The Third Time Travel Page 2

  The Wildside Book of Fantasy

  The Wildside Book of Science Fiction

  Yondering: The First Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

  To the Stars—And Beyond! The Second Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

  Once Upon a Future: The Third Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

  Whodunit?—The First Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories

  More Whodunits—The Second Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories

  X is for Xmas: Christmas Mysteries

  THE CHILDREN’S ROOM, by Raymond F. Jones

  Bill Starbrook sat down carefully in his battered soup-and-fish and picked up the latest “Journal of Physics.” There had been time to read only the first three pages of Sanderson’s article on nuclear emissions before he and Rose had gone off to what she euphemistically termed “an evening’s entertainment.” Now, at two o’clock in the morning, he tried to shake from his head the brain fog induced by the foul air and worse liquor of the cabaret.

  Finally he gave it up. It was useless to try to keep up on his science. But that was the price to be paid for being Chief Engineer of an outfit like Bradford Electronics. Commerce before research, and the customer’s gin is always the best.

  But his day was coming. He was nearly ready to break loose as an independent consultant.

  As he moved to lay the Journal down he glanced at the spot on the end table at which it was aimed. There was a new book there, one he hadn’t seen before. He dropped the Journal into the magazine rack and picked up the unfamiliar book. One of young Walt’s. The kid was always bringing in strange volumes from the university and the public libraries. His 240 I.Q. mind was as inquisitive as a pup’s. He would read anything he could get his hands on.

  The present volume looked like something out of an ancient law or medical library to judge by the cover. Walt read as many curdling comics as the average ten-year-old in the neighborhood, but he read voraciously also of everything else from Plutarch’s Lives to the Journal of Physics.

  Starbrook was somewhat puzzled to find that the ponderous looking tome in his hands was nothing but a fairy tale.

  He thumbed through it curiously. There was no accounting for the swift, piercing inquiry of the boy’s mind. It was perhaps no more inconsistent that he should find entertainment in a fairy story than that he should find intellectual pleasure in atomic theory. All this while his companions confined themselves to such moderations as comic books and baseball.

  The words of the story caught Starbrook’s eye. He found himself scanning the sentences, following their meaning. A strange, tantalizing quality escaped him at first, then became plain as he went along. It was the fact that almost every word had a double semantic content. It was like reading two stories simultaneously. He marveled at the skill that had been required to construct such a tale.

  The secondary, or theme story, as he thought of it, held him entranced. It was a curious tale about a group of men different in mental and physical attributes from their fellows. They were sad and lonely because they were isolated from each other and because the human beings with whom they associated did not understand them. Then, magically, there appeared a book that went throughout the Earth and led them to each other and through a door into a place where they lived happily ever after.

  A curious tale, it was as if the shadow of a strange and mysterious meaning lay hidden there just beyond the grasp of his imagination. He revised his first opinion. It was the kind of thing that would appeal to Walt, all right.

  Then, suddenly, Starbrook awoke to the fact that the time was four-thirty and he could snatch scarcely two hours’ sleep before getting down to the labs.

  * * * *

  At six o’clock, however, he roused blearily at the sound of movement within the bedroom. Rose was getting dressed.

  “What’s the big idea?” he said.

  “Shh, darling. Go back to sleep. I’ll call you in an hour. Walt’s been coughing for the last hour. I’m going in to see him. If he has a cold he can’t go to school this morning.”

  Starbrook shook his head fiercely to try to clear it. He knew it was useless to try to sleep more now. It would only make him more dopey at work. He glanced groggily at the clock and stumbled into Walt’s room.

  The boy was smothering a cough. He grinned as the spasms ended. “I’m the victim of a filterable virus, Dad. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  Starbrook sat down on the edge of the bed. “Better stay home today and not let the bugs get any bigger hold on you.”

  “I guess so, but gee—I’ve got a library book due today and they’re awfully strict. Maybe you’d take it back for me?”

  “Sure. Where does it go? What book is it?”

  “It’s on the table in the living room. It’s from the Children’s Room of the University Library.”

  “That odd fairy tale book? I looked at it last night. I didn’t know they had any such books at the University.”

  “I didn’t either until a month ago. They’ve got some swell books there. It seems like you go along and think you’ve just been reading a swell story and all of a sudden you find it’s just been teaching you something. Like putting candy on a pill. I sure wish they’d do it that way in school.”

  Starbrook laughed. “Sounds like a good system. I’ll have to have a look into some more of these books they have there.”

  “I hope you do,” said Walt quietly.

  “I suppose Miss Perkins is responsible for them. She’s always up on the latest stuff to improve the mind of man and beast.”

  Bill Starbrook was well known around the campus of Hedeman University. He frequented the excellent research library there and had arranged for Walt’s special use of the books there, although he was sure that Miss Perkins, the librarian, regarded them both as unconventional interlopers who had no place on a dignified campus.

  Pausing on the way to work to return the book, Starbrook found Miss Perkins alone at the desk. He unlocked his brief case and took out Walt’s book.

  “Good morning, Miss Perkins. I wonder if you’d see that this gets to the Children’s Room for me? It’s due today and Walt’s sick.”

  Miss Perkins smiled a good morning, then frowned. “The Children’s Room? We have no children’s department.”

  She picked up the book and examined its title page and library number. She frowned even more darkly. “You must be mistaken. This doesn’t even make sense. It isn’t one of our books.”

  Starbrook grunted in irritation. “I was sure Walt said he got it here.”

  “It must be from the public library, though I’m sure I don’t understand the markings. What is it? Something mathematical?”

  Starbrook looked at her and mentally counted to ten. He was in no mood for jokes this morning. He said sweetly, “It’s just some fairy tales my boy has been reading.”

  He left before he observed Miss Perkins’ severely pursed lips. ’

  As he turned away, the incident hung on in his mind with irritating persistence. He knew he hadn’t been so dopey that morning that he hadn’t heard Walt correctly. He was certain the boy had said the Children’s Room at the University Library.

  Then, as he was almost to the door, he glanced to the left and swore softly. There, over a doorway, was the designation: Children’s Room.

  What was Miss Perkins trying to pull on him? he wondered. Mathematics—!

  He wondered why he hadn’t noticed this room before, but he had always dashed through in such a hurry. It could easily escape notice hidden as it was in a shallow alcove.

  The room wasn’t very large. Seated at tables were about a dozen children ranging in ages from about eight to fourteen. The librarian at the desk was little and wrinkled. A quality of tremendous age like an aura about her, defied description, but her blue eyes were sharp and young.

  She seemed startled by his appearance. “You haven’t been here before!”

  Starbrook liked her at once. There was none
of Miss Perkins’ sourness which he had come to associate with all librarians.

  He smiled, “No. My son, Walt, checked this out. He is sick today so he asked me to bring it in.”

  “Were you—have you read any of this book?”

  Starbrook was puzzled by her alarm and amazement at his appearance. “Yes,” he said. “It’s quite an interesting book. I haven’t kept up very well with progress in children’s literature.”

  The little old librarian exclaimed, “This is so unusual. I wonder what I ought to—”

  Starbrook had about reached the end of his endurance for the day. It was twenty minutes to nine—twenty minutes until he had to meet all his section chiefs for weekly conference.

  “I must go now,” he said. “If you will just check this book in for my boy—”

  The librarian seemed to reach some decision about a matter beyond his comprehension. She lost her helpless expression and smiled gently. “Of course. And would you take this next volume in the series he is reading? Also, I wonder if you would do us the favor of taking a couple of other volumes and glancing over them critically yourself. We have some rather radically different works here and we’re anxious to have adult criticism on them.”

  Starbrook’s irritation lessened before her smile and he nodded. “I’ll be glad to.”

  The day passed with all the irritations and commotions that might be expected the day after such a night before as Starbrook had experienced. He was at least relieved to find that it had resulted in clinching the purchase of the Cromwell patents, which had been the object of last night’s entertainment.

  He was tired when he finally reached home again after such a day, but not too tired to put on a cheery smile for Walt as he told Rose to wait dinner a few minutes. He took the new book and went into Walt’s bedroom.

  Walt’s eyes lighted. “Gee, Dad, I thought you’d never come! You brought me another book! Maybe I could talk you into reading to me.”

  “Sure. There’s nothing I’d like better. The librarian even asked me to take a couple for myself. We’ll read right after dinner. O.K.?”

  “Sure. I’m glad you saw Miss Edythe. She’s a nice old lady, isn’t she? She shows me just which books to read so that I won’t get mixed up on them.”

  “Are you supposed to read them in a certain order?”

  “Yes. I picked up some out of order one day and they looked like a foreign language. I have to read the first ones to understand the harder ones. I don’t know why, but that’s the way it is.”

  After dinner, Starbrook went back and opened the new volume that Miss Edythe had sent for Walt.

  “You really can read this stuff, all right?” said Walt.

  “Sure, why?”

  “Well, you haven’t read the first books yet, and I just wondered,” Walt said evasively.

  Starbrook took up the reading. The story was something of a continuation of what he had read the previous night, the story of the “different” men. In long detail it told how the first man learned that he was different, and how he finally located a few others of his kind. Together, they prepared the magic book and sent it on its way around the world to gather all the rest.

  The darkness of early autumn slowly filled the room, and the words grew dim on the pages before Starbrook. But within his brain it was as if a glowing, expanding illumination were present. The story that had been secondary in the previous book was now the primary, as he termed them to himself. And the secondary story of this book was a devastating, unbelievable revelation.

  “You are one of the ‘different’ men,” its unspoken, intangible message shouted within his brain, “and this is the magic book. Follow where it leads and you shall find the haven that has been prepared for all of us!”

  He slammed the book shut abruptly as the darkness became too great to see the words any longer, but he could not still that persistent message in his brain.

  The white face of Walt lying against the pillow was hardly visible. “Don’t stop,” the boy said. “Turn on the light and let’s go on.”

  “Walt—” Starbrook hesitated. He didn’t quite know how to say it. “What does this mean to you? Do you find any symbolism in it besides the actual story?”

  “Sure. It says that we’re a different kind of people from most others. It’s going to show us how to get to a place where there are others of our kind. We couldn’t read it if that weren’t so. That’s why I’m so glad you can read it. You’re one of us, too.”

  Starbrook was glad the darkness hid his face and his eyes. “How do you know that?”

  “Miss Edythe told me that others wouldn’t believe that there were ordinary words in these books. She said not to show them to anyone for that reason. I found out she was right.” Disappointment clouded Walt’s eyes. “Mom picked up one of the books one day and she seemed almost afraid of it. I told her then that it was algebra. She didn’t know the difference, but still seemed afraid. I left it for you on purpose—”

  Starbrook had an average amount of imagination for an engineer, but it staggered before the implications of all this. He told himself it was only an extraordinary realism in the story of the “different” men and their magic book. It was fantastic to believe the men and the book had any counterpart in actuality.

  Yet in his mind there was a supreme, undeniable knowledge that could not be denied. Before it, his doubts and name calling were the taunts of a little boy before an impossible, white fairyland.

  The book existed.

  This was it.

  The “different” men were real. He was one of them—he and Walt belonged to that mysterious clan.

  But who were they? What did this unanswerable knowledge imply?

  “I have to do a little work downstairs,” Starbrook said. “If you aren’t asleep, I’ll come up later and read some more.”

  He went into the living room and opened the first of the two books that Miss Edythe had asked him to look over.

  He was surprised to find that these weren’t as easy to read as the ones Walt had. The very language was somehow less comprehensible. At once he knew that these were not children’s books—or were they? Books for the children who had come up through the gradual orientation process of the more elementary volumes?

  There was no pretense of a story.

  The book opened at once with an abstruse exposition on the principles of biology, heredity, and radiation. It was hard going, but as he continued he seemed to grow in ability to grasp the words and principles. But he tried in vain to imagine the eight-year-olds he had seen in the Children’s Room grasping the substance of this work!

  Rose came in to protest his staying up, but he refused to quit. His mind was leaping across the gigantic peaks and crags of the magnificent exposition that lay before him. At midnight he put the book down, completed, dimly realizing that he had read and absorbed a work that should have required weeks.

  But what was the purpose of it all? Why were such books in a children’s department of a library? He still could not credit the insistent, semantic implications of the fairy story that he and Walt were of the “different” men. As yet, there was no explanation of the difference, and the mysterious destination of all these men.

  And then the answer came swiftly and like a sudden burst of flame before his eyes. He opened the second of the two volumes which he had not been able to comprehend before. Its words were plain now and addressed directly to the reader.

  “You can easily comprehend, now, that you are a mutant.”

  He stared at the words, trying to shed their meaning from his mind, but they stayed, and he knew the truth of them.

  “You have come far enough to understand what that means,” the book went on. “You are aware of the extraterrestrial radiations which are continually producing mutations, and you understand some of the processes by which they are formed. It is not difficult, therefore, for you to understand that you are one of the many thousands of the ‘different’ men, the mutants who throng the Earth, scarcel
y knowing that they differ from their fellows in any matter.”

  Starbrook looked up. It would be easy to admit the truth of this with regard to Walt. With an I.Q. of 240 at the last test—

  But Bill Starbrook—what could there be about him to indicate a mutation? He was a reasonably good engineer—but no better than a couple of million other guys. He possessed no unusual marks of mind or body.

  “Thousands of mutations occur every month,” he read on. “Most of them are lethal because they are of no advantage to the individual or to the race. But over a period of time there are also unknown thousands of beneficent mutations, most of which are also eventually lost.

  “They are lost to the race through accident, improper mating or no mating at all. They are lost in many instances to the individual because the differences which they impose render him more or less misfit in social aggregations. There are, of course, numerous other instances in which desirable mutations produce a more intelligent, more enduring, completely superior individual, who is never recognized by himself or his associates as a mutant. His characteristics may be passed on for a few generations, but unless combined in proper matings they may become recessive and lost.

  “In a time far distant from your own, the human race is in competition with another major race in the galaxy who are out-evolving mankind. In order to maintain not only the superiority which the human race has gained, but its very existence, it is necessary that the natural processes of evolution be speeded. Wasteful and ghastly experiments have proved the impossibility of doing this by artificial means. Only through natural processes which cannot be duplicated at will can evolution proceed in an effective manner. But nature, in her waste of precious mutations throughout the ages, is herself responsible for man’s dire position in this future day.

  “Our purpose, then, is to accelerate the evolutionary rate of the human race by salvaging the beneficent mutations which have been wasted through the ages.

  “You who have come this far with us have a duty now, a duty to join us, to bring your mutated characteristics before the race for the benefit of all.”