Damon Knight - Beyond the Barrier

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2024-12-23 0 0 248.94KB 119 页 5.9玖币
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Beyond the Barrier
by Damon Knight
Version 1.0
A #BW Release
Chapter One
The banked, fan-shaped classroom was silent with attention.
"And now," said Professor Gordon Naismith, "watch closely.
I drop the charged particle into the tank." He tripped the
release of the mechanism suspended over the big glass tank,
and saw a silvery spicule drop, almost too quickly to follow,
into the clear liquid.
"Contact with other partially charged molecules releases the
time energy," said Naismith, watching a sudden silvery cloud
spread from the bottom of the tank, "and, as you see—"
The silvery cloud grew rapidly, advancing on a wave front,
a beautifully symmetrical curve that was determined by two
factors: gravity, and the kinetic loss of the conversion process.
It was perfect beauty, far beyond any curve of flesh or any line
drawn by an artist, and Naismith watched it with a painful
tightness in his throat, although he had seen it a hundred times
before.
Now the change was complete. The tank was full of silvery
fluid, opaque, mirror-bright and luminous. "All the liquid has
now been raised to a higher temporal energy level," Naismith
told the class, "and is in the state you may have heard described
as 'quasi-matter.' Tomorrow, when we begin our experiments
on this tank, we will see that it has some very odd physical
properties. However, that concludes today's demonstration. Are
there any questions?"
A student signaled with his desk light. Naismith glanced at
the nameplate. "Yes, Hinkel?" He stood beside the table on the
dais, tall and big-framed in his laboratory smock, aware as he
answered the students' questions that eight other Naismiths, in
the other identical classrooms that radiated from a common
center, were also standing, like eight mirror images of himself,
also answering questions. It gave him an eerie shiver, just for a
moment, to realize that he himself was one of the doppel-
gangers, not the "real" Naismith—somehow that was almost
impossible to accept, no matter how often one went through
the experience . . . then the moment passed, and he went on
talking, calm, self-assured, his voice controlled and resonant.
The tone sounded, and the students began to stir, gathering
their recording equipment and sliding out of their seats.
Naismith turned and fumbled for the duplicator control. The
round brownish-black knob was hard to see, like a floating
shadow on the tabletop. He found it at last, and turned it
clockwise.
At once the half-empty classroom vanished. He was in the
tiny, circular control room, alone except for the duplicator
apparatus. His knees suddenly weak, he leaned against the
demonstration table. Discordant memories swarmed through
his head—nine sets of them, all at once, like interfering video
broadcasts. It was hard to take, just for a moment, but after
two years of it he was an experienced multiple-class teacher,
and the nine sets of memories settled quickly into place in his
mind.
As he prepared to leave, he became aware of an odd thing
that had happened. The demonstration itself had been exactly
the same in all nine classrooms, of course; it was only the
questions afterward that had been different, and even those
followed a familiar pattern.
But one of the students in—which was it? classroom 7—had
stepped up to the platform just as he was about to leave, and
had said something extraordinary.
He stood still, trying to bring the memory into sharper focus.
It was a dark-skinned girl who sat in the second row: Lall was
her name, probably Indian, although it was odd that she sat
apart from the whispering, giggling group of Indian girls, bright
in their saris and gold earrings, who perched at the top of the
classroom. She had looked up at him with her oddly disturbing
amber eyes, and had said in a distinct voice: "Professor, what is
a Zug?"
Nonsensical question! It had nothing to do with the demon-
stration, or with temporal energy at all—in fact, he was sure
there was no such word in the vocabulary of physics. And yet
it was odd what a shock had gone through him at her words: as
if, deep down in his subconscious, the question did mean
something—and something vital. He could remember snapping
to attention, all his senses taut, a cold sweat beading on his
forehead. . . .
And then what? What had he replied?
Nothing.
At that moment, the action of turning the control knob had
been completed, and he had come out of the multiple state.
Then the shock of reintegrating his consciousness, and now ...
Zug.
The word had an unpleasant sound, somehow; it made a
shudder of distaste run up his spine. Probably the girl was dis-
turbed, that was all; he would put in a query to the college
psychiatric office.
But as he left the control room, taking the rear stair to his
office, the feeling of vague apprehension and unease lingered.
Perhaps it was the strain of multiple-class work; not everyone
could bear it. But he was proud of his ability to stand up under
the load; he had never felt like this after a class.
He finished his day's record-keeping and left quickly, anxious
to be out in the air. The afternoon was sunny and warm as he
walked across the campus; he could hear the surf in the
distance, and the Inglewood-Ventura monorail went hushing
across, bright cream and tan against the blue sky.
Students were walking in little groups along the gravel paths
between the flame trees. The lawns were richly green, neat and
trim. The scene was familiar, soothing ... and not entirely real.
It depressed him to realize that after four years he still felt
essentially disoriented. Everyone said he had made a remark-
able recovery; he had passed his refresher courses with high
marks, gotten his teaching license renewed: now he was
established, competent . . and after all, these four years were
all the memory he had: so why couldn't he settle down and
feel at home?
Why should he feel there was some terrible secret buried in
his past?
Irritated, he tried to shake off the mood, but the girl and her
question kept coming back to the surface of his mind. It was
ridiculous, and yet he couldn't help wondering if perhaps she
had some connection with the lost thirty-one years of his life
... the blank, the emptiness that was his image of himself
before the bomber crash that had almost killed him. . . .
Zug...
Impulsively, he turned and took the path to the university
library. There was a vacant information machine. He punched
"General," and then spelled out "Z-U-G."
The machine's transparency flashed, "SEARCHING," and
then, after a second, "GEOGRAPHY (EUROPA)." On the
central screen appeared a portion of a page of text. Naismith
read, "Zug. (tsooK) 1. Canton, n. central Switzerland, area
92 square miles. Pop. 51,000. 2. Commune, its capital, on Lake
of Zug S of Zurich; pop. 16,500."
Naismith turned off the machine in disgust. Of course, he was
wasting his time. It was a little surprising that there should be
such a word at all; but the girl had said "a Zug" and besides,
she hadn't pronounced it as if it were German. This couldn't
be the answer.
As he was leaving the library, he heard his name called.
Plump Mr. Ramsdell, the bursar, came hurrying toward him
along the graveled path between the flame trees, holding out
a parcel wrapped in white paper. "How lucky to run into you
like this," Ramsdell panted. "Someone left this at my office
for you, and I absent-mindedly carried it out with me—" He
laughed uncertainly. "I was just going to take it over and drop
it at the Science Building, when I saw you."
Naismith took the parcel: it was unexpectedly heavy and
hard inside the white paper. "Thanks," he said. "Who left it
for me, anyone I know?"
Ramsdell shrugged. "Said his name was Churan. Short,
swarthy fellow, very polite. But I really wasn't paying attention.
Well, I must fly."
"Thanks again," Naismith called after him, but the little
bursar did not seem to hear.
Funny that he should have carried the parcel out of his
office, straight to the library—almost too pat for coincidence,
as if he had known Naismith would be there; but that was
impossible.
Funny, too, that anybody should leave a parcel for him
with Ramsdell; he had nothing to do with the bursar's office,
except to collect his pay checks.
Naismith weighed the parcel in his hands, curiously. He had
an impulse to open it immediately, but decided not to—prob-
lem of disposing of the wrappings, or else carrying them
around. Besides, the thing in the parcel might be in more than
one piece, awkward to carry unless wrapped. Better wait till he
got it home and could examine it properly.
But what could it be? A piece of apparatus? He had several
things on order, but was not expecting any of them immedi-
ately, and anyhow, when they did come, they would be
delivered in the usual way, not left for him at the bursar's
office. . . .
Deep in thought, he walked to the tube entrance. He rode
home with the thing on his knees, hard and metallically cool
through the wrappings. There was no writing on the paper
anywhere; it was neatly sealed with plastic tape.
The tube car sighed to a stop at the Beverly Hills station.
Naismith went aboveground and walked the two blocks to
his apartment.
When he opened the door, his visiphone was blinking red.
He put the parcel down and crossed the room with his heart
suddenly hammering. He saw that the recorded-call telltale was
lit, and touched the playback button.
A voice said urgently. "Naismith, this is Dr. Wells. Please
call me as soon as you get in; I want to see you." The voice
stopped; after a moment the mechanism clicked and the neutral
machine voice added, "Two thirty-five P.M." The playback
stopped; the telltale winked off.
Wells was the head of the college psychiatric office;
Naismith went to him as a patient every two weeks. Two
thirty-five this afternoon—that was when Naismith had been
in the middle of his temporal energy demonstration. He had a
sense that things were happening all around him—first the girl
with her disturbing question, and the dark man leaving a
package for him at the bursar's office, and—
At the thought, Naismith turned and looked at the package
on the table. At least he could find out about that, and with-
out delay. With a certain grimness, he seized the package, put
it on his desk, and with a bronze letter opener began to cut the
tape.
The wrapping came away easily. Naismith saw the gleam of
blued metal, then spread the papers apart, and caught his
breath.
The machine was beautiful.
It was box-shaped, with rounded edges and corners; all its
lines flowed subtly and exactly into one another. On the top
face there were oval inlays, arranged in a pattern that con-
veyed nothing to him, and slightly raised from the main shell.
The metal was satiny and cool under his fingers. It looked
machined, not stamped: fine, micrometically exact work.
He turned it over, looking for a nameplate or a serial number
stamped into the metal, but found nothing. There was no
button, dial, or any other obvious way of turning the machine
on. He could not see any way of opening it, except by remov-
ing the inlays from the top.
Naismith felt cautiously at the inlays, trying to see if they
would depress or turn, but without result. He paused, baffled.
After a moment, his fingers began tracing around the outlines
of the machine: it was beautiful workmanship, a pleasure just
to touch it—and yet it seemed without function, useless,
meaningless. .. .
Like the question: "What is a Zug?"
Without warning, Naismith's heart began hammering again.
He had an irrational feeling that he was being carefully
hemmed in—trapped, for some unguessable purpose, and by
persons unknown. His fingers left the machine, then gripped it
fiercely again, pressing hard, twisting, trying to move some part
of the mechanism.
He failed.
The visiphone blinked and brrred.
Naismith swore and hit the switch with his palm; the screen
lighted up. It was Wells, with his iron-gray brush-cut and his
deeply seamed face. "Naismith!" he said sharply. "I called
before—did you get the message?"
"Yes—I just got in—I was about to vise you."
"I'm sorry, Naismith, but I'm afraid this had better not wait.
Come over to my private office."
"Now?"
"Please."
"All right, but what's it about?"
"I'll explain when you get here." Wells' wide mouth closed
firmly, and the screen went gray.
Wells' private office was a big, sunny room adjoining his
home, with a view of the Santa Monica beach and the ocean.
As the door slid open, Wells looked up from his desk, his big,
leather-brown face serious and stern. "Naismith," he said
without preamble, "I'm told you insulted and frightened a
Mr. Churan today. What about it?"
Naismith continued walking toward the desk. He sat down
in the conical chair facing Wells, and planted his hands on his
knees. "In the first place," he said, "I'm not a criminal.
Moderate your tone. In the second place, where do you get
your information, and what makes you so positive it's correct?"
Wells blinked and leaned forward. "Didn't you burst in on
an importer named Churan, over in Hollywood, and threaten
to kill him?"
"No, categorically, I did not. What time was I supposed to
have done this?"
"Around two o'clock. And you didn't threaten him, or break
anything in his office?"
"I never even heard of your Mr. Churan until today," said
Naismith angrily. "What else does he say I did?"
Wells sat back, put a pipe in his mouth and looked at him
meditatively. "Exactly where were you at two?"
"In my classrooms, giving a demonstration."
"What kind of a demonstration?"
"Temporal energy."
Wells picked up a gold pen in his big, well-kept fingers and
made a note. "At two?"
"Certainly. My afternoon class has been at two since March,
when the schedules were changed."
"That's right, I seem to remember now." Wells frowned
uncertainly, pulling at his lower lip. "It's odd that Orvile didn't
seem to know that, although I suppose it might have slipped
his mind . . . You know, Naismith, this could be a serious
business. When Orvile called me, around two-thirty, he was
shaking all over." Orvile was the head of the Physics Depart-
ment, a nervous, white-haired man. "He'd just had a call from
the police—this man Churan had complained to them, and
naturally, he passed the buck to me. He knows I'm treating
you for that amnesic condition of yours. Now, I'll put it on the
line, Naismith—if you did black out and browbeat Churan, as
he says you did, we've got to find out why."
Naismith began to stiffen with anger. "I've told you, I was
in my classrooms at two o'clock. You can check on that, if
you don't choose to believe me—ask my students."
Wells glanced at his notepad, scratched a couple of aimless
lines, then looked up and said, "You used the word 'class-
rooms.' I take it that means you were teaching by the multiple-
class method."
"That's right. Almost all the undergraduate classes are
multiples. You know how crowded we are."
"Surely. But what I'm getting at is this: at two o'clock you
were in several places at once."
"Nine places, or rather ten," said Naismith. "It's the nine-
unit duplicator in the East Wing of the Science Building."
"All right. My question is this: Is there any possibility that
you were in eleven places at once, at two o'clock today?"
Naismith sat in silence, absorbing that. Then he said, "Off-
hand, the idea is ridiculous. You say this Churan's office is in
Hollywood. The duplicator field has a range of only about five
hundred feet."
"But would you say it's absolutely impossible?"
Naismith's wide jaw knotted. "I couldn't say that, of course.
Impractical, at least, in the present state of the art. What are
you suggesting, that I somehow gimmicked that Hivert Dupli-
cator to project one of my doppelgangers into a stranger's
office?"
"I'm not suggesting anything." Wells' pen made slow circles
on the notepad. "But Naismith, tell me this: why should this
fellow Churan lie about it?"
"I don't know!" Naismith exploded. His hands clenched into
powerful fists. "Wells, something's going on that I don't under-
stand and don't like. I'm completely in the dark now, but I
promise you—"
He was interrupted by the brrr of the phone. Without look-
ing away from Naismith, Wells reached over and touched the
button. "Yes?"
The first words swung his head around. "Wells! Now see
what's happened!" It was Orvile's shrill voice, and Naismith
could see his white-haired head, grotesquely elongated in
the visiphone. "He's dead—horribly burned to death! And
Naismith was the last man seen with him! My God, Wells!
Why don't you—"
"Naismith is here in my office now," Wells cut in. "Who's
dead? What are you talking about?"
"I'm telling you, Ramsdell! Ramsdell! My God, look here!"
Orvile's paper-gray face withdrew, and after a moment the
pickup tilted downward.
On the gray tile floor lay a plump body, sprawled like a
hideously ruined doll. The head, chest and hands were nothing
but shapeless masses of carbon.
"I'm sending the police!" Orvile's voice shrilled. "Don't let
him get away! Don't let him get away!"
Chapter Two
With Orvile's hysterical voice still ringing in his ears, Naismith
turned: in two quick strides he was at the door.
"What?" said Wells, slow to react. He half rose from his
chair. "Naismith, wait—"
Naismith did not reply. He slid the door open, whipped
through, slammed it again behind him and was running down
the walk. Blood raced warm in his arteries he felt no fear, only
an intense and almost pleasurable anger.
In the instant before Orvile finished speaking, the whole
problem had become transparently simple. The police had no
evidence against him in Ramsdell's death, and could not hold
him; but they could, and would, delay him. And he was tiger-
ishly convinced that his only safety now lay in striking back, as
hard and as fast as he could.
At the foot of the hill, he caught a cruising municipal cab,
and ordered the driver: "Hollywood. I'll give you the address
on the way."
As the cab swung around and headed east on the Freeway,
Naismith put a quarter into the phone slot and punched
"Directory, Hollywood." The yellow transparency lighted up.
Naismith punched "C-H-U-R-A-N."
The illuminated image jumped and blurred repeatedly; then
it steadied on a page of fine print, slowly traveling past the
scanner. Naismith punched the "Hold" button. There it was:
"M. Churan, Imprtr," and an address on Sunset Boulevard.
Naismith glanced at his wristwatch: it was just four o'clock,
and most California businessmen did not close their doors till
four-thirty. There was still time.
"This is it, mister," said the driver, reaching over to turn off
the meter. Naismith paid him and got out. The building was a
yellow-stone monstrosity dating from the previous century.
In the lobby, Churan's name was on the ancient white-letter
directory. Naismith took the elevator to the fifth floor. The
office, behind a corrugated glass door with Churan's name on
it, was locked and silent.
Naismith rattled the door in a burst of anger. Raging, he
banged the door back and forth in its quarter-inch of play,
until the corridor rang with the sound.
The office next door opened and a pink young man stepped
out, shirt-sleeved, with his necktie undone. "Here," he said.
"Here, what's the gas with you, son? Don't go like that."
Naismith stared at him. The young man looked surprised,
flinched, and stepped back into the shelter of his doorway.
"Nothing personal, son," he added.
"Do you know Churan?" Naismith demanded.
"Sure, I know him, son—to say what ho. But he's gone,
son—gone—zipped out half an hour ago. I saw him leave."
Naismith stared at the locked door. He had been quick, but
not quick enough. With an impatient surge, he put the full force
of his arm and wrist against the doorknob: with a sharp, ring-
ing snap, the latch broke and the door swung in.
"Hey," said the pink young man, his jaw open. "Hey,
now—"
Naismith strode into the reception room. There was nobody
behind the desk, nobody in the inner office. Filing cabinets were
standing open and empty; there was nothing in the desk
drawers, nothing pinned to the wall. On one corner of the worn
carpet, near the desk, there was a large, fresh ink-stain. There
were some jagged pieces of glazed porcelain in the wastebasket,
and a bedraggled bunch of yellow flowers.
Baffled, Naismith paused and sniffed the ah*. The office had
an unmistakable atmosphere of vacancy; but to his sharpened
senses there was a faint, jangling vibration in the room—yes,
and a faint but distinct scent: something cold, musky and
unpleasant.
When he left, the pink young man was still waiting in the
corridor. Naismith said gently, "What do you know about
Churan?"
"Well, son, I never spread the air with him. Just what ho in
the morning, way I told you. But he's a pro."
"A what?"
"A professional, son. You know, show biz." The pink young
man pointed to his own open door, on which was lettered,
"REGAL THEATRICAL ENTERPRISES."
Naismith scowled. "Churan is an actor?"
"Got to be, son. He never got any parts through me, but I
can tell. This importing piece must be a sideline. You looking
for him real bad?"
"How can you tell he's an actor?"
"The makeup, son. Every time I see him, he's made up for
the cameras. You might not notice, stereo makeup looks so
natural, but I can tell. Every time I see him, he's got it on. Who
should I tell him was asking?"
"Never mind," said Naismith, suddenly depressed. He turned
without another word and went away.
In his own doorway, in the act of withdrawing the key from
the lock, he paused and stood still, listening. A prickle of un-
easiness ran over his body. There was a smell in the air, a
sickly, charred, greasy smell....
He went into the living room, through it to the bedroom. At
first he saw nothing. Then, glancing at the floor behind the
bed, he saw a woman's foot and a thick ankle. The smell was
overpoweringly strong.
Sickened, he went around the end of the bed. On the floor
lay a body he at first could not recognize, although he knew
who it must be. Mrs. Becker, who cleaned his apartment on
Thursdays—she was the only one other than himself who had
a key. She was dead. Dead, and horribly burned. The face,
chest, arms and hands were one shapeless, blackened ruin. ...
Naismith went numbly to the visiphone and vised the police.
They were there in less than ten minutes.
The cell door closed behind him with a sound of finality.
Naismith sank down on the narrow bunk, with his head in
his hands. The police had interrogated him for three hours.
They had been very thorough; their questions had ranged from
his private life, to his previous history and service record, his
amnesia—how they had hammered at that!—to his work at the
university, the duplication process, temporal energy, every-
thing. They had even suggested the fantastic idea that he might
have alibied himself in both killings by traveling in time.
"Temporal energy isn't available on that scale," he had told
them. "You don't realize what prodigious forces are involved.
Even with the two thousand megakline tau generator at the
University, it takes several hours to charge the ninety liters of
water we use in the demonstration."
"But the water does move in tune, doesn't it?" one of the
detectives had demanded.
"Yes, but only a fraction of a microsecond, Lieutenant. The
molecules are really only partly out of synch with our t.e.
matrix. If there were a real displacement, they would simply
vanish."
The detectives would not give up. Wasn't it possible to
develop the temporal energy process to a point where a man
could travel in time?
"Possible, yes," he had told them angrily. "For someone
thousands of years more advanced in science than we are. For
us, now, it's a complete impossibility!"
Then they came back to Bursar Ramsdell. What grudge had
he had against Ramsdell? "None! I scarcely knew him!"
Then it was just a coincidence, was it, that Ramsdell had been
murdered horribly just after being seen with Naismith? "Yes!"
Guided by instinct, Naismith did not mention the parcel
Ramsdell had given him. He could not explain the strength of
the feeling to himself, but he was convinced that if he let the
摘要：

BeyondtheBarrierbyDamonKnightVersion1.0A#BWReleaseChapterOneThebanked,fan-shapedclassroomwassilentwithattention."Andnow,"saidProfessorGordonNaismith,"watchclosely.Idropthechargedparticleintothetank."Hetrippedthereleaseofthemechanismsuspendedoverthebigglasstank,andsawasilveryspiculedrop,almosttooquic...

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