Fermeti said, "What is it, Aaron? Explain."
"When we removed his memory of what had happened we made it impossible for him to write the article for the journal," Tozzo said. "He must have based Night Flight on his experience with us, here." Snatching up the August 1955 copy of If he turned to the table-of-contents page.
No article by Poul Anderson was listed. Instead, on page 78, he saw Philip K. Dick's The Mold of Yancy listed instead.
They had changed the past after all. And now the formula for their Project was gone – gone entirely.
"We shouldn't have tampered," Tozzo said in a hoarse voice. "We should never have brought him out of the past." He drank a little more of the century-old Scotch, his hands shaking.
"Brought who?" Gilly said, with a puzzled look.
"Don't you remember?" Tozzo stared at him, incredulous.
"What's this discussion about?" Fermeti said impatiently. "And what are you two doing in my office? You both should be busy at work." He saw the bottle of Scotch and blanched. "How'd that get open?"
His hands trembling, Tozzo turned the pages of the journal over and over again. Already, the memory was growing diffuse in his mind; he struggled in vain to hold onto it. They had brought someone from the past, a pre-cog, wasn't it? But who? A name, still in his mind but dimming with each passing moment… Anderson or Anderton, something like that. And in connection with the Bureau's interstellar mass-deprivation Project. Or was it?
Puzzled, Tozzo shook his head and said in bewilderment, "I have some peculiar words in my mind. Night Flight. Do either of you happen to know what it refers to?"
"Night Flight" Fermeti echoed. "No, it means nothing to me. I wonder, though – it certainly would be an effective name for our Project."
"Yes," Gilly agreed. "That must be what it refers to."
"But our Project is called Waterspider, isn't it?" Tozzo said. At least he thought it was. He blinked, trying to focus his faculties.
"The truth of the matter, " Fermeti said, "is that we've never titled it." Brusquely, he added, "But I agree with you; that's an even better name for it. Waterspider. Yes, I like that."
The door of the office opened and there stood a uniformed, bonded messenger. "From the Smithsonian," he informed them. "You requested this." He produced a parcel, which he laid on Fermeti's desk.
"I don't remember ordering anything from the Smithsonian," Fermeti said. Opening it cautiously he found a can of roasted, ground coffee beans, still vacuum packed, over a century old.
The three men looked at one another blankly.
"Strange," Torelli murmured. "There must be some mistake."
"Well," Fletcher said, "in any case, back to Project Waterspider." Nodding, Torelli and Oilman turned in the direction of their own office on the first floor of Outward, Incorporated, the commercial firm at which they has worked and the project on which they had labored, with so many heartaches and setbacks, for so long.
At the Science Fiction Convention at the Sir Francis Drake Hotel, Poul Anderson looked around him in bewilderment. Where had he been? Why had he gone out of the building? And it was an hour later; Tony Boucher and Jim Gunn had left for dinner by now, and he saw no sign of his wife Karen and the baby, either.
The last he remembered was two fans from Battlecreek who wanted him to look at a display outside on the sidewalk. Perhaps he had gone to see that. In any case, he had no memory of the interval.
Anderson groped about in his coat pocket for his pipe, hoping to calm his oddly jittery nerves – and found, not his pipe, but instead a folded piece of paper.
"Got anything for our auction, Poul?" a member of the Convention committee asked, halting beside him. "The auction is just about to start – we have to hurry."
Still looking at the paper from his pocket, Poul murmured, "Urn, you mean something here with me?"
"Like a typescript of some published story, the original manuscript or earlier versions or notes. You know." He paused, waiting.
"I seem to have some notes in my pocket," Poul said, still glancing over them. They were in his handwriting but he didn't remember having made them. A time-travel story, from the look of them. Must have been from those Bourbons and water, he decided, and not enough to eat. "Here," he said uncertainly, "it isn't much but I guess you can auction these." He took one final glance at them. "Notes for a story about a political figure called Gutman and a kidnapping in time. Intelligent slime mold, too, I notice." On impulse, he handed them over.
"Thanks," the man said, and hurried on toward the other room, where the auction was being held.
"I bid ten dollars," Howard Browne called, smiling broadly. "Then I have to catch a bus to the airport." The door closed after him.
Karen, with Astrid, appeared beside Poul. "Want to go into the auction?" she asked her husband. "Buy an original Finlay?"
"Um, sure," Poul Anderson said, and with his wife and child walked slowly after Howard Browne.
What the Dead Men Say
I
The body of Louis Sarapis, in a transparent plastic shatterproof case, had lain on display for one week, exciting a continual response from the public. Distended lines filed past with the customary sniffling, pinched faces, distraught elderly ladies in black cloth coats.
In a corner of the large auditorium in which the casket reposed, Johnny Barefoot impatiently waited for his chance at Sarapis's body. But he did not intend merely to view it; his job, detailed in Sarapis's will, lay in another direction entirely. As Sarapis's public relations manager, his job was – simply – to bring Louis Sarapis back to life.
"Keerum," Barefoot murmured to himself, examining his wristwatch and discovering that two more hours had to pass before the auditorium doors could be finally closed. He felt hungry. And the chill, issuing from the quick-pack envelope surrounding the casket, had increased his discomfort minute by minute.
His wife Sarah Belle approached him, then, with a thermos of hot coffee. "Here, Johnny." She reached up and brushed the black, shiny Chiricahua hair back from his forehead. "You don't look so good."
"No," he agreed. "This is too much for me. I didn't care for him much when he was alive – I certainly don't like him any better this way." He jerked his head at the casket and the double line of mourners.
Sarah Belle said softly, "Nil nisi bonum."
He glowered at her, not sure of what she had said. Some foreign language, no doubt. Sarah Belle had a college degree.
"To quote Thumper Rabbit," Sarah Belle said, smiling gently, " 'if you can't say nothing good, don't say nothing at all.' " She added, "From Bambi, an old film classic. If you attended the lectures at the Museum of Modern Art with me every Monday night -"
"Listen," Johnny Barefoot said desperately, "I don't want to bring the old crook back to life, Sarah Belle; how'd I get myself into this? I thought sure when the embolism dropped him like a cement block it meant I could kiss the whole business goodbye forever." But it hadn't quite worked out that way.
"Unplug him," Sarah Belle said.
"W-what?"
She laughed. "Are you afraid to? Unplug the quick-pack power source and he'll warm up. And no resurrection, right?" Her blue-gray eyes danced with amusement. "Scared of him, I guess. Poor Johnny." She patted him on the arm. "I should divorce you, but I won't; you need a mama to take care of you."
"It's wrong," he said. "Louis is completely helpless, lying there in the casket. It would be – unmanly to unplug him."