there was nothing to look for, that he was playing Finge's game in some way. Between that and Noys.
He stared savagely at the image of himself cast in three-dimensional accuracy two feet in front of him by the Reflector. The clinging garments of the 482nd, seamless and bright in coloring, made him, he thought, look ridiculous.
Noys Lambent came running to him just after he had finished a solitary breakfast brought to him by a Mekkano.
She said breathlessly, "It's June, Technician Harlan."
He said harshly, "Do not use the title here. What if it is June?"
"But it was February when I joined"-she paused doubtfully-"that place, and that was only a month ago."
Harlan frowned. "What year is it now?"
"Oh, it's the right year."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm quite positive. Has there been a mistake?" She had a disturbing habit of standing quite close to him as they talked and her slight lisp (a trait of the Century rather than of herself personally) gave her the sound of a young and rather helpless child. Harlan was not fooled by that. He drew away.
"No mistake. You've been put here because it's more suitable. Actually, in Time, you have been here all along."
"But how could I?" She looked more frightened still. "I don't remember anything about it. Are there two me's?"
Harlan was far more irritated than the cause warranted. How could he explain to her the existence of micro-changes induced by every interference with Time which could alter individual lives without appreciable effect on the Century as a whole. Even Eternals sometimes forgot the difference between micro-changes (small "c") and Changes (large "c") which significantly altered Reality.
He said, "Eternity knows what it's doing. Don't ask questions." He said it proudly, as though he, himself, were a Senior Computer and had personally decided that June was the proper moment in time and that the micro-change induced by skipping three months could not develop into a Change.
She said, "But then I've lost three months of my life."
He sighed. "Your movements through Time have nothing to do with your physiological age."
"Well, have I or haven't I?"
"Have or haven't what?"
"Lost three months."
"By Time, woman, I'm telling you as plainly as I can. You haven't lost any time out of your life. You can't lose any."
She stepped backward at his shout and then, suddenly, giggled. She said, "You have the funniest accent. Especially when you get angry."
He frowned at her retreating back. What accent? He spoke fiftymillennial as well as anyone in the Section. Better probably.
Stupid girl!
He found himself back at the Reflector staring at his image, which stared back at him, vertical furrows deep between its eyes.
He smoothed them out and thought: I'm not handsome. My eyes are too small and my ears stick out and my chin is too big.
He had never particularly thought about the matter before, but now it occurred to him, quite suddenly, that it would be pleasant to be handsome.
Late at night Harlan added his notes to the conversations he had gathered, while it was all fresh in his mind.
As always in such cases he made use of a molecular recorder of 55th Century manufacture. In shape it was a featureless thin cylinder about four inches long by half an inch in diameter. It was colored a deep but noncommittal brown. It could be easily held in cuff, pocket, or lining, depending on the style of clothing, or, for that matter, suspended from belt, button, or wristband.
However held, wherever kept, it had the capacity of recording some twenty million words on each of three molecular energy levels. With one end of the cylinder connected to a transliterator, resonating efficiently with Harlan's earpiece, and the other end connected field-wise to the small mike at his lips, Harlan could listen and speak simultaneously.
Every sound made during the hours of the "gathering" repeated itself now in his ear, and as he listened, he spoke words that recorded themselves on a second level, co-ordinate with but different from the primary level on which the gathering had been recorded. On this second level he described his own impressions, he ascribed significance, pointed out correlations. Eventually, when he made use of the molecular recorder to write a report, he would have, not simply a sound-forsound recording, but an annotated reconstruction.
Noys Lambent entered. She did not signal her entrance in any way.
Annoyed, Harlan removed lip-piece and earpiece, clipped them to the molecular recorder, placed the whole into its kit, and clasped that shut.
"Why do you act so angry with me?" asked Noys. Her arms and shoulders were bare and her long legs shimmered in faintly luminescent foamite.
He said, "I am not angry. I have no feeling for you at all." At the moment he felt the statement to be rigidly true.
She said, "Are you still working? Surely, you must be tired."
"I can't work if you're here," he replied peevishly.
"You are angry with me. You did not say a word to me all evening."
"I said as little as I could to anybody. I wasn't there to speak." He waited for her to leave.
But she said, "I brought you another drink. You seemed to enjoy one at the gathering and one isn't enough. Especially if you're going to be working."
He noticed the small Mekkano behind her, gliding in on a smooth force-field.
He had eaten sparingly that evening, picking lightly at dishes concerning which he had reported in full in past Observations but which (except for fact-searching nibbles) he had thus far refrained from eating. Against his will, he had liked them. Against his will, he had enjoyed the foaming, light green, peppermint-flavored drink (not quite alcoholic, something else, rather) that was currently fashionable. It had not existed in the Century two physioyears earlier, prior to the latest Reality Change.
He took the second drink from the Mekkano with an austere nod of thanks to Noys.
Now why had a Reality Change which had had virtually no physical effect on the Century brought a new drink into existence? Well, he wasn't a Computer, so there was no use asking himself that question. Besides, even the most detailed possible Computations could never eliminate all uncertainty, all random effects. If that weren't so, there would be no need for Observers.
They were alone together in the house, Noys and himself. Mekkanos were at the height of their popularity these two decades past and would remain so for nearly a decade more in this Reality, so there were no human servants about.
Of course, with the female of the species as economically independent as the male, and able to attain motherhood, if she so wished, without the necessities of physical childbearing, there could be nothing "improper" in their being together alone in the eyes of the 482nd, at least.
Yet Harlan felt compromised.
The girl was stretched out on her elbow on a sofa opposite. Its patterned covering sank beneath her as though avid to embrace her. She had kicked off the transparent shoes she had been wearing and her toes curled and uncurled within the flexible foamite, like the soft paws of a luxuriant cat.
She shook her head and whatever it was that had kept her hair arranged upward away from her ears in intricate intertwinings was suddenly loosened. The hair tumbled about her neck and her bare shoulders became more creamily lovely at the contrast with the black of the hair.
She murmured, "How old are you?"
That he certainly should not have answered. It was a personal question and the answer was none of her business. What he should have said at that point with polite firmness was: May I be left to my work? Instead what he heard himself saying was, "Thirty-two years." He meant physioyears, of course.
She said, "I'm younger than you. I'm twenty-seven. But I suppose I won't always look younger than you. I suppose you'll be like this when I'm an old woman. What made you decide to be thirty-two? Can you change if you wish? Wouldn't you want to be younger?"
"What are you talking about?" Harlan rubbed his forehead to clear his mind.
She said softly, "You live forever. You're an Eternal."
Was it a question or a statement?
He said, "You're mad. We grow old and die like anyone else."
She said, "You can tell me." Her voice was low and cajoling. The fifty-millennial language, which he had always thought harsh and unpleasant, seemed euphonious after all. Or was it merely that a full stomach and the scented air had dulled his ears?
She said, "You can see all Times, visit all places. I so wanted to work in Eternity. I waited the longest time for them to let me. I thought maybe they'd make me an Eternal, and then I found there were only men there. Some of them wouldn't even talk to me because I was a woman. You wouldn't talk to me."
"We're all busy," mumbled Harlan, fighting to keep off something that could only be described as a numb content. "I was very busy."
"But why aren't there more women Eternals?"
Harlan couldn't trust himself to speak. What could he say? That members of Eternity were chosen with infinite care since two conditions had to be met. First, they must be equipped for the job; second, their withdrawal from Time must have no deleterious effect upon Reality.
Reality! That was the word he must not mention under any circumstances. He felt the spinning sensation in his head grow stronger and he closed his eyes for a moment to stop it.
How many excellent prospects had been left untouched in Time because their removal into Eternity would have meant the non-birth of children, the non-death of women and men, non-marriage, non-happenings, non-circumstance that would have twisted Reality in directions the Allwhen Council could not permit.
Could he tell her any of this? Of course not. Could he tell her that women almost never qualified for Eternity because, for some reason he did not understand (Computers might, but he himself certainly did not), their abstraction from Time was from ten to a hundred times as likely to distort Reality as was the abstraction of a man.
(All the thoughts jumbled together in his head, lost and whirling, joined to one another in a free association that produced odd, almost grotesque, but not entirely unpleasant, results. Noys was closer to him now, smiling.)
He heard her voice like a drifting wind. "Oh, you Eternals. You are so secretive. You won't share at all. Make me an Eternal."
Her voice was a sound now that didn't coalesce into separate words, just a delicately modulated sound that insinuated itself into his mind.
He wanted, he longed to tell her: There's no fun in Eternity, lady. We work! We work to plot out all the details of everywhen from the beginning of Eternity to where Earth is empty, and we try to plot out all the infinite possibilities of all the might-have-beens and pick out a might-have-been that is better than what is and decide where in Time we can make a tiny little change to twist the is to the might-be and we have a new is and look for a new might-be, forever, and forever, and that is how it has been since Vikkor Mallansohn discovered the Temporal Field in the 24th, way back in the Primitive 24th and then it was possible to start Eternity in the 27th, the mysterious Mallansohn whom no man knows and who started Eternity, really, and the new might-be, forever and forever and forever and...
He shook his head, but the whirligig of thought went on and on in stranger and more jagged breaks and leaps until it jumped into a sudden flash of illumination that persisted for a brilliant second, then died.
That moment steadied him. He grasped for it, but it was gone.
The peppermint drink?
Noys was still closer, her face not quite clear in his gaze. He could feel her hair against his cheek, the warm, light pressure of her breath. He ought to draw away, but-strangely, strangely-he found he did not want to.
"If I were made an Eternal..." she breathed, almost in his ear, though the words were scarcely heard above the beating of his heart. Her lips were moist and parted. "Wouldn't you like to?"
He did not know what she meant, but suddenly he didn't care. He seemed in flames. He put out his arms clumsily, gropingly. She did not resist, but melted and coalesced with him.
It all happened dreamily, as though it were happening to someone else.
It wasn't nearly as repulsive as he had always imagined it must be. It came as a shock to him, a revelation, that it wasn't repulsive at all.
Even afterward, when she leaned against him with her eyes all soft and smiling a little, he found he had to reach out and stroke her damp hair with slow and trembling delight.
She was entirely different in his eyes now. She was not a woman, not an individual at all. She was suddenly an aspect of himself. She was, in a strange and unexpected way, a part of himself.
The spatio-temporal chart said nothing of this, yet Harlan felt no guilt. It was only the thought of Finge that aroused strong emotion in Harlan's breast. And that wasn't guilt. Not at all.
It was satisfaction, even triumph!
In bed Harlan could not sleep. The lightheadedness had worn off now, but there was still the unusual fact that for the first time in his adult life a grown woman shared his bed.
He could hear her soft breathing and in the ultra-dim glow to which the internal light of the walls and ceiling had been reduced he could see her body as the merest shadow next to his.
He had only to move his hand to feel the warmth and softness of her flesh, and he dared not do that, lest he wake her out of whatever dreaming she might have. It was as though she were dreaming for the two of them, dreaming herself and himself and all that had happened, and as though her waking would drive it all from existence.
It was a thought that seemed a piece of those other queer, unusual thoughts he had experienced just before...
Those had been strange thoughts, coming to him at a moment between sense and nonsense. He tried to recapture them and could not. Yet suddenly it was very important that he recapture them. For although he could not remember the details, he could remember that, for just an instant, he had understood something.
He was not certain what that something was, but there had been the unearthly clarity of the half-asleep, when more than mortal eye and mind seems suddenly to come to life.
His anxiety grew. Why couldn't he remember? So much had been in his grasp.
For the moment even the sleeping girl beside him receded into the hinterland of his thoughts.
He thought: If I follow the thread... I was thinking of Reality and Eternity... yes, and Mallansohn and the Cub!
He stopped there. Why the Cub? Why Cooper? He hadn't thought of him.
But if he hadn't, then why should he think of Brinsley Sheridan Cooper now?
He frowned! What was the truth that connected all this? What was it he was trying to find? What made him so sure there was something to find?
Harlan felt chilled, for with these questions a distant glow of that earlier illumination seemed to break upon the horizons of his mind and he almost knew.
He held his breath, did not press for it. Let it come.
Let it come.
And in the quiet of that night, a night already so uniquely significant in his life, an explanation and interpretation of events came to him that at any saner, more normal time he would not have entertained for a moment.
He let the thought bud and flower, let it grow until he could see it explain a hundred odd points that otherwise simply remained-odd.
He would have to investigate this, check this, back in Eternity, but in his heart he was already convinced that he knew a terrible secret he was not meant to know.
A secret that embraced all Eternity!