“Thanks,” you mutter, wondering what kind of a civilization can produce guards as polite as that. “I—I’m told I should investigate your display of atomic generators.”
He beams at that. “Of course.” The gate is swung to behind you, but obviously he isn’t locking it—in fact, there doesn’t seem to be a lock. “Must be a new part. You go down that corridor, up one flight of stairs, and left. Finest display in the worlds. We’ve got the original of the first thirteen models. Profesor Jonas was using them to check his latest theory of how they work. Too bad he couldn’t explain the principle, either. Someone will, some day, though. Lord, the genius of that twentieth century inventor! It’s quite a hobby with me, sir. I’ve read everything I could get on the period. Oh—congratulations on your pronunciation. Sounds just like some of our oldest tapes.”
You get away from him, finally, after some polite thanks. The building seems deserted, and you wander up the stairs. There’s a room on your right filled with something that proclaims itself the first truly plastic diamond former, and you go up to it. As you come near, it goes through a crazy wiggle inside, stops turning out a continual row of what seem to be bearings, and slips a hunk of something about the size of a penny toward you. “Souvenir,” it announces in a well-modulated voice. “This is a typical gemstone of the twentieth century, properly cut to fifty-eight facets, known technically as a Jaegger diamond, and approximately twenty carats in size. You can have it made into a ring on the third floor during morning hours for one-tenth credit. If you have more than one child, press the red button for the number of stones you desire.”
You put it in your pocket, gulping a little, and get back to the corridor. You turn left, and go past a big room in which models of space ships—from the original thing that looks like a V-2, and is labeled first lunar rocket, to a ten-foot globe, complete with miniature manikins—are sailing about in some kind of orbits. Then there is one labeled wep:nz, filled with everything from a crossbow to a tiny little rod four niches long and half the size of a pencil, marked fyn:l hand-arm. Beyond is the end of the corridor, and a big place that bears a sign, mod:lz :v atomic pau:r sorsez.
By that tune, you’re almost convinced. And you’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what you can do. The story I’m telling has been sinking in, but you aren’t completely willing to accept it.
You notice that the models are all mounted on tables, and that they’re a lot smaller than you thought. They seem to be in chronological order, and the latest one, marked 2147—rings dyn:pot, is about the size of a desk telephone. The earlier ones are larger, of course, but with variations, probably depending on the power output. A big sign on the ceiling gives a lot of dope on atomic generators, explaining that this is the first invention which sprang full blown into basically final form.
You study it, but it mentions casually the inventor, without giving his name—either they don’t know it, or they take it for granted that everyone does, which seems more probable. They call attention to the fact that they have the original model of the first atomic generator built, complete with design drawings, original manuscript on operation, and full patent application. They state that it has all major refinements, operating on any fuel, producing electricity at any desired voltage up to five million, any chosen cyclic rate from direct current to one thousand megacycles, and any amperage up to one thousand, its maximum power output being fifty kilowatts, limited by the current-carrying capacity of the outputs. They also mention that the operating principle is still being investigated, and that only such refinements as better alloys and the addition of magnetric and nucleatric current outlets have been added since the original.
So you go to the end and look over the thing. It’s simply a square box with a huge plug on each side, and a set of vernier controls on top, plus a little hole marked in old-style spelling, drop bb’s or wire here. Apparently that’s the way it’s fueled. It’s about one foot on a side.
“Nice,” the guard says over your shoulder. “It finally wore out one of the cathogrids, and we had to replace that, but otherwise it’s exactly as the great inventor made it. And it still operates as well as ever. Like to have me tell you about it?”
“Not particularly,” you begin, and then realize bad manners seem to be out up here. While you’re searching for an answer, the guard pulls something out of his pocket and stares at it.
“Fine, fine. The mayor of Altasecarba—Centaurian, you know—is arriving, but I’ll be back in about ten minutes. He wants to examine some of the weapons for a monograph on Centaurian primitives compared to nineteenth-century man. You’ll pardpn me?”
You pardon him all over the place, and he wanders off happily. You go up,, to the head of the line, to that Rinks Dynapot, or whatever it transliterates to. That’s small, and you can carry it. But the darned thing is absolutely fixed. You can’t see any bolts, but you can’t budge it, either.
You work down the line—it’d be foolish to take the early model if you can get one with built-in magnetic current terminals—Ehrenhaft or some other principle?—and nuclear binding-force energy terminals. But they’re all held down by the same whatchamaycallem effect.
And finally, you’re right back beside the original first model. It’s probably bolted down, too—but you try it tentatively, and you find it moves. There’s a little sign under it, indicating you shouldn’t touch it, since the gravostatic plate is being renewed.
Well, you won’t be able to change the time cycle by doing anything I haven’t told you, but a working model such as that is a handy thing. You lift it—and it weighs about fifty pounds! But it can be carried.
You expect a warning bell, but nothing happens. As a matter of fact, if you’d stop drinking so much of that Scotch and staring at the tune machine out there now, you’d hear what I’m saying, and know what will happen to you. But of course, just as I did, you’re going to miss a lot of what I say from now on, and have to find out for yourself. But maybe some of it helps—I’ve tried to remember how much I remembered, after he told me, but I can’t be sure. So I’ll keep on talking. I probably can’t help it, anyhow.
Well, you stagger down the corridor, looking for the guard, but all seems clear. Then you hear his voice from the weapons room. You bend down and try to scurry past, but you know you’re in full view. Nothing happens, though.
You stumble down the stairs, feeling all the futuristic rays in the world on your back, and still nothing happens. Ahead of you, the gate is closed. You reach it, and it opens obligingly by itself. You breathe a quick sigh of relief, and start out onto the street.
Then there’s a yell behind you. You don’t wait. You put one leg in front of the other, and you begin moving down the walk, ducking past people, who stare at you with expressions you haven’t time to see. There’s another yell behind you.
Something goes over your head and drops on the sidewalk just in front of your feet, with a sudden ringing sound. You don’t wait to find out about that, either. Somebody reaches out a hand to catch you, and you dart past.
The street is pretty clear now, and you jolt along, with your arms seeming to come out of the sockets, and that atomic generator getting heavier at every step.
Out of nowhere, something in a blue uniform about six feet tall and on the beefy side appears—and the star hasn’t changed any. The cop catches your arm, and you know you’re not going to get away. So you stop.