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vagueness about her. She had twisted into a virago. "I want to see my
child, Arnold. She's in that machine and I want her."
"She's not in the machine. An image is. Can't you understand?
An image! Something that's not real!"
"I want my child. Do you hear me?" She flew at him, screaming,
fists beating. "I want my child."
The historian retreated at the fury of the assault, crying out.
Foster moved to step between, when Mrs. Potterley dropped, sobbing
wildly, to the floor.
Potterley turned, eyes desperately seeking. With a sudden
heave, he snatched at a Lando-rod, tearing it from its support, and
whirling away before Foster, numbed by all that was taking place,
could move to stop him.
"Stand back!" gasped Potterley, "or I'll kill you. I swear it."
He swung with force, and Foster jumped back.
Potterley turned with fury on every part of the structure in the
cellar, and Foster, after the first crash of glass, watched dazedly.
Potterley spent his rage and then he was standing quietly amid
shards and splinters, with a broken Lando-rod in his hand. He said to
Foster in a whisper, "Now get out of here! Never come back! If any of
this cost you anything, send me a bill and I'll pay for it. I'll pay
double."
Foster shrugged, picked up his shirt and moved up the
basement stairs. He could hear Mrs. Potterley sobbing loudly, and, as
he turned at the head of the stairs for a last look, he saw Dr. Potterley
bending over her, his face convulsed with sorrow.
Two days later, with the school day drawing to a close, and
Foster looking wearily about to see if there were any data on his newly
approved projects that he wished to take home, Dr. Potterley
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appeared once more. He was standing at the open door of Foster's
office.
The historian was neatly dressed as ever. He lifted his hand in a
gesture that was too vague to be a greeting, too abortive to be a plea.
Foster stared stonily.
Potterley said, "I waited till five, till you were . . . May I come
in?"
Foster nodded.
Potterley said, "I suppose I ought to apologize for my behavior. I
was dreadfully disappointed; not quite master of myself. Still, it was
inexcusable."
"I accept your apology," said Foster.
"Is that all?"
"My wife called you, I think."
"Yes, she has."
"She has been quite hysterical. She told me she had but I
couldn't be quite sure-"
"Could you tell me-would you be so kind as to tell me what she
wanted?"
"She wanted a chronoscope. She said she had some money of
her own. She was willing to pay."
"Did you-make any commitments?"
"I said I wasn't in the manufacturing business."
"Good," breathed Potterley, his chest expanding with a sigh of
relief. ''Please don't take any calls from her. She's not-quite-"
"Look, Dr. Potterfey," said Foster, "I'm not getting into any
domestic quarrels, but you'd better be prepared for something.
Chronoscopes can be built by anybody Given a few simple parts that
can be bought through some etherics sales center, it can be built in
the home workshop. The video part, anyway."
"But no one else will think of it beside you, will they? No one
has."
"I don't intend to keep it secret."
"But you can't publish. It's illegal research."
"That doesn't matter any more, Dr. Potterley. If I lose my
grants, I lose them. If the university is displeased, I'll resign. It just
doesn't matter."
"But you can't do that!"
"Till now," said Foster, "you didn't mind my risking loss of
grants and position. Why do you turn so tender about it now? Now let
me explain something to you. When you first came to me, I believed in
organized and directed research; the situation as it existed, in other
words. I considered you an intellectual anarchist, Dr. Potterley, and
dangerous. But, for one reason or another, I've been an anarchist
myself for months now and I have achieved great things.
"Those things have been achieved not because I am a brilliant
scientist. Not at all. It was just that scientific research had been
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r r [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]