Part 8 (1/2)

”It's a bookcase,” said Harlan. He had the impulse to ask Finge how he felt now that his hands rested firmly upon the small of his back. Would he not consider it cleaner to have his clothes and his own body constructed of pure and undefiled energy fields?

Finge's eyebrows lifted. ”A bookcase. Then those objects resting upon the shelves are books. Is that right?”

”Yes, sir.”

”Authentic specimens?”

”Entirely, Computer. I picked them up in the 24th. The few I have here date from the 20th. If--if you intend to look at them, I wish you'd be careful. The pages have been restored and impregnated, but they're not foil. They take careful handling.”

”I won't touch them. I have no intention of touching them. Original 20th Century dust is on them, I imagine. Actual books!” He laughed. ”Pages of cellulose, too? You implied that.”

Harlan nodded. ”Cellulose modified by the impregnation treatment for longer life. Yes.” He opened his mouth for a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. It was ridiculous to identify himself with these books, to feel a slur upon them to be a slur upon himself.

”I dare say,” said Finge, still on the subject, ”that the whole content of those books could be placed on two meters of film and stored in a finger's end. What do the books contain?”

Harlan said, ”They are bound volumes of a news magazine of the 20th.”

”You read that?”

Harlan said proudly, ”These are a few volumes of the complete collection I have. No library in Eternity can duplicate it.”

”Yes, your hobby. I remember now you once told me about your interest in the Primitive. I'm amazed your Educator ever allowed you to grow interested in such a thing. A complete waste of energy.”

Harlan's lips thinned. The man, he decided, was deliberately trying to irritate him out of possession of calm reasoning faculties. If so, he must not be allowed to succeed.

Harlan said flatly, ”I think you've come to see me about my report.”

”Yes, I have.” The Computer looked about, selected a chair, and sat down gingerly. ”It is not complete, as I said over the communicator.”

”In what way, sir?” (Calm! Calm!) Finge broke into a nervous twitch of a smile. ”What happened that you didn't mention, Harlan?”

”Nothing, sir.” And though he said it firmly, he stood there, hangdog.

”Come, Technician. You spent several periods of time in the society of the young lady. Or you did if you followed the spatio-temporal chart. You did follow it, I suppose?”

Harlan's guilt riddled him to the point where he could not even rise to the bait of this open a.s.sault upon his professional competence.

He could only say, ”I followed it.”

”And what happened? You include nothing of the private interludes with the woman.”

”Nothing of importance happened,” said Harlan, dry-lipped.

”That is ridiculous. At your time of life and with your experience, I don't have to tell you that it is not for an Observer to judge what is important and what is not.”

Finge's eyes were keenly upon Harlan. They were harder and more eager than quite befitted his soft line of questioning.

Harlan noted that well and was not fooled by Finge's gentle voice, yet the habit of duty tugged at him. An Observer must report _everything_. An Observer was merely a sense-perceptive pseudopod thrust out by Eternity into Time. It tested its surroundings and was drawn back. In the fulfillment of his function an Observer had no individuality of his own; he was not really a man.

Almost automatically Harlan began his narration of the events he had left out of his report. He did it with the trained memory of the Observer, reciting the conversations with word-for-word accuracy, re constructing the tone of voice and cast of countenance. He did it lovingly, for in the telling he lived it again, and almost forgot, in the process, that a combination of Finge's probing and his own healing sense of duty was driving him into an admission of guilt.

It was only as he approached the end result of that first long conversation that he faltered and the sh.e.l.l of his Observer's objectivity showed cracks.

He was saved from further details by the hand that Finge suddenly raised and by the Computer's sharp, edgy voice. ”Thank you. It is enough. You were about to say that you made love to the woman.”

Harlan grew angry. What Finge said was the literal truth, but Finge's tone of voice made it sound lewd, coa.r.s.e, and, worse than that, commonplace. Whatever else it was, or might be, it was not commonplace.

Harlan had an explanation for Finge's att.i.tude, for his anxious cross-examination, for his breaking off the verbal report at the moment he did. Finge was jealous! That much Harlan would have sworn was obvious. Harlan had succeeded in taking away a girl that Finge had meant to have.

Harlan felt the triumph in that and found it sweet. For the first time in his life he knew an aim that meant more to him than the frigid fulfillment of Eternity. He was going to keep Finge jealous, because Noys Lambent was to be permanently his.

In this mood of sudden exaltation he plunged into the request that originally he had planned to present only after a wait of a discreet four or five days.

He said, ”It is my intention to apply for permission to form a liaison with a Timed individual.”

Finge seemed to snap out of a reverie. ”With Noys Lambent, I presume.”

”Yes, sir. As Computer in charge of the Section, it will have to go through you. . . .”

Harlan wanted it to go through Finge. Make him suffer. If he wanted the girl himself, let him say so and Harlan could insist on allowing Noys to make her choice. He almost smiled at that. He hoped it would come to that. It would be the final triumph.

Ordinarily, of course, a Technician could not hope to push through such a matter in the face of a Computer's desires, but Harlan was sure he could count on Twissell's backing, and Finge had a long way to go before he could buck Twissell.

Finge, however, seemed tranquil. ”It would seem,” he said, ”that you have already taken illegal possession of the girl.”

Harlan flushed and was moved to a feeble defense. ”The spatio-temporal chart insisted on our remaining alone together. Since nothing of what happened was specifically forbidden, I feel no guilt.”

Which was a lie, and from Finge's half-amused expression one could feel that he knew it to be a lie.

He said, ”There will be a Reality Change.”

Harlan said, ”If so, I will amend my application to request liaison with Miss Lambent in the new Reality.”

”I don't think that would be wise. How can you be sure in advance? In the new Reality, she may be married, she may be deformed. In fact I can tell you this. In the new Reality, she will not want you. She will _not_ want you.”

Harlan quivered. ”You know nothing about it.”

”Oh? You think this great love of yours is a matter of soul-to-soul contact? That it will survive all external changes? Have you been reading novels out of Time?”

Harlan was goaded into indiscretion. ”For one thing, I don't believe you.,, Finge said coldly, ”I beg pardon.”

”You're lying.” Harlan didn't care what he said now. ”You're jealous. It's all it amounts to. You're jealous. You had your own plans for Noys but she chose me.”

Finge said, ”Do you realize--”

”I realize a great deal. I'm no fool. I may not be a Computer, but neither am I an ignoramus. You say she won't want me in the new Reality. How do you know? You don't even know yet what the new Reality will be. You don't know if there must be a new Reality at all. You just received my report. It must be a.n.a.lyzed before a Reality Change can be computed, let alone submitted for approval. So when you affect to know the nature of the Change, you are lying.”

There were a number of ways in which Finge might have made response. Harlan's heated mind was aware of many. He did not try to choose among them. Finge might stalk out in affected dudgeon; he might call in a member of Security and have Harlan taken into custody for insubordination; he might shout back, yelling as angrily as Harlan; he might put in an immediate call to Twissell, lodging a formal complaint; he might--he might . . .

Finge did none of this.