ELIS MTS som Time-travel and parallel worlds — the most unusual Pee CC Cece RCC ae oe trifying stories never before published in book form. SUVA Cee Me a i, w a am —_ Ree ie ee CSE eh sa Isaac Asimov Murray Leinster 7 Frank Belknap Long John D. MacDonald Z Pec C Me Cais ms Edited by A GROFF CONKLIN Editor of “Invaders of Earth,” etc.Here, never before published in book form, are over twenty electrifying stories of time-travel and parallel worlds—the most unusual ideas in science fiction—by such science-fiction masters as Theodore Sturgeon, Isaac Asimov, Frank Belknap Long, H. L. Gold, Lewis Padgett, Mur- ray Leinster, John D. MacDonald, Lester del Rey, etc. What would happen if you met yourself walking through yesterday? Or if you woke up missing Tuesday? What would it be like a thou- sand years from now if you could get there? Read the stories in this book and discover gs that ‘occur when you venture into the future or the some of the strange and fascinating past, Find out what travelers from yesterday or tomorrow do when they enter our own time—to inspect us or even to change some of the events occurring here and now. Or universes that science-fiction writers imagine a few of the infinite number of other st around the corner,’ some new dimen- sion of space-time—worlds you can reach by lifting your eyes, by twisting a ring, by pressing @ button on a machine: worlds in which the most astonishing things can happen. ADVENTURES IN DIMENSION is presented by “sci- ence-fiction's most meticulous editor,” Groff Conklin, who has grouped the stories and added notes in his own special fashion. (See back of jacket for table of contents.) $2.95Science-Fiction Adventures in DimensionOther Science-Fiction “Idea” Anthologies edited by GROFF CONKLIN POSSIBLE WORLDS OF SCIENCE FICTION INVADERS OF EARTHScience-Fiction Adventures in Dimension Edited by GROFF CONKLIN Editor of “Invaders of Earth,” etc. The VANGUARD Press, Inc. New York, N.Y.Copyright, 1953, by Groff Conklin Published simultaneously in Canada by the (Copp Clark Company, Led, Toronto No parton of this book may be reprinted ia any form without the writen periaion of the Dubber except by a teviewer who ites to obote brief purges Ia connection wih #tevew f00 3 Mavstictred inthe United States of Ameria by TH. Wold, New York, No COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ume dior, mss oF ««. Conytaht, 1953, by TiDaiaPubihing Company, Reprinted by per ha Shes tnd Pree PO tom Feit, Summety 95%. Witiom Bede, wren. Copriaht, 19st by Calary Peblshng Corpention. Reprinted by perminion tthe tthe trom Caany Scace Pci, Octbe, 133+ ey Bredbury, nice wearin. Copyright, 190, by Dosbleday & Company, Ine Reprinted by permis of Harold Nao from "The Maran Chonies” Maer |. Breer, MD. rm comix sn we onnse. Capyight, 1930, by Aming Storiy,pabihed by Zia Devs Pacing Company. Reprinted by pecsion of 1. Lloyd Medaster tram dmating Stren, Maren i990 ‘ei Caror, ve sas. Copyright, 1952, by Fantasy House, Inc. Hepited by permiulon of Forest J ‘Ackerman fom The Mapatine of Foray ond Science ieton, Septet, 1933 4. Berrem Chane, casawan. Coprtghs, 194, 7 Wed Tales, Reprned by permiion of Sete Ler det Rey, «an connor wee. Copyah, 1958, by World Edo, Ie. Reprned by per tvion of Seo Meredich om Galan) Since Fction, Fey, 193. HL. Gold, veneer manorn. Copyright, 1940 by Beer Poblictons, Ic. Reprod by permision of the author fom Taiing Wonder Sore, March, 190. Marion Groin, nt ono romans. Copyright, 1953, by Faneey Howe, Tae. Replat by perminien of ‘Barhald les tam The Magasin of Fema and Secee Fon, Septembet 152 2B. M, Hall, ae ram as rae, Copyright, 104, by Set and Sith Pobiations, Toe, Reprinted by permion of Gua J. Friend, Our Kline Auocites, Tn, trom astounding Scene Pon, Deen,Reymond F Jones, nse ca rx ot Copriht, p47, by Stet and Smith Publications, Tae, Reprinted by Derminige of Seat Meredith Kom Astounding Since Fon, ebay, 1347 Dey Keene, “avs so mow wn Huse ««" Capit 19m, by Clark Pubiing Comps Drocrmiion of Sot Mere fron Imapination,Deceaber 1930, Fre Liber, J, seuss ov wstive. Copyright, 194, by Steet and Smith Palins, Inc. Reprinted ty perma oi Prederk Poul frm ditoweing Soe Pion, Septenber, te nals R. Long, nevsse raviceny. Copyiht, 193, by Suet and Sith Publications, lnc. Reprinted |. Friend, Ota Kine Asan, In, fmt Atounding Store, Jone, 1937 Frock Sehnap Long, 10 yutow xvowsssce. Copyright, 1ge, by Stet std Smith Pulizaons, Ine. cor sme wu arron wert. Copyright, 10s by Bete Publication, I ‘eprned by petmiticn of Over J. Fiend, Ole Kline Asoc, lees om Trilling Wonder Stork, John D. MacDonald, nme siouen run meen. Copright, 1p, by Bewer Paliztion {Sy peminion of Liar aed Wikimon, Ine, from String Stover, November, 194. ne, Repeated Alan Nourse, nxn we tan tan. Copyright, 19st by Galany Poblihing Corporation. Repeated by pe imision of Haury Alaler tm Galary Science Fcon, November, 193 Lewis Padects, omnes rower, Copies, 19a, by Suest and Smith Pelication, Ic. Revited by fermion of Harold Maton tom ditoundng Stent Fusion, ANU, 1943 Witiom Sell, emer races, Cope a9, by Street and Sith Pebliction, aes Reprinted from Theodore Sturgeon, vuanone was ewan. Copeiaht 194ts by Street and Smith Publius, I ‘rsted by peminian of the suber Erm Unio, eos gale Wiliem F, Temple, wav or rrcare Copyiah, 948 by Ber Pblicatoay, Nac. Be at Seat Meredith frm Tavilin Woodar Story, Tne, 19 rine by permision Reser Plat Young, voncnnan raoevans. Copyright, 195, by Stet and Seth Pbliston, Ie. Repiaed ty erminion of orrat I~ Ackeran liom ditunding Science Fein, Feeiary, 1950, ‘hn rhaunive afore av been ade to lene all perons having any vghtt or ines in the mori topesring in tie book, std ta cent tovint pertlnoat with them, If aay required ackaowlcdgment ifertee emit, or a9y rights overonke, iin by inadvertence, aad forgiven ie requerted thereto aeCONTENTS Introduction PART ONE: Time Tales PRESENT TO FUTURE Theodore Sturgeon: Yesterday Was Monday William L. Bade: Ambition Murray Leinster: The Middle of the Week After Next Lester del Rey: ... And It Comes Out Here PRESENT TO PAST ‘A. Bertram Chandler: Castaway Marion Gross: ‘The Good Provider Amelia R. Long: Reverse Phylogeny William Sell: Other Tracks PAST TO PRESENT Day Keene: “What So Proudly We Hail . . .” Rey Bradbury: Night Meeting FUTURE TO PRESENT HL, Gold: Perfect Murder E.M. Hull: The Flight That Failed Lewis Padgett: Endowment Policy Raymond F. Jones: Pete Can Fix It 19 BsPART TWO: Parallel Worlds + Peter Cartur: The Mist Miles J. Breuer, M.D.: The Gostak and the Doshes Isaac Asimov: What If . . « John D. MacDonald: Ring Around the Redhead Alan E, Nourse: Tiger by the Tail William F. Temple: Way of Escape Roger Flint Young: Suburban Frontiers Fritz Leiber, Jr.: Business of Killing Frank Belknap Long: To Follow Knowledge 37INTRODUCTION ONCE in a while some earnest soul asks me for a definition of science fiction. I am then obliged to confess that I haven't formulated any precise definition, and neither has anyone else, to my knowledge—at Teast not one that everyone would agree with. Of course, now and then those of us who are interested in the subject come up with a contribution that may eventually constitute part of an acceptable whole. My latest addition to this stock pile of ideas is this: Science fiction is based on scientific ideas that have not been proved im- possible, ‘My first two Vanguard collections pretty well illustrated this point, I think. Possible Worlds dealt—sometimes in a pretty fantastic. way, Ladmit—with the definitely scientific notion of space travel (see Time for December 8, 1952, and Collier's for October 18-25, 1952, for evidence) and with the types of life that may exist elsewhere in the Galaxy. Invaders of Earth had various alien forms of life from other worlds making contact with us on Earth in one way or another, some of the ways rather peculiar, but on the whole scientifically quite possible. From the point of view of the popular press, the alien invasion is already in the realm of possibility—the flying saucers and their alien crews—(see Life for April 7, 1952, and True for January and March, 1950). The present volume, dealing with time travel and parallel worlds, is also science fiction by the above definition, since no one has ever actually proved, so far as I know, that such travel cannot happen or that other-dimensional worlds do not exist. On the other hand, aside from some wholly abstract thinking by mathematicians and philoso- phers of physics and astrophysics, the only “evidence” adduced for their existence comes from metaphysicians and from science-fiction wri- ters. This removes the question of their existence from the “possi- bility” side of the ledger and places it squarely on the opposite side under the head of fantasy. And here time and travel and parallel worldsx nernopucTiON will stay, at least until someone comes along with more tangible proof of their probability than we now have To call the stories in this book science fantasy rather than science fiction is, to my mind, no slur. Some of the most challenging stories Thave ever read fall into this category. There is in the notion of time- as.a-dimension such vast scope for unusual ideas, such enormous free- dom for new concepts, such a great opportunity for irony, tragedy, paradox, wit, that I am continually finding new and unusual material in the genre—something that cannot be said with such assurance, these days, about other types of science fiction Furthermore, the fact that these stories are classed as fantasy does not mean that they can have no serious import. As you will find on reading, several authors use dimensional concepts as vehicles for the expression of sharp comment on the ailments of our time and the foibles of man. If you imagine that you can travel forward to a better world, for example, you can write a peppery piece about what is wrong with ours, and many of the better science-fiction writers have done just that. Others have written of terrifying futures, in an effort to put over some idea of a way of avoiding that future by altering our actions today. Time travel is not, therefore, all beer and skittles! ‘Now let’s take a brief glance at the kinds of time adventure that have been developed in science fiction during its history. The simplest ap- proach has been to consider time as a sort of “corridor,” a “tunnel through space-time,” through which one can move backward to the past or forward to the future. This description also covers the two other simple types of time travel: from the future to the present, which is merely travel into the past (considering “now” to be “past”); and from the past to the present (considering “present” to be “future”). Perhaps the most popular category of time stories is that which takes us into the future. It is so popular, I believe, because it offers the writer an easy device for the description of his favorite Utopia (or anti-Utopia) in terms of the society he has left (ie., ours). H. G. Wells? The Time Machine is the classic example of this sort of travel-into-the- future, In the present collection, only two of the four tales included in the “Present to Future” section have a semi-Utopian aspect—Wil- liam Bade’s “Ambition,” and Lester del Rey's “ And It Comes ‘Out Here,” which is a fairly wry view of a “better” future. The other two tales are straight dream stuff, particularly Theodore Sturgeon’sINTRODUCTION xi story of a man who found himself onstage while the scene setters were getting Wednesday ready. Murray Leinster's tale, too, is strictly for fun, a neat bit of hop-scotch with metaphysics. Time travel backward, our second category, appeals to some writers as more “possible.” They view the time corridor as extending in one direction only: to events that have already happened. These writers don’t like the predestinarian idea that the future already exists; they believe that it only happens as it happens, However, traveling in the past also involves some highly unlikely eventualities, among which the problem of the time paradox is the most fascinating. Hardly a story of travel into the past has ever been written that did not bring to mind the difficult point that one might meet one- selfand then what? Or cause a basic change in past events— in which case what would happen? Marion Gross's “The Good Pro- vider” simply sidesteps the issue by not mentioning it, and Ame- lia Long’s “Reverse Phylogeny” gets around it successfully by having only the memories, rather than the actual bodies, of the protagonists glide into the past. This story also takes its characters so far back that they would hardly be likely to meet their own ancestors. The same type of time travel is used in one of the classics of science fiction, John ‘Taine’s Before the Dawn. The paradox of backward time travel is met head on in the other two stories in this section. A. Bertram Chandler's “Castaway” boldly accepts the paradox as insoluble and makes a horrifying little story out of it. William Sell’s precedent breaking “Other Tracks,” on the other hand, provides that whenever anyone goes back and then returns, he returns to a world different from the one he left, a world changed by the very fact that he did go back. Here the paradox receives its most logical treatment, ‘The third variety of travel in time, from past to present, is very rarely encountered in science fiction, since it does not offer much in the way of dramatic opportunity. Day Keene's “What So Proudly We Hail...” makes as much as can possibly be made out of the no- tion, and does so with real effectiveness. Ray Bradbury's “Night Meet- ing,” on the other hand, assumes the past-in-the-present and, like most of his tales, stands alone in its strange loveliness. One should not have to try to fit this story into a category, as I have had to here, for it is un- comfortable in any such formal strait jacket. ‘Time travel from the future to the present, our fourth group,xii INTRODUCTION is nearly as popular with the science-fiction writers as is time travel from the present to the future. Here (usually) the stories have to do with a futurian who wants to change the past so that his future, or the world’s future, will be better—or at least different. Lewis Padget’s “Endowment Policy” shows us a mean and selfish man of the future, and is also an excellent example of the time paradox. A man meets himself as a boy and tries to change the course of his life. It doesn’t work, naturally... . Horace Gold's “Perfect Murder” (also about a selfish man of tomorrow) picks up the time paradox by the tail and lets it yowl in confusion, This is the sort of story it must be fun to write! The other side of the picture is shown by Raymond Jones's ominous “Pete Can Fix It,” with its frightening shuttle back and forth in time to tell of a selfless futurian, a man who is desperately anxious to help the people of today avert a future which, in his world, has actually hap- pened. E. M. Hull's “The Flight That Failed” reports on a man from the future who actually helps us avert a calamity that had happened in his own world, There is one other type of time-travel story that is purposely not represented here. This is the tale of travel from the future to the past. Most of these stories tell of future scientists who go back in time on archaeological expeditions, or traders who travel back to negotiate profitable deals in past ages. My only excuse for not including this type of story is that I could find no example that I particularly liked. The whole concept is somehow fuzzy, and so, it seems to me, are the stories written about it. There may be, of course, some excellent exam- ples that I may have missed; to their authors I herewith make my apol- ogies in advance. ‘As far as pure time stories go, the field is just about covered. There are hundreds upon hundreds of variants, but on the whole I think our classification is a complete one. The other half of the concept of Ad- ventures in Dimension involves the notion of parallel, or simultane- fous, or alternate, or coexistent worlds or universes. The planets in touch with Earth may be Earthlike or they may be completely dif- ferent. Both types are represented here. ‘One of the bridges between the time story and the parallel-world story in which the parallel world is Earthlike is William Sell’s “Other Tracks,” previously mentioned. Here it is assumed that the variousINTRODUCTION xiii worlds the protagonist enters in the past remain in existence even though he is not in all of them. The same idea, “meta-scientifically” expressed, exists in the writings of certain modern theoretical metaphy- sicians—nor fiction writers—who propound the theory that, since time is infinite, every conceivable kind of world, representing every con- ceivable variation on the least act of the smallest individual, has existed an infinite number of times in the past and will exist that many times again in the future. This ponderous concept becomes so uncom- fortable to handle in fiction that most writers prefer kindergarten sim- plications of the idea, which they use in a variety of entertaining ways, as you will see. Merely assume the existence of a parallel world, with interminglings difficult but possible, and you have a story like Peter Cartur’s “The Mist.” Or another sort of world that can be reached only by a strange sort of “thinking” about it, and Miles J. Breuer’s “The Gostak and the Doshes” comes to mind. Or imagine alternate worlds commencing with the commission or noncommission of a specific act, and you have a story like Isaac Asi- mov's “What If . . .” Similar tales have appeared many times in the past; Britain’s famed Prime Minister Winston Churchill once wrote one. Think of one other world, exactly like ours except that time is a little faster there, so that by now it is about a thousand years ahead of us, and you have William F. Temple's “Way of Escape.” This, like “What If... .." presumes a splitting off, upon the occurrence of some event, of an alternate world; only in this instance the event is far in the past. Or conceive of an infinite number of different worlds that can be “reached” by a complex machine on our Earth, and you have strange concepts like John D. MacDonald's “Ring Around the Redhead.” Alan E. Nourse’s “Tiger by the Tail” imagines a single other world, and between it and us a physical fourth-dimensional condition, or “hole,” through which objects may pass. ‘Then there is the other universe with a time scale vastly swifter than ours; this you will find in Roger Flint Young's “Suburban Frontiers.” Fritz Leiber’s “Business of Killing” assumes an infinite number of worlds, and one man who is able to travel between them. Finally, Frank Belknap Long’s “To Follow Knowledge” involves a machine that makes contact with many different worlds simultaneously—in this instance through an error, the results of which are terrifying.xiv INTRODUCTION ‘The parallel-world concept is thus as varied and as fresh as the outlook of the writers who tackle it. There is no possible way of cate- gorizing stories of this sort, as there is with “simple” time-travel tales. All one can predict is that each one will be different; this is one reason, I am sure, why the idea attracts such good writers in the science-fiction field, Incidentally, in talking about science fiction to groups of people, among, them hundreds of high-school boys and girls, I have recently begun to notice an interesting change in point of view, which I believe is a good one, When I first became interested in the subject, some eight years ago, what discussion there was seemed always to be centered around the relative probability of the phenomena described in the stories and the estimated time when they would “come true.” This interest is still Paramount today, but it seems to me that the emphasis on the point is ‘not quite so heavy as it was and that other aspects of science fiction are becoming important. For example, I find it gratifying that many science-fiction readers today, and especially the young people, are becoming more concerned. with the freshness and the variety of science-fiction concepts, and the excellence with which they are presented, than they are with whether or not these concepts turn out to be true predictions of things to come. A novel idea, whether scientific or pseudoscientifc, is useful because it stretches the mind the way a good game of tennis or football stretches the body. It helps to develop the unused muscles of the im- agination. It is this aspect of science fiction, and specifically of the adventures in dimension included in this book, that intrigues me most. These stories are genuine experiments in free-wheeling make-believe. ‘They have no other reason for being. And for that reason alone—that they will test the elasticity of your mind—they are worth the time you take off from your various humdrum pursuits to read them. I would like to thank Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, H. L. Gold, Mur- ray Leinster, and Theodore Sturgeon for suggesting stories of their own for inclusion in this book and for helping me thereby to clarify my own ideas about time travel and dimensional adventures. ‘Thanks are also due to a number of other friends for various favors, to the discerning folk at the Vanguard Press for the faith they con- tinue to show in my taste, aberrant though it may be at times, and toINTRODUCTION xv Lucy, of course. Her enjoyment in the play of ideas, the unexpected turns and twists and quirks of plot so often found in other-dimensional stories, encourages me to believe that I am far from being alone in my admiration for this highly special subdivision of the science-fiction feld. Grorr ConxunPART ONE TIME TALES Present to Future WHAT tomorrow will be like, no one knows. All we think we know for sure is: “Tomorrow will be.” It is perhaps also safe to say that it will be—different. Many science-fiction writers who deal with travel into future time make no pretense of knowing what it will be like, either. Thus, in this section we have four stories, only one of which really takes us into a distant future and describes what it may be like. Another is a curious sort of circular pattern with a clear picture of something, but whether it is the future isn’t made too clear because the story doesn’t establish. beyond reasonable doubt whether there is any tomorrow. As for the other two, they simply ignore the matter and have a lot of fun with the forward notion of forward motion in time. ‘These are really much more “logical” tales about the future, because the future never catches up with them to prove them right or wrong. They don’t prophesy—they just are. And very amusing, too.Theodore Sturgeon YESTERDAY WAS MONDAY The purpose of putting this blithely incredible story first is to give you a massive dose of disorientation. Time-travel stories do that to you, and you might as well get used to it... . Indeed, the delightful thing about this particular item is the way in which it throws you of balance by denying perfectly obvious things like Tuesday, or, rather, one particu- lar Tuesday for one particular man. Let us devoutly hope that Harry Wright's trouble isn’t catching! HARRY WRIGHT rolled over and said something spelled “Bzzzzh- haaawl” He chewed a bit on a mouthful of dry air and spat it out, opened one eye to sec if it really would open, opened the other and closed the frst, closed the second, swung his feet onto the floor, opened his eyes again, and stretched. This was a daily occurrence, and the only thing that made it remarkable at all was that he did it on a ‘Wednesday morning, and— Yesterday was Monday. ‘Oh, he knew it was Wednesday, all right. It was partly that, even though he knew yesterday was Monday, there was a gap between Monday and now; and that must have been Tuesday. When you fall asleep and lie there all night without dreaming, you know, when you wake up, that time has passed. You've done nothing that you can remember; you had no particular thoughts, no way to gauge time, and yet you know that some hours have passed. So it was with Harry ‘Wright. Tuesday had gone wherever your eight hours went last night. But he-hadr't slept through Tuesday. Oh, no. He never slept, as a ‘matter of fact, more than six hours at a stretch, and there was no partic- ular reason for his doing so now. Monday was the day before yester- day; he had turned in and slept his usual stretch, he had awakened, and it was Wednesday. It felt like Wednesday. There was 2 Wednesdayish feel to the air. Harry put on his socks and stood up. He wasn’t fooled. He knew what day it was. “What happened to yesterday?” he muttered. “Oh— yesterday was Monday.” That sufficed until he got his pajamas off. 2YESTERDAY WAS MONDAY 3 “Monday,” he mused, reaching for his underwear, “was quite a while back, seems as though.” If he had been the worrying type he would have started then and there. But he wasn't. He was an easygoing sort, the kind of man that gets himself into a rut and stays there until he is pushed out. That was why he was an automobile mechanic at twenty- three dollars a week; that’s why he had been one for eight years now, and would be from now on—if he could only find Tuesday and get back to work. Guided by his reflexes, as usual, and with no mental effort at all, which was also usual, he finished washing, dressing, and making his bed. His alarm clock, which never alarmed because he was of such regular habits, said, as usual, six twenty-two as he paused on the way out and gave his room the once-over. And there was a certain some- thing about the place that made even this phlegmatic character stop and think. It wasn't finished. ‘The bed was there, and the picture of Joe Louis, There were the two chairs sharing their usual seven legs, the split table, the pipe-organ bed- stead, the beige wallpaper with the two swans over and over and over, the tiny corner sink, the tilted bureau. But none of them was finished. Not that there were any holes in anything. What paint there had been in the first place was still there. But there was an odor of old cut lum- ber, a subtle, insistent air of building about the room and everything in it. It was indefinable, inescapable; and Harry Wright stood there caught up in it, wondering. He glanced suspiciously around but saw nothing he could really be suspicious of. He shook his head, locked the door, and went out into the hall. On the steps a little fellow, just over three feet tall, was gently strok- ing the third step from the top with a razor-sharp chisel, shaping up anew scar in the dirty wood. He looked up as Harry approached, and stood up quickly. “Hi,” said Harry, taking in the man’s leather coat, his peaked cap, and his wizened, brighteyed little face. “Whatcha doing?” “Touch-up,” piped the little man. “The actor in the third floor front has a nail in his right heel. He came in late Tuesday night and cut the wood here. I have to get it ready for Wednesday.” “This is Wednesday,” Harry pointed out. “OF course. Always has been, Always will be.” Harry let that pass, started on down the stairs. He had achieved4 Theodore Sturgeon his amazing bovinity by making a practice of ignoring things he could not understand. But one thing bothered him— “Did you say that feller in the third floor front was an actor?” “Yes. They're all actors, you know.” “You're nuts, friend,” said Harry bluntly. “That guy works on the docks.” “Oh, yes—that’s his part. That’s what he acts.” “No kiddin’. An’ what does he do when he isn’t acting?” “But he— Well, that’s all he does do! That's all any of the actors dol” “Gee— I thought he looked like a reg'lar guy, too,” said Harry. “An actor! “Magine!” “Excuse me,” said the little man, “but I've got to get back to work. ‘We mustn't let anything get by us, you know. They'll be through Tues- day before long, and everything must be ready for them.” Harry thought: This guy’s crazy nuts. He smiled uncertainly and went down to the landing below. When he looked back the man was cutting skillfully into the stair, making a neat little nail scratch. Harry shook his head. This was a screwy morning. He'd be glad to get back to the shop. There was a "39 sedan down there with a busted rear spring. Once he got his mind on that he could forget this non- sense. That's all that matters to a man in a rut, Work, eat, sleep, pay- day. Why even try to think anything else out? The street was a riot of activity, but then it always was. But not quite this way. There were automobiles and trucks and buses around, aplenty, but none of them was moving. And none of them was quite complete. This was Harry's own field; if there was anything he didn't know about motor vehicles, it wasn’t very important. And through that medium he began to get the general idea of what was going on. Swarms of little men who might have been twins of the one he had spoken to were crowding around the cars, the sidewalks, the stores and buildings. Alll were working like mad with every tool imaginable. Some were touching up the finish of the cars with fine wire brushes, laying on networks of microscopic cracks and scratches. Some, with ball peens and mallets, were denting fenders skillfully, bending bumpers in an artful crash pattern, spiderwebbing safety-glass windshields. Oth- ers were aging top dressing with high-pressure, needle-point sand blast- ers. Still others were pumping dust into upholstery, sandpapering the dashboard finish around light switches, throttles, chokes, to give 2 finger-worn appearance. Harry stood aside as a half dozen of the work-‘YESTERDAY WAS MONDAY 5 cts scampered down the street bearing a fender which they riveted to a 1930 coupé. It was freshly bloodstained. Once awakened to this highly unusual activity, Harry stopped, slightly open-mouthed, to watch what else was going on. He saw the same process being industriously accomplished with the houses and stores. Dirt was being laid on plate-glass windows over a coat of clear sizing. Woodwork was being cleverly scored and the paint peeled to make it look correctly weatherbeaten, and dozens of leather-clad laborers were on their hands and knees, poking dust and dirt into the cracks between the paving blocks. A line of them went down the side- walk, busily chewing gum and spitting it out; they were followed by another crew who carefully placed the wads according to diagrams they carried, and stamped them flat. Harry set his teeth and muscled his rocking brain into something like its normal position. “I ain't never seen a day like this or crazy people like this,” he said, “but I ain’t gonna let it be any of my affair. I got my job to go to.” And, trying vainly to ignore the hundreds of little, hard-working figures, he went grimly on down the street. When he got to the garage he found no one there but more swarms of streotyped little people climbing over the place, dulling the paint work, cracking the cement flooring, doing their hurried, efficient little tasks of aging. He noticed, only because he was so familiar with the garage, that they were actually making the marks that had been there as long as he had known the place. “Hell with it,” he gritted, anxious to submerge himself into his own world of wrenches and grease guns. “I got my job; this is none o' my affair.” He looked about him, wondering if he should clean these interlop- ers out of the garage. Naw—not his affair. He was hired to repair cars, not to police the joint. Long as they kept away from him—and, cof course, animal caution told him that he was far, far outnumbered. The absence of the boss and the other mechanics was no surprise to Harry; he always opened the place. He climbed out of his street clothes and into coveralls, picked up a tool case, and walked over to the sedan, which he had left up on the hydraulic rack yester—— that is, Monday night. And that is when Harry Wright lost his temper. After all, the car was his job, and he didn’t like having anyone else mess with a jab he had started. So when he saw his job—his "39 sedan—resting steadily on its wheels over the rack, which was down under the floor, and when he saw6 Theodore Sturgeon that the rear spring was repaired, he began to burn. He dived under the car and ran deft fingers over the rear-wheel suspensions. In spite of his anger at this unprecedented occurrence he had to admit to himself that the job had been done well. “Might have done it myself,” he muttered. ‘A soft clank and a gentle movement caught his attention. With a roar he reached out and grabbed the leg of one of the ubiquitous little men, wriggled out from under the car, caught his culprit by his leather collar, and dangled him at arm’s length. “What are you doing to my job?” Harry bellowed. ‘The little man tucked his chin into the front of his shirt to give his windpipe a chance, and said, “Why, I was just finishing up that spring job.” “Oh, Sure you were just finishing up that spring job,” Harry whis- pered, choked with rage. Then, at the top of his voice, “Who told you to touch that car?” “Who told me? What do you— Well, it just had to be done, that’s all, You'll have to let me go. I must tighten up those two bolts and lay some dust on the whole thing.” “You must what? You get within six feet o' that car and I'll twist your head offn your neck with a Stillson!” “But— It has to be done!” “You won't do it! Why, I oughta—” “Please let me go! If I don’t leave that car the way it was Tuesday night—” “When was Tuesday night?” “The last act, of course. Let me go or I'll call the district supervisor!” “Call the devil himself. 'm going to spread you on the sidewalk out- side; and heaven help you if I catch you near here again!” The little man’s jaw set, his eyes narrowed, and he whipped his feet upward. They crashed into Wright’s jaw; Harry dropped him and staggered back. ‘The little man began squealing, “Supervisor! Super- visor! Emergency!” Harry growled and started after him; but suddenly, in the air be- tween him and the midget workman, a long white hand appeared. ‘The empty air was swept back, showing an aperture from the garage to blank, blind nothingness. Out of it stepped a tall man in a single loose-fitting garment literally studded with pockets. The opening closed behind the man. Harry cowered before him. Never in his life had he seen such noble,YESTERDAY WAS MONDAY 7 powerful features, such strength of purpose, such broad shoulders, such a deep chest. The man stood with the backs of his hands on his hips, staring at Harry as if he were something somebody forgot to sweep up. “That's him,” said the little man shrilly. “He is trying to stop me from doing the work!” “Who are you?” asked the beautiful man, down his nose. “T'm the m-mechanic on this jj— Who wants to know?” “Tridel, supervisor of the district of Futura, wants to know.” “Where in hell did you come from?” “I did not come from hell. I came from Thursday.” Harry held his head. “What is all this?” he wailed. “Why is today Wednesday? Who are all these crazy little guys? What happened to Tuesday?” Tridel made a slight motion with his finger, and the little man scur- tied back under the car. Harry was frenzied to hear the wrench busily tightening bolts. He half started to dive under after the litte fellow, but Iridel said “Stop!” and when Iridel said “Stop!” Harry stopped. “This,” said Iridel calmly, “is an amazing occurrence.” He regarded ‘Harry with unemotional curiosity. “An actor on stage before the sets are finished, Extraordinary.” “What stage?” asked Harry. “What are you doing here anyhow, and what's che idea of all these little guys working around here?” "You ask a great many questions, actor,” said Iridel. “I shall answer them and then I shall have a few to ask you. These little men are stage- hands— I am surprised that you didn’t realize that. They are setting the stage for Wednesday. Tuesday? That's going on now.” “Argh!” Harry snorted. “How can Tuesday be going on when to- day's Wednesday?” “Today isn’t Wednesday, actor.” “Huh?” “Today is Tuesday.” Harry scratched his head. “Met a feller on the steps this mornin’ cone of these here stagehands of yours. He said this was Wednesday’ “Ie is Wednesday. Today is Tuesday. Tuesday is today. ‘Today’ is simply the name for the stage set which happens to be in use. ‘Yester- day’ means the set that has just been used; ‘Tomorrow’ is the set that will be used after the actors have finished with ‘today.’ This is Wednes- day. Yesterday was Monday; today is Tuesday. See?”8 Theodore Sturgeon Harry said, “No.” Iridel threw up his long hands. “My, you actors are stupid. Now listen carefully. This is Act Wednesday, Scene 6:22. That means that everything you see around you here is being readied for 6:22 am. on Wednesday. Wednesday isn’t a time; it’s a place. The actors are mov- ing along toward it now. I sce you still don't get the idea. Let's see . . . ah. Look at that clock, What does it say?” Harry Wright looked at the big electric clock on the wall over the compressor. It was corrected hourly and was highly accurate, and it said 6:22. Harry looked at it, amazed, “Six tw— but my gosh, ‘man, that’s what time I left the house. I walked here, an’ I been here ten minutes already!” Iridel shook his head, “You've been here no time at all, because there is no time until the actors make their entrances.” Harry sat down on a grease drum and wrinkled up his brains with the effort he was making. “You mean that this time proposition ain't something that moves along all the time? Sorta—well, like a road. A road don't go no place— You just go places along it. Is that it?” “That's the general idea. In fact, that’s a pretty good example. Sup- pose we say that it’s a road; a highway built of paving blocks. Each block is a day; the actors move along it and go through day after day. ‘And our job here—mine and the little men—is to . . . well, pave that road. This is the clean-up gang here. They are fixing up the last little details so that everything will be ready for the actors.” Harry sat stil, his mind creaking with the effects of information, He felt as if he had been hit with a lead pipe and the shock of it was being drawn out infinitely. This was the craziest-sounding thing he had ever run into. For no reason at all he remembered a talk he had had once with a drunken aviation mechanic who had tried to explain to him how the air flowing over an airplane’s wings makes the machine go up in the air. He hadn't understood a word of the man’s discourse, which was all about eddies and chords and cambers and foils, dihedrals and the Bernoulli effect. That didn’t make any difference; the things flew whether he understood how or not; he knew that because he had seen them. This guy Iridel’s lecture was the same sort of thing. If there was nothing in all he said, how come all these little guys were working around here? Why wasn’t the clock telling time? Where was Tuesday? He thought he'd get that straight for good and all. “Just where is Tuesday?” he asked,YESTERDAY WAS MONDAY 9 “Over there,” said Iridel, and pointed. Harry recoiled and fell off the drum; for when the man extended his hand, it disappeared! Harry got up off the floor and said tautly, “Do that again.” “What? Oh— Point toward Tuesday? Certainly.” And he pointed. His hand appeared again when he withdrew it. Harry said, “My gosh!” and sat down again on the drum, sweating and staring at the supervisor of the district of Futura. “You point, an’ your hand—ain't,” he breathed. “What direction is that?” “It is a direction like any other direction,” said Iridel. “You know yourself there are four directions—forward, sideward, upward, and”— he pointed again, and again his hand vanished—"that way!” “They never told me that in school,” said Harry. “Course, I was just a kid then, bu” Tridel laughed. “It is the fourth dimension—it is duration. The actors move through length, breadth, and height anywhere they choose to within the set. But there is another movement—one they can’t control —and that is duration.” “How soon will they come ... ch... here?” asked Harry, wav- ing an arm. Iridel dipped into one of his numberless pockets and pulled out a watch. “It is now eight thirty-seven Tuesday morn- ing,” he said. “They'll be here as soon as they finish the act and the scenes in Wednesday that have already been prepared.” Harry thought again for a moment, while Iridel waited patiently, smiling a little. Then he looked up at the supervisor and asked, “Hey —this ‘actor’ business—what’s that all about?” “Oh—that. Well, it’s a play, that’s all. Just like any play—put on for the amusement of an audience.” “J was to a play once,” said Harry. “Who's the audience?” Tridel stopped smiling. “Certain—Ones who may be amused,” he said. “And now I'm going to ask you some questions. How did you get here?” “Walked.” “You walked from Monday night to Wednesday morning?” “Naw— From the house to here.” “Ah— But how did you get to Wednesday, six twenty-two?” “Well, I Damfino. I just woke up an’ came to work as usual.” “This is an extraordinary occurrence,” said Iridel, shaking his head in puzzlement. “You'll have to see the producer.” “Producer? Who's he?”10 Theodore Sturgeon “You'll find out. In the meantime, come along with me. I can’t leave you here; you're too close to the play. I have to make my rounds, anyway.” Iridel walked toward the door. Harry was tempted to stay and find himself some more work to do, but when Iridel glanced back at him and motioned him out, Harry followed. It was suddenly impossible to do anything else, Just as he caught up with the supervisor, a little worker ran up, whipping off his cap. “ride, sir,” he piped, “the weather-makers put six one-thousandths of one per cent too little moisture in the air on this set. There's three- seventeenths of an ounce too little gasoline in the storage tanks under here.” “How much is in the tanks?” “Four thousand, two hundred and seventy-three gallons, three pints, seven and twenty-one thirty-fourths ounces.” Tridel grunted. “Let it go this time. ‘That was very sloppy work. Someone's going to get transferred to Limbo for this.” “Very good, sir,” said the little man. “Long as you know we're not responsible,” He put on his cap, spun around three times, and rushed off. “Lucky for the weather-makers that the amount of gas in that tank doesn't come into Wednesday's script,” said Iridel. “If anything inter- feres with the continuity of the play, there's the devil to pay. Actors hhaven’t sense enough to cover up, either. They are liable to start whole series of miscues because of a little thing like that. The play might flop and then we'd all be out of work.” “Oh,” Harry ohed. “Hey, Iridel—what’s the idea of that patchy-look- ing place over there?” Iridel followed his eyes. Harry was looking at a corner lot. It was tree-lined and overgrown with weeds and small saplings. ‘The vegeta- tion was true to form around the edges of the lot and around the path that ran diagonally through it, but the spaces in between were plane sur- faces. Not a leaf nor a blade of grass grew there; it was naked-looking, blank, and absolutely without any color whatever. “Oh, that,” answered Iridel. “There are only two characters in ‘Act Wednesday who will use that path, Therefore it is as grown-over as it should be. The rest of the lot doesn’t enter into the play, so we don’t have to do anything with it.”YESTERDAY WAS MONDAY a “But— Suppose someone wandered off the path on Wednesday,” Harry offered. “He'd be due for a surprise, I guess. But it could hardly happen. Special prompters are always detailed to spots like that, to keep the ac- tors from going astray or missing any cues.” “Who are they—the prompters, I mean?” “Prompters? G.A.’-—-Guardian Angels. That’s what the script writ- crs call them.” “| heard o' them,” said Harry. “Yes, they have their work cut out for them,” said the supervisor. “Actors are always forgetting their lines when they shouldn't, or re- ‘membering them when the script calls for a lapse. Well, it looks pretty ‘good here. Let’s have a look at Friday.” “Friday? You mean to tell me you're working on Friday already?” “Of course! Why, we work years in advance! How on earth do you think we could get our trees grown otherwise? Here—step in!” Tridel put out his hand, seized empty air, drew it aside to show the kind of absolute nothingness he had first appeared from, and waved Harry on. “Y-you want me to go in there? asked Harry diffidently. “Certainly. Hurry, now!” Harry looked at the section of void with a rather weak-kneed look but could not withstand the supervisor's strange compulsion, He stepped throu; And it wasn't so bad. There were no whirling lights, no sensations of falling, no falling unconscious. It was just like stepping into another room—which is what had happened. He found himself in a great round chamber whose roundness was touched a bit with the indis- tinct. That is, it had curved walls and a domed roof, but there was something else about it. It seemed to stretch off in that direction to- ward which Iridel had so astonishingly pointed. The walls were lined with an amazing array of control machinery—switches and ground- glass screens, indicators and dials, knurled knobs and levers. Moving deftly before them was a crew of men, all looking exactly like Tridel except that their garments had no pockets. Harry stood wide-eyed, hypnotized by the enormous complexity of the controls and the ease with which the men worked among them. Iridel touched his shoulder. “Come with me,” he said. “The producer is in now; we'll find out what is to be done with you.”n Theodore Sturgeon ‘They started across the floor. Harry had not quite time to wonder how long it would take them to cross that enormous room, for when they had taken perhaps a dozen steps they found themselves at the opposite wall. The ordinary laws of space and time simply did not apply in the place. They stopped at a door of burnished bronze, so very highly polished that they could see through it. It opened and Iridel pushed Harry through. The door swung shut. Harry, panic-stricken lest he be sep- arated from the only thing in this weird world he could begin to get used to, flung himself against this great bronze portal. It bounced him back head over heels into the middle of the floor. He rolled over and got up onto his hands and knees. He was in a tiny room, one end of which was filled by a colossal teakwood desk. The man sitting there regarded him with amusement. “Where'd you blow in from?” he asked, and his voice was like the an- gry bee sound of an approaching hurricane, “Are you the producer?” “Well, I'll be darned,” said the man, and smiled. It seemed to fill the whole room with light. He was a big man, Harry noticed, but in this deceptive place there was no way of telling how big. “T'll be most verily darned. An actor. You're a persistent lot, aren't you? Building houses for me that I almost never go into. Getting together and send- ing requests for better parts. Listening carefully to what I have to say and then ignoring or misinterpreting my advice. Always ask- ing for just one more chance, and when you get it, messing that up, too. And now one of you crashes the gate. What's your trouble, any- way?” There was something about the producer that bothered Harry but he could not place what it was, unless it was the fact that the man awed him and he didn't know why. “I woke up in Wednesday,” he stammered, “and yesterday was Tuesday. I mean Monday. I mean —” He cleared his throat and started over. “I went to sleep Monday night and woke up Wednesday, and I'm looking for Tuesday.” “What do you want me to do about it?” “Well—