«We have the capacity to do nearly all things,» said Father Gonzales. «At present, I mean in the twentieth century, we seem to do evil very well. We can do as much good, given the chance.»
«Who’s denying us the chance?» asked Herries. «Just ourselves, H. Sapiens. Therefore I wonder if we really are able to do good.»
«Don’t confuse sinfulness with damnation,» said the priest. «We have perhaps been unfortunate in our successes. And yet even our most menacing accomplishments have a kind of sublimity. The time projector, for example. If the minds able to shape such a thing in metal were only turned toward human problems, what could we not hope to do?»
«But that’s my point,» said Herries. «We don’t do the high things. We do what’s trivial and evil so consistently that I wonder if it isn’t in our nature. Even this time travel business… more and more I’m coming to think there’s something fundamentally unhealthy about it. As if it’s an invention which only an ingrown mind would have made first.»
«First?»
Herries looked up into the steaming sky. A foul wind met his face. «There are stars above those clouds,» he said, «and most stars must have planets. I’ve not been told how the time projector works, but elementary differential calculus will show that travel into the past is equivalent to attaining, momentarily, an infinite velocity. In other words, the basic natural law which the projector uses is one which somehow goes beyond relativity theory. If a time projector is possible, so is a spaceship which can reach the stars in a matter of days, maybe of minutes or seconds. If we were sane, padre, we wouldn’t have been so anxious for a little organic grease and the little military advantage involved, that the first thing we did was go back into the dead past after it. No, we’d have invented that spaceship first, and gone out to the stars where there’s room to be free and to grow. The time projector would have come afterward, as a scientific research tool.»
He stopped, embarrassed at himself and trying awkwardly to grin. «Excuse me. Sermons are more your province than mine.»
«It was interesting,» said Father Gonzales. «But you brood too much. So do a number of the men. Even if they have no close ties at home—it was wise to pick them for that—they are all of above-average intelligence, and aware of what the future is becoming. I’d like to shake them out of their oppression. If we could get some more sports equipment—»
«Sure. I’ll see what I can do.»
«Of course,» said the priest, «the problem is basically philosophical. Don’t laugh. You too were indulging in philosophy, and doubtless you think of yourself as an ordinary, unimaginative man. Your wildcatters may not have heard of Aristotle, but they are also thinking men in their way. My personal belief is that this heresy of a fixed, rigid time line lies at the root of their growing sorrowfulness, whether they know it or not.»
«Heresy?» The engineer lifted thick sandy brows. «It’s been proved. It’s the basis of the theory which showed how to build a projector: that much I do know. How could we be here at all, if the Mesozoic were not just as real as the Cenozoic? But if all time is coexistent, then all time must be fixed—unalterable—because every instant is the unchanging past of some other instant.»
«Perhaps so, from God’s viewpoint,» said Father Gonzales. «But we are mortal men. And we have free will. The fixed-time concept need not, logically, produce fatalism; after all, Herries, man’s will is itself one of the links in the causal chain. I suspect that this irrational fatalism is an important reason why twentieth-century civilization is approaching suicide. If we think we know our future is unchangeable, if our every action is foreordained, if we are doomed already, what’s the use of trying? Why go through all the pain of thought, of seeking an answer and struggling to make others accept it? But if we really believed in ourselves, we would look for a solution, and find one.»
«Maybe,» said Herries uncomfortably. «Well, give me a list of the equipment you want, and I’ll put in an order for it the next time the mail goes out.»
As he walked off, he wondered if the mail would ever go out again.
Passing the rec hall, he noticed a small crowd before it and veered to see what was going on. He could not let men gather to trade doubts and terrors, or the entire operation was threatened. In plain English, he told himself with a growing bitter honesty, I can’t permit them to think.
But the sounds which met him, under the subtly alien rustle of forest leaves and the distant bawl of a thunder lizard, was only a guitar. Chords danced forth beneath expert fingers, and a young voice lilted:
…I traveled this wide world over,
A hundred miles or more,
But a saddle on a milk cow.
I never seen before!…
Looking over shoulders, Herries made out Greenstein, sprawled on a bench and singing. There were chuckles from the listeners. Well-deserved: the kid was good; Herries wished he could relax and simply enjoy the performance. Instead, he must note that they were finding it pleasant, and that swamp and war were alike forgotten for a valuable few minutes.
The song ended. Greenstein stood up and stretched. «Hi, boss,» he said.
Hard, wind-beaten faces turned to Herries and a mumble of greeting went around the circle. He was well enough liked, he knew, insofar as a chief can be liked. But that is not much. A leader can inspire trust, loyalty, what have you, but he cannot be humanly liked, or he is no leader.
«That was good,» said Herries. «I didn’t know you played.»
«I didn’t bring this whangbox with me, since I had no idea where I was going till I got here,» answered Greenstein. «Wrote home for it and it arrived today.»
A heavy-muscled crewcut man said, «You ought to be on the entertainment committee.» Herries recognized Worth, one of the professional patriots who would be standing guard on Symonds’ crates; but not a bad sort, really, after you learned to ignore his rather tedious opinions.
Greenstein said an indelicate word. «I’m sick of committees,» he went on. «We’ve gotten so much into the habit of being herded around—everybody in the twentieth century has—that we can’t even have a little fun without first setting up a committee.»
Worth looked offended but made no answer. It began to rain again, just a little.
«Go on now, anyway,» said Joe Eagle Wing. «Let’s not take ourselves so god-dam serious. How about another song?»
«Not in the wet.» Greenstein returned his guitar to its case. The group began to break up, some to the hall and some back toward their barges.
Herries lingered, unwilling to be left alone with himself. «About that committee,» he said. «You might reconsider. It’s probably true what you claim, but we’re stuck with a situation. We’ve simply got to tell most of the boys, ‘Now it is time to be happy,’ or they never will be.»
Greenstein frowned. «Maybe so. But hasn’t anyone ever thought of making a fresh start? Of unlearning all those bad habits?»
«You can’t do that within the context of an entire society’s vices,» said Herries. «And how’re you going to get away?»
Greenstein gave him a long look. «How the devil did you ever get this job?» he asked. «You don’t sound like a man who’d be cleared for a dishwashing assistantship.»
Herries shrugged. «All my life, I’ve liked totalitarianism even less than what passes for democracy. I served in a couple of the minor wars and—No matter. Possibly I might not be given the post if I applied now. I’ve been here more than a year, and it’s changed me some.»
«It must,» said Greenstein, flickering a glance at the jungle.