He pulled his attention back to what she was saying: "Compared to my time, education, interest, and (maybe most important) purpose are still strong here and now. I'm just trying to nudge things along a little bit, to get across the idea that the best way to solve a problem is to apply knowledge to it, as you said, Mr. McGregor. That's true both of my own stories and of the ones I've taken from other writers."
"And you've also slipped some of your special knowledge into them," the editor said.
"Of course. An amazing number of the people who read SF are engineers and scientists themselves; that's more true now than it will be in my time. If they pick up a notion or two from one of my near-future pieces, and act on them now instead?you see what I'm driving at, I think. I've done my best to describe hardware and techniques as precisely as I could."
"Using science fiction to save the world, eh?" McGregor said. "Much as I hate to say it, isn't that a trifle naive?"
"If ideas don't do the trick, what will?" Michelle retorted. The Astonishing editor grunted again.
A considerable silence fell before Pete nerved himself to ask, "Any luck?"
"I still have hope," was all she said. "Do you really want to find out more than that?"
"No, I suppose not," he said, and wondered if he meant it. He decided he did. Knowing what lay ahead was too much like losing his free will. He shuddered at the burden Michelle Gordian had taken on herself.
McGregor must have been thinking along the same lines, for he said to her, "What can I do to help?"
"The best thing would be to forget that this whole visit ever happened," she answered. "For God's sake, don't be any easier on my stories because of it. If they aren't worth reading, nobody'll care?or even find out?what's in them."
His grin was wolfish. "You needn't worry about that. If I start publishing stories that aren't worth reading, the magazine goes under and I either starve or have to start making an honest living for myself."
She made a face at him. "Fair enough." Stepping past Pete, she opened the door that led out to the mundane world of 1953.
"Excuse me." When they were walking back to the house, Pete took out his cigarettes, gratefully sucked in the harsh smoke. Seeing Michelle's expression of distaste, he quoted,
"The more fool you," she told him, but she waited until he had had enough and crushed the butt under his heel.
Once they were inside, McGregor said feelingly, "I hope no one will argue with me when I say that calls for another drink. A very dry Martini, if you have the makings."
"I'll wave the vermouth at it as I toss in the cherry," she promised. "Anything for you, Pete?"
"I wouldn't turn down another beer."
She handed it to him, made the editor's drink and a gin and tonic for herself. She watched McGregor take a cautious sip. "Is that all right?"
"I'll let you know when my eyes uncross," he wheezed, but the glass rapidly emptied.
After he was done, he seemed impatient to be gone. Pete thought he wanted to talk privately about the amazing day, but he said very little on the drive back to the motel. At last Pete said, "What is it, Jim? I've never seen you knock back a drink so fast, and I've never heard you so quiet."
"You didn't pay a lot of attention to the books back there, did you?"
"No, not really. Why?"
"I wish I hadn't." There was a long pause. "One of them was called The James McGregor Memorial Anthology."
"The?oh, Jim!"
"Yeah. It's good to know I'll be well thought of, I suppose."
Pete could only admire the editor's composure. Even a kidnapper facing the gas chamber could hope his sentence would be commuted; this one, though indefinite, was certain. Pete hesitated, then asked, "Did you, uh, look at the copyright date?"
"The hell I did!" McGregor said, echoing Pete's feelings exactly: "That's a chunk of the future I have no desire to know more about, thank you very much."
"What will you do now?"
"What would you expect? Get a flight back to New York and go on with Astonishing, of course. There's certainly nothing I'd rather do." He fished his wallet out of his pocket, pawed through it. "Where's that Trans World reservation-and-ticket number? Oh, here it is?MIchigan 8141. I'll have to give them a call when we get back to our digs."
They were pulling into the motel parking lot when Pete said reflectively, "Things aren't going to be as simple?or as good?up ahead as I'd hoped, from what Michelle says."
The editor laughed at him. "Remember what de Camp put in the mouth of one of his characters? Something to the effect that a truthful traveler coming back from heaven would report its charm greatly overrated."
"Well, maybe so. Still, I'm not sorry she's trying to bend the future a bit. Imagine reaching the moon and then cutting back on space exploration. It's crazy!"
"You get no arguments from me. If I thought you were wrong, I'd be calling the FBI now, not TWA." Pete turned off the ignition. They got out of the car. McGregor went on, "Let's get ourselves packed. Our wives will be missing us."
"So they will," Pete agreed, but he was disturbed to find himself thinking as much of Michelle Gordian as of Katherine.
The big propellers began to spin, slowly at first but then blurring toward invisibility. Even behind the steel and glass of the terminal, the roar of the radial engines sank into a man's bones. The airliner rolled west along the runway. It sprang into the air; the landing gear folded up into its belly.
Wishing McGregor well, Pete walked back through the terminal toward the parking lot off Century Boulevard. He passed the row of telephones in which the editor had searched in vain for "Mark" Gordian's number. He hesitated, took out a dime, and went over to an unused phone.
He dialed with a rising sense of trepidation. He heard three rings, four, five; he was about to hang up, more relieved than not, when his call got answered. "Hello?"
"Michelle?"
"Yes, this is Michelle Gordian. Who's calling, please?" She sounded out of breath; she had probably come running in from outside, he thought, to pick up the phone.
"This is Pete Lundquist, Michelle."
"How did you get my number?" she demanded, both anger and alarm in her voice.
"I saw it on your telephone yesterday," he said apologetically. "I have a good memory for such things."
"Oh." She seemed mollified, but only a little. "What is it you want, then?"
Not altogether sure of the answer to that himself, he decided to take her literally. "I've been thinking of the conversation we had yesterday, and?"
"?you decided you really want to know what's going to happen after all," she interrupted. Again he heard her full of the cynicism that appeared to come so easily to the future. She said, "You were smarter before, I promise you."
"I believe it," he said quickly. "It's just that?well, there I was in a room full of machines from your time, and every one of them turned off! I felt like Tantalus and the bunch of grapes. All I was going to ask was to see them work just once. Anything more than that I'll cheerfully stay ignorant of."
The line was silent so long that he said, "Hello?"
"I'm here," she answered. "Well, why not? The worst part of living back here is the loneliness. My neighbors are friendly, but we have so little in common with one another, and I don't dare show them what I have in the garage. Either they wouldn't understand or they'd expose me. You're enough different that?tell you what. I was just going out to the garage to work on a story of my own when you called, and that'll probably keep me busy through the afternoon. Why don't you come over around nine tonight? Come straight out to the garage; I'll probably still be in there anyhow."