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Authors: Isaac Asimov
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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 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 theReflector. 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
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 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 theReflector. 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
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