Bob Shaw - Who Goes Here?

“To override your psychogalvanic reflexes, dummy. You know the principal of the conventional lie detector, don’t you? It works because when the subject tells a lie he experiences an emotional stress which makes him sweat—thereby increasing the electrical conductivity of his skin. The same stress speeds up his heart and changes his brain rhythms. A polygraph is able to detect all those things and indicate when the subject is lying, but that’s only one half of the job. I mean, detecting a lie isn’t as good as being told the truth, is it?”

“I’m not sure,” Peace said.

“Of course it isn’t! So what I’ve done is to put the lie detector system into reverse. Right now it’s impossible for you to sweat, because your pores are full of anti-perspirant; your heart can’t speed up because there’s a super-pacemaker strapped over it; and that helmet you’re wearing is forcing all the EEG patterns of your brain to remain normal.

“So, when I ask you a question, you—denied all the ancient psychological accompaniments to a lie—will only be able to respond with the truth. Ingenious and subtle, isn’t it?”

Peace was unimpressed. “What happens if I refuse to say anything at all?”

Legge picked up his gun. “In that case—I shoot you.”

“That’s very ingenious and subtle,” Peace said drily. “I hope you realize this is a complete waste of time—I’ve no reason to hide the truth.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“How can I when I’m in your truth machine?”

“I forgot forgot.” Legge looked flustered at being caught out. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, Norman?”

“No, I don’t think I’m…” Peace gave the other man a penetrating stare. “Why did you call me Norman?”

“Um … I thought you said your name was Norman.”

“I’m supposed to be a complete stranger to you. You’re supposed to believe I’m a thief or a spy— and yet you want to be on first name terms with me. That doesn’t make much sense, Professor. Come on—admit you’ve met me before. Admit you know who I am. Admit that you…” Peace stopped himself in full spate, partly because he had leaned forward, determined to achieve a logical victory, and a jet of deodorant had gone straight up his nose, causing him to sneeze and somewhat diminishing the effect of his oratory; partly because he had just remembered he was now in an era in which, strictly speaking, he had not even been born. It was difficult to see how Legge could have known him previously, and yet…

“What’s the matter, egghead?” Legge jibed. “Tripped over your own terminology, have you you?”

“Why did you call me egghead?” Peace said, still tantalized by the faint hope that he might be close to the solution of all his problems. It occurred to him that he should aim to get free and, assuming the contraption worked, strap the professor into his own truth machine. He decided, as a matter of policy, to start ingratiating himself with his captor.

“I don’t like eggheads,” Legge went on. “Just because somebody goes on to university for a few years and picks up a few degrees he thinks he knows more than a plain man who left school when he was fifteen.”

“Ridiculous notion,” Peace said.

“Let me tell you, I’m as good a scientist and inventor as anybody. You know, it wasn’t a high IQ and fancy education that made Einstein a great scientist. It was his simple and childlike approach to problems—and my approach is probably even simpler and more childlike than his was.”

“I’ve no doubt it is.”

“Thank you.” Legge looked mollified, then the stern expression returned to his face as he remembered the serious nature of the business in hand. “On with the interrogation—what’s all this about you having lost your memory?”

“It’s true, Professor. I don’t know who I am. As far as I’m concerned, life began about a month ago.”

“Mmmmmph.” Legge glanced at his console and nodded. “I thought that sort of thing only happened in movies. Any idea what made you lose your memory?”

“ Yes. I joined the Space Legion to forget something, and they wiped out my whole past life.”

“The Legion!” Legge became animated. “I see! I see! They’ve only been doing engram erasure for a year or so. Probably bungled your case.”

Peace shook his head. “I joined in 2386—and by that time they’d had nearly a century of experience with the equipment.”

“But that’s … um … ninety-four years in the future!” Legge cast an inadvertent glance towards the landing where the toilet was situated. “Did you…?”

“Yes. I was being chased, and I ran into this building—I don’t know why—and hid in the toilet. Next thing I knew I was here in 2292, and you were pointing a gun at me.”

“It has happened again,” Legge said in a doleful voice. “Old Smirkoff has a lot to answer for.”

Peace frowned his puzzlement. “Who’s Smirkoff?”

“Dimitri Smirkoff—the meanest man on Aspatria.” Legge began switching off his machine, apparently satisfied with Peace’s credentials. “He built an illegal time machine and hid it in the toilet. The cage is concealed in the walls walls.”

Peace’s bafflement increased. “But why would anybody do a nutty thing like that?”

“Smirkoff owned the raincoat factory, you see. It churned him up that he had to pay the girls for the time they spent in the toilet, so one Christmas when he had the place to himself he came in here with a time machine kit, built it round the toilet and replastered the walls so nobody would notice. I’m told he even tried to cut the girls’ production bonus to pay for the redecorating. Talk about mean!”

“But what was the idea?”

“Well, the machine was an extroverter—the sort that only Government agencies are allowed to operate. Smirkoffs idea was to set it up so that no matter how long anybody spent in the toilet— reading, smoking, talking—when they came out only one second of external time would have elapsed elapsed.”

“Good grief!” Peace was astounded by the misguided ingenuity. “Still… it must have improved his output figures.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, my friend. The moron — not having any scientific understanding—set the machine up all wrong. It became unstable, erratic, and girls started disappearing. The place got the reputation of being haunted, nobody would work here any more, and Smirkoff went out of business. That’s how I was able to buy the building for my research work.”

“Can’t you deactivate the machine? Turn it off?”

“Are you kidding?” Legge began unfastening the straps around Peace’s ankles. “To get at the master control I’d have to go inside, and there’s no way I’m going to risk being a castaway in another century. I’m not mad, you know know.”

“Shouldn’t you at least nail the door shut?”

“That wouldn’t prevent people materializing in there from another time and maybe starving to death.” Legge’s rubicund features wrinkled in distaste. “How’d you like to work beside a closet full of dead bodies?”

“Not much,” Peace admitted, looking all around him with growing interest now that the immediate threat to his well-being had receded. The laboratory, although badly disorganized, contained a great deal of expensive equipment, and it occurred to him that any inventor or private researcher who could afford to buy an entire factory building for his work had to be a very successful man. It was difficult to reconcile that conclusion with the general demeanor of Legge himself, who seemed as mad as a hatter, but perhaps the man could be crazy and brilliant at the same time. Peace flexed his fingers gratefully and stood up as the straps fell away from his forearms.