Spencer went back to his desk and had another look at the schedule for the day. There was E.J. bound for Roman Britain on the Family Tree project; Nickerson going back to the early Italian Renaissance to check up once again on the missing treasure in the Vatican; Hennessy off on his search once more for the lost documents in fifteenth-century Spain; Williams going out, he hoped, finally to snatch the mislaid Picasso, and a half dozen more. Not a massive schedule. But enough to spell out a fairly busy day.
He checked the men not on the projects list. A couple of them were on vacation. One was in Rehabilitation. Indoctrination had the rest of them.
He sat there, then, for the thousandth time, wondering what it would be like, really, to travel into time.
He’d heard hints of it from some of the travelers, but no more than hints, for they did not talk about it. Perhaps they did among themselves, when there were no outsiders present. Perhaps not even then. As if it were something that no man could quite describe. As if it were an experience that no man should discuss.
A haunting sense of unreality, the feeling that one was out of place, a hint of not quite belonging, of somehow standing, tip-toe, on the far edge of eternity.
It wore off after a time, of course, but apparently one was never entirely free of it. For the past, in some mysterious working of a principle yet unknown, was a world of wild enchantment.
Well, he had had his chance and flunked it.
But some day, he told himself, he would go into time. Not as a regular traveler, but as a vacationist—if he could snatch the necessary time to get ready for the trip. The trip, itself, of course, was no consideration so far as time might be concerned. It was Indoctrination and the briefing that was time-consuming.
He picked up the schedule again for another look. All of those who were going back this day were good men. There was no need to worry about any one of them.
He laid the schedule to one side and buzzed Miss Crane.
Miss Crane was a letter-perfect secretary, though she wasn’t much to look at. She was a leathery old maid. She had her own way of doing things, and she could act very disapproving.
No choice of his, Spencer had inherited her fifteen years before. She had been with Past, Inc., before there was even a projects office. And, despite her lack of looks, her snippy attitude and her generally pessimistic view of life, she was indispensable.
She knew the projects job as well as he did. At times she let him know it. But she never forgot, never mislaid, never erred; she ran an efficient office, always got her work done and it always was on time.
Spence, dreaming at times of a lusher young replacement, knew that he was no more than dreaming. He couldn’t do his job without Miss Crane in the outer office.
“You sneaked in again,” she accused him as soon as she’d closed the door.
“I suppose there’s someone waiting.”
“There’s a Dr. Aldous Ravenholt,” she said. “He’s from Foundation for Humanity.”
Spencer flinched. There was no one worse to start a morning with than some pompous functionary from Humanity. They almost always figured that you owed them something. They thought the whole world owed them something.
“And there’s a Mr. Stewart Cabell. He’s an applicant sent up by Personnel. Mr. Spencer, don’t you think …”
“No, I don’t,” Spencer snapped at her. “I know Personnel is sore. But I’ve been taking everyone they’ve been shoveling up here and see what happens. Three men gone in the last ten days. From now on, I’m taking a close look at everyone myself.”
She sniffed. It was a very nasty sniff.
“That’s all?” asked Spencer, figuring that he couldn’t be that lucky—just two of them.
“Also there’s a Mr. Boone Hudson. He’s an elderly man who looks rather ill and he seems impatient. Perhaps you should see him first.”
Spence might have, but not after she said that.
“I’ll see Ravenholt,” he said. “Any idea what he wants?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, send him in,” said Spencer. “He’ll probably want to chisel a slice of Time off me.”
Chiselers, he thought. I didn’t know there were so many chiselers!
Aldous Ravenholt was a pompous man, well satisfied and smug. You could have buttered bread with the crease in his trousers. His handshake was professional and he had an automatic smile. He sat down in the chair that Spencer offered him with a self-assurance that was highly irritating.
“I came to talk with you,” he said precisely, “about the pending proposal to investigate religious origins.”
Spencer winced mentally. It was a tender subject.
“Dr. Ravenholt,” he said, “that is a matter I have given a great deal of attention. Not myself alone, but my entire department.”
“That is what I’ve heard,” Ravenholt said drily. “That is why I’m here. I understand you have tentatively decided not to go ahead with it.”
“Not tentatively,” said Spencer. “Our decision has been made. I’m curious how you heard it.”
Ravenholt waved an airy hand, implying there was very little he did not know about. “I presume the matter still is open to discussion.”
Spencer shook his head.
Ravenholt said, icily, “I fail to see how you could summarily cut off an investigation so valid and so vital to all humanity.”
“Not summarily, Dr. Ravenholt. We spent a lot of time on it. We made opinion samplings. We had an extensive check by Psych. We considered all the factors.”
“And your findings, Mr. Spencer?”
“First of all,” said Spencer, just a little nettled, “it would be too time-consuming. As you know, our license specifies that we donate ten per cent of our operation time to public interest projects. This we are most meticulous in doing, although I don’t mind telling you there’s nothing that gives us greater headaches.”
“But that ten per cent …”
“If we took up this project you are urging, doctor, we’d use up all our public interest time for several years at least. That would mean no other programs at all.”
“But surely you’ll concede that no other proposal could be in a greater public interest.”
“That’s not our findings,” Spencer told him. “We took opinion samplings in every area of Earth, in all possible cross-sections. We came up with—sacrilege.”
“You’re joking, Mr. Spencer!”
“Not at all,” said Spencer. “Our opinion-taking showed quite conclusively that any attempt to investigate world-wide religious origins would be viewed by the general public in a sacrilegious light. You and I, perhaps, could look upon it as research. We could resolve all our questioning by saying we sought no more nor less than truth. But the people of the world—the simple, common people of every sect and faith in the entire world—do not want the truth. They are satisfied with things just as they are. They’re afraid we would upset a lot of the old, comfortable traditions. They call it sacrilege and it’s partly that, of course, but it’s likewise an instinctive defense reaction against upsetting their thinking. They have a faith to cling to. It has served them through the years and they don’t want anyone to fool around with it.”
“I simply can’t believe it,” said Ravenholt, aghast at such blind provincialism.
“I have the figures. I can show you.”
Dr. Ravenholt waved his hand condescendingly and gracefully.
“If you say you have them, I am sure you have.”
He wasn’t taking any chances of being proven wrong.