‘That won’t work,’ he put in quickly. ‘Impossible. You can’t change signs like that, because the energy required becomes more than infinite. It’s a one-way proposition.’
I looked hard at my fingernails: ‘How much material could you send back in time if you fissioned about . . . oh, say, one hundred pounds of plutonium.’ Things, I thought, were becoming, if anything, too obvious.
The answer came quickly: ‘In plutonium fission,’ he said, ‘not more than one or two percent of the mass is converted into energy. Therefore, one hundred pounds of plutonium when completely used up would send a pound or two back into time.’
‘Is that all? But could you handle all that energy? I mean, a hundred pounds of plutonium can make quite an explosion.’
‘All relative,’’ he said, a bit pompously. ‘If you took all that energy and let it loose a little at a time, you could handle it. If you released it all at once, but used it just as fast as you released it, you could still handle it. In sending back material through time, energy can be used much faster than it can possibly be released even through fission. Theoretically, anyway.’
‘But how do you get rid of it?’
‘It’s spread through time, naturally. Of course, the minimum time through which material could be transferred would, therefore, depend on the mass of the material. Otherwise, you’re liable to have the energy density with time too high.’
‘All right, kid,’ I said. ‘I’m calling up headquarters, and they’ll send a man here to take you home. You’ll stay there a while.’
‘But – What for?’
‘It won’t be for long.’
It wasn’t – and it was made up to him afterwards.
I spent the evening at Headquarters. We had a library there – a very special kind of library. The very morning after the explosion, two or three operators had drifted quietly into the chemistry and physics libraries of the University. Experts in their way. They located every article Tywood had ever published in any scientific journal and had snapped each page. Nothing was disturbed otherwise.
Other men went through magazine files and through book lists. It ended with a room at Headquarters that represented a complete ‘Iywoodana. Nor was there a definite purpose in doing this. It merely represented part of the thoroughness with which a problem of this sort is met.
I went through that library. Not the scientific papers. I knew there’d be nothing there that I wanted. But he had written a series of articles for a magazine twenty years back, and I read those. And I grabbed at every piece of private correspondence they had available.
After that, I just sat and thought – and got scared.
I got to bed about four in the morning and had nightmares.
But I was in the Boss’ private office at nine in the morning just the same.
He’s a big man, the Boss, with iron-gray hair slicked down tight. He doesn’t smoke, but he keeps a box of cigars on his desk and when he doesn’t want to say anything for a few seconds, he picks one up, rolls it about a little, smells it, then sticks it right into the middle of his mouth and lights it in a very careful way. By that time, he either has something to say or doesn’t have to say anything at all. Then he puts the cigar down and lets it bum to death.
He used up a box in about three weeks, and every Christmas, half his gift-wraps held boxes of cigars.
He wasn’t reaching for any cigars now, though. He just folded his big fists together on the desk and looked up at me from under a creased forehead. ‘What’s boiling?’
I told him. Slowly, becaqse micro-temporal-translation doesn’t sit well with anybody, especially when you call it time travel, which I did. It’s a sign of how serious things were that he only asked me once if I were crazy.
Then I was finished and we stared at each other.
He said: ‘And you think he tried to send something back in time – something weighing a pound or two – and blew an entire plant doing it?’
‘It fits in,’ I said.
I let him go for a while. He was thinking and I wanted him to keep on thinking. I wanted him, if possible, to think of the same thing I was thinking, so that I wouldn’t have to tell him—
Because I hated to have to tell him—
Because it was nuts, for one thing. And too horrible, for another.
So I kept quiet and he kept on thinking and every once in a while some of his thoughts came to the surface.
After a while, he said: ‘Assuming the student, Howe, to have told the truth – and you’d better check his notebooks, by the way, which I hope you’ve impounded—’
‘The entire wing of that floor is out of bounds, sir. Edwards has the notebooks.’
He went on: ‘All right. Assuming he told us all the truth he knows, why did Tywood jump from less than a milligram to a pound?’
His eyes came down and they were hard: ‘Now you’re concentrating on the time-travel angle. To you, I gather, that is the crucial point, with the energy involved as incidental-purely incidental.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said grimly. ‘I think exactly that.’
‘Have you considered that you might be wrong? That you might have matters inverted?’
‘I don’t quite get that.’
‘Well, look. You say you’ve read up on Tywood. All right. He was one of that bunch of scientists after World War II that fought the atom bomb; wanted a world state- You know about that, don’t you?’
I nodded.
‘He had a guilt complex,’ the Boss said with energy. ‘He’d helped work out the bomb, and he couldn’t sleep nights thinking of what he’d done. He lived with that fear for years. And even though the bomb wasn’t used in World War III, can you imagine what every day of uncertainty must have meant to him? Can you imagine the shriveling horror in his soul as he waited for others to make the decision at every crucial moment till the final Compromise of Sixty-Five?
‘We have a complete psychiatric analysis of Tywood and several others just like him, taken during the last war. Did you know that?’
‘No, sir.’
