Isaac Asimov: The End of Eternity

Cub

Harlan had been in the 575th for weeks before he met Brinsley Sheridan Cooper. He had time to grow used to his new quarters and to the antisepsis of glass and porcelain. He learned to wear the Technician’s mark with only moderate shrinking and to refrain from making things worse by standing so that the insigne was hidden against a wall or was covered by the interposition of some object he was carrying.

Others smiled disdainfully when that was done and turned colder as though they suspected an attempt to invade their friendship on false pretenses.

Senior Computer Twissell brought him problems daily. Harlan studied them and wrote his analyses in drafts that were four times rewritten, the last version being handed in reluctantly even so.

Twissell would appraise them and nod and say, “Good, good.” Then his old blue eyes would dart quickly at Harlan and his smile would narrow a bit as he said, “I’ll test this guess on the Computaplex.”

He always called the analysis a “guess.” He never told Harlan the result of the Computaplex check, and Harlan dared not ask. He was despondent over the fact that he was never asked to put any of his own analyses into action. Did that mean that the Computaplex was not checking him, that he had been choosing the wrong item for the induction of a Reality Change, that he did not have the knack of seeing the Minimum Necessary Change in an indicated range? (It was not until later that he grew sufficiently sophisticated to have the phrase come rolling off his tongue as M.N.C.)

One day Twissell came in with an abashed individual who seemed scarcely to dare raise his eyes to meet Harlan’s.

Twissell said, “Technician Harlan, this is Cub B. S. Cooper.”

Automatically Harlan said, “Hello,” weighed the man’s appearance, and was unimpressed. The fellow was on the shortish side, with dark hair parted in the middle. His chin was narrow, his eyes an indefinite light brown, his ears a little large, and his fingernails bitten.

Twissell said, “This is the boy to whom you will be teaching Primitive history.”

“Great Time,” said Harlan with suddenly increased interest. “ Hello! ” He had almost forgotten.

Twissell said, “Arrange a schedule with him that will suit you, Harlan. If you can manage two afternoons a week, I think that would be fine. Use your own method of teaching him. I’ll leave that to you. If you should need book-films or old documents, tell me, and if they exist in Eternity or in any part of Time that can be reached, we’ll get them. Eh, boy?”

He plucked a lit cigarette out of nowhere (as it always seemed) and the air reeked with smoke. Harlan coughed and from the twisting of the Cub’s mouth it was quite obvious that the latter would have done the same had he dared.

After Twissell left, Harlan said, “Well, sit down”—he hesitated a moment, then added determinedly—“Son. Sit down, son. My office isn’t much, but it’s yours whenever we’re together.”

Harlan was almost flooded with eagerness. This project was his! Primitive history was something that was all his own.

The Cub raised his eyes (for the first time, really) and said stumblingly, “You are a Technician.”

A considerable part of Harlan’s excitement and warmth died. “What of it?”

“Nothing,” said the Cub. “I just—“

“You heard Computer Twissell address me as Technician, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you think it was a slip of the tongue? Something too bad to be true?”

“ No , sir.”

“What’s wrong with your speech?” Harlan asked brutally, and even as he did so, he felt shame nudge him.

Cooper blushed painfully. “I’m not very good at Standard Intertemporal.”

“Why not? How long have you been a Cub?”

“Less than one year, sir.”

“One year? How old are you, for Time’s sake?”

“Twenty-four physioyears, sir.”

Harlan stared. “Are you trying to tell me that they took you into Eternity at twenty-three?”

“Yes, sir.”

Harlan sat down and rubbed his hands together. That just wasn’t done. Fifteen to sixteen was the age of entrance into Eternity. What was this? A new kind of testing of himself on the part of Twissell?

He said, “Sit down and let’s get started. Your name in full and your homewhen.”

The Cub stammered, “Brinsley Sheridan Cooper of the 78th, sir.”

Harlan almost softened. That was close. It was only seventeen Centuries downwhen from his own homewhen. Almost a Temporal neighbor.

He said, “Are you interested in Primitive history?”

“Computer Twissell asked me to learn. I don’t know much about it.”

“What else are you learning?”

“Mathematics. Temporal engineering. I’m just getting the fundamentals so far. Back in the 78th, I was a Speedy-vac repairman.”

There was no point in asking the nature of a Speedy-vac. It might be a suction cleaner, a computing machine, a type of spray painter. Anything. Harlan wasn’t particularly interested.

He said, “Do you know anything about history? Any kind of history?”

“I studied European history.”

“Your particular political unit, I take it.”

“I was born in Europe. Yes. Mostly, of course, they taught us modern history. After the revolutions of ‘54; 7554, that is.”

“All right. First thing you do is to forget it. It doesn’t mean anything. The history they try to teach Timers changes with every Reality Change. Not that they realize that. In each Reality, their history is the only history. That’s what’s so different about Primitive history. That’s the beauty of it. No matter what any of us does, it exists precisely as it has always existed. Columbus and Washington, Mussolini and Hereford, they all exist.”

Cooper smiled feebly. He brushed his little finger across his upper lip and for the first time Harlan noticed a trace of bristle there as though the Cub were cultivating a mustache.

Cooper said, “I can’t quite—get used to it, all the time I’ve been here.”

“Get used to what?”

“Being five hundred Centuries away from homewhen.”

“I’m nearly that myself. I’m 95th.”

“That’s another thing. You’re older than I am and yet I’m seventeen Centuries older than you in another way. I can be your great-great-great-and-so-on-grandfather.”

“What’s the difference? Suppose you are?”

“Well, it takes getting used to.” There was a trace of rebellion in the Cub’s voice.

“It does for all of us,” said Harlan callously, and began talking about the Primitives. By the time three hours had passed, he was deep in an explanation concerning the reasons why there were Centuries before the ist Century.

(“But isn’t the 1st Century first? ” Cooper had asked plaintively.)

Harlan ended by giving the Cub a book, not a good one, really, but one that would serve as a beginning. “I’ll get you better stuff as we go along,” he said.

By the end of a week Cooper’s mustache had become a pronounced dark bristle that made him look ten years older and accentuated the narrowness of his chin. On the whole, Harlan decided, it would not be an improvement, that mustache.

Cooper said, “I’ve finished your book.”

“What did you think of it?”

“In a way—“ There was a long pause. Cooper began over again. “Parts of the later Primitive was something like the 78th. It made me think of home, you know. Twice, I dreamed about my wife.”

Harlan exploded. “Your wife? ”

“I was married before I came here.”

“Great Time! Did they bring your wife across too?”