Isaac Asimov - The End of Eternity

Yet there was this to be said for unfavorable relationships in the wealth-distribution equation. It meant the existence of a leisure class and the development of an attractive way of life which, at its best, encouraged culture and grace. As long as the other end of the scale was not too badly off, as long as the leisure classes did not entirely forget their responsibilities while enjoying their privileges, as long as their culture took no obviously unhealthy turn, there was always the tendency in Eternity to forgive the departure from the ideal wealth-distribution pattern and to search for other, less attractive maladjustments.

Against his will Harlan began to understand this. Ordinarily his overnight stays in Time involved hotels in the poorer sections, where a man might easily stay anonymous, where strangers were ignored, where one presence more or less was nothing and therefore did not cause the fabric of Reality to do more than tremble. When even that was unsafe, when there was a good chance that the trembling might pass the critical point and bring down a significant part of the card house of Reality, it was not unusual to have to sleep under a particular hedge in the countryside.

And it was usual to survey various hedges to see which would be least disturbed by farmers, tramps, even stray dogs, during the night.

But now Harlan, at the other end of the scale, slept in a bed with a surface of field-permeated matter, a peculiar welding of matter and energy that entered only the highest economic levels of this society. Throughout Time it was less common than pure matter but more common than pure energy. In any case it molded itself to his body as he lay down, firm when he lay still, yielding when he moved or turned.

Reluctantly he confessed the attraction of such things, and he accepted the wisdom which caused each Section of Eternity to live on the median scale of its Century rather than at its most comfortable level. In that way it could maintain contact with the problems and “feel” of the Century, without succumbing to too close an identification with a sociological extreme.

It is easy, thought Harlan, that first evening, to live with aristocrats.

And just before he fell asleep, he thought of Noÿs.

He dreamed he was on the Allwhen Council, fingers clasped austerely before him. He was looking down on a small, a very small, Finge, listening in terror to the sentence that was casting him out of Eternity to perpetual Observation of one of the unknown Centuries of the far, far upwhen. The somber words of exile were coming from Harlan’s own mouth, and immediately to his right sat Noÿs Lambent.

He hadn’t noticed her at first, but his eyes kept sliding to his right, and his words faltered.

Did no one else see her? The rest of the members of the Council looked steadily forward, except for Twissell. He turned to smile at Harlan, looking through the girl as though she weren’t there.

Harlan wanted to order her away, but words were no longer coming out of his mouth. He tried to beat at the girl, but his arm moved sluggishly and she did not move. Her flesh was cold.

Finge was laughing—louder—louder—

and it was Noÿs Lambent laughing.

Harlan opened his eyes to bright sunlight and stared at the girl in horror for a moment before he remembered where she was and where he was.

She said, “You were moaning and beating the pillow. Were you having a bad dream?”

Harlan did not answer.

She said, “Your bath is ready. So are your clothes. I’ve arranged to have you join the gathering tonight. It felt queer to step back into my ordinary life after being in Eternity so long.”

Harlan felt acutely disturbed at her easy flow of words. He said, “You didn’t tell them who I was, I hope.”

“Of course not.”

Of course not! Finge would have taken care of that little matter by having her lightly psychoed under narcosis, if he felt that necessary. He might not have thought it necessary, however. After all, he had given her “close observation.”

The thought annoyed him. He said, “I’d prefer to be left to myself as much as possible.”

She looked at him uncertainly a moment or two and left.

Harlan went through the morning ritual of washing and dressing glumly. He had no great hopes of an exciting evening. He would have to say as little as possible, do as little as possible, be a part of the wall as much as possible. His true function was that of a pair of ears and a pair of eyes. Connecting those senses with the final report was his mind, which, ideally, had no other function.

Ordinarily it did not disturb him that, as an Observer, he did not know what he was looking for. An Observer, he had been taught as a Cub, must not have preconceived notions as to what data is desired or what conclusions are expected. The knowledge, it was said, would automatically distort his view, however conscientious he tried to be.

But under the circumstances ignorance was irritating. Harlan suspected strongly that there was nothing to look for, that he was playing Finge’s game in some way. Between that and Noÿs.

He stared savagely at the image of himself cast in three-dimensional accuracy two feet in front of him by the Reflector. The clinging garments of the 482nd, seamless and bright in coloring, made him, he thought, look ridiculous.

Noÿs Lambent came running to him just after he had finished a solitary breakfast brought to him by a Mekkano.

She said breathlessly, “It’s June, Technician Harlan.”

He said harshly, “Do not use the title here. What if it is June?”

“But it was February when I joined”—she paused doubtfully—“that place, and that was only a month ago.”

Harlan frowned. “What year is it now?”

“Oh, it’s the right year.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m quite positive. Has there been a mistake?” She had a disturbing habit of standing quite close to him as they talked and her slight lisp (a trait of the Century rather than of herself personally) gave her the sound of a young and rather helpless child. Harlan was not fooled by that. He drew away.

“No mistake. You’ve been put here because it’s more suitable. Actually, in Time, you have been here all along.”

“But how could I?” She looked more frightened still. “I don’t remember anything about it. Are there two me’s?”

Harlan was far more irritated than the cause warranted. How could he explain to her the existence of micro-changes induced by every interference with Time which could alter individual lives without appreciable effect on the Century as a whole. Even Eternals sometimes forgot the difference between micro-changes (small “c”) and Changes (large “c”) which significantly altered Reality.

He said, “Eternity knows what it’s doing. Don’t ask questions.” He said it proudly, as though he, himself, were a Senior Computer and had personally decided that June was the proper moment in time and that the micro-change induced by skipping three months could not develop into a Change.

She said, “But then I’ve lost three months of my life.”

He sighed. “Your movements through Time have nothing to do with your physiological age.”

“Well, have I or haven’t I?”

“Have or haven’t what?”

“Lost three months.”

“By Time, woman, I’m telling you as plainly as I can. You haven’t lost any time out of your life. You can’t lose any.”

She stepped backward at his shout and then, suddenly, giggled. She said, “You have the funniest accent. Especially when you get angry.”

He frowned at her retreating back. What accent? He spoke fiftymillennial as well as anyone in the Section. Better probably.

Stupid girl!