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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/23563-h.zip b/23563-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..10045a7 --- /dev/null +++ b/23563-h.zip diff --git a/23563-h/23563-h.htm b/23563-h/23563-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cec689a --- /dev/null +++ b/23563-h/23563-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,995 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Viewpoint, by Randall Garrett. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + .sidenote {width: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; margin-left: 1em; + float: right; clear: right; margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: dashed 1px;} + + .bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + .bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + .br {border-right: solid 2px;} + .bbox {border: solid 2px;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Viewpoint, by Gordon Randall Garrett + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Viewpoint + +Author: Gordon Randall Garrett + +Release Date: November 20, 2007 [EBook #23563] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VIEWPOINT *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + +<h1>VIEWPOINT.</h1> + +<h2>BY RANDALL GARRETT</h2> + +<h3>Illustrated by Bernklau</h3> + +<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science +Fiction January 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence +that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> + + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/illus.jpg"><img src="images/illus.jpg" alt=""/></a> +</div> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>A fearsome thing is a thing you're afraid of—and it has nothing +whatever to do with whether others are afraid, nor with whether it +is in fact dangerous. It's your view of the matter that counts!</i></p></div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + + +<p>There was a dizzy, sickening whirl of mental blackness—not true +blackness, but a mind-enveloping darkness that was filled with the +multi-colored little sparks of thoughts and memories that scattered +through the darkness like tiny glowing mice, fleeing from something +unknown, fleeing outwards and away toward a somewhere that was equally +unknown; scurrying, moving, changing—each half recognizable as it +passed, but leaving only a vague impression behind.</p> + +<p>Memories were shattered into their component data bits in that maelstrom +of not-quite-darkness, and scattered throughout infinity and eternity. +Then the pseudo-dark stopped its violent motion and became still, no +longer scattering the fleeing memories, but merely blanketing them. And +slowly—ever so slowly—the powerful cohesive forces that existed +between the data-bits began pulling them back together again as the +not-blackness faded. The associative powers of the mind began putting +the frightened little things together as they drifted back in from vast +distances, trying to fit them together again in an ordered whole. Like a +vast jigsaw puzzle in five dimensions, little clots and patches formed +as the bits were snuggled into place here and there.</p> + +<p>The process was far from complete when Broom regained consciousness.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Broom sat up abruptly and looked around him. The room was totally +unfamiliar. For a moment, that seemed perfectly understandable. Why +shouldn't the room look odd, after he had gone through—</p> + +<p>What?</p> + +<p>He rubbed his head and looked around more carefully. It was not just +that the room itself was unfamiliar as a whole; the effect was greater +than that. It was not the first time in his life he had regained +consciousness in unfamiliar surroundings, but always before he had been +aware that only the pattern was different, not the details.</p> + +<p>He sat there on the floor and took stock of himself and his +surroundings.</p> + +<p>He was a big man—six feet tall when he stood up, and proportionately +heavy, a big-boned frame covered with hard, well-trained muscles. His +hair and beard were a dark blond, and rather shaggy because of the time +he'd spent in prison.</p> + +<p>Prison!</p> + +<p>Yes, he'd been in prison. The rough clothing he was wearing was +certainly nothing like the type of dress he was used to.</p> + +<p>He tried to force his memory to give him the information he was looking +for, but it wouldn't come. A face flickered in his mind for a moment, +and a name. Contarini. He seemed to remember a startled look on the +Italian's face, but he could neither remember the reason for it nor when +it had been. But it would come back; he was sure of that.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, where the devil was he?</p> + +<p>From where he was sitting, he could see that the room was fairly large, +but not extraordinarily so. A door in one wall led into another room of +about the same size. But they were like no other rooms he had ever seen +before. He looked down at the floor. It was soft, almost as soft as a +bed, covered with a thick, even, resilient layer of fine material of +some kind. It was some sort of carpeting that covered the floor from +wall to wall, but no carpet had ever felt like this.</p> + +<p>He lifted himself gingerly to his feet. He wasn't hurt, at least. He +felt fine, except for the gaps in his memory.</p> + +<p>The room was well lit. The illumination came from the ceiling, which +seemed to be made of some glowing, semitranslucent metal that cast a +shadowless glow over everything. There was a large, bulky table near the +wall away from the door; it looked almost normal, except that the +objects on it were like nothing that had ever existed. Their purposes +were unknown, and their shapes meaningless.</p> + +<p>He jerked his head away, not wanting to look at the things on the table.</p> + +<p>The walls, at least, looked familiar. They seemed to be paneled in some +fine wood. He walked over and touched it.</p> + +<p>And knew immediately that, no matter what it looked like, it wasn't +wood. The illusion was there to the eye, but no wood ever had such a +hard, smooth, glasslike surface as this. He jerked his fingertips away.</p> + +<p>He recognized, then, the emotion that had made him turn away from the +objects on the table and pull his hand away from the unnatural wall. It +was fear.</p> + +<p>Fear? Nonsense! He put his hand out suddenly and slapped the wall with +his palm and held it there. There was nothing to be afraid of!</p> + +<p>He laughed at himself softly. He'd faced death a hundred times during +the war without showing fear; this was no time to start. What would his +men think of him if they saw him getting shaky over the mere touch of a +woodlike wall?</p> + +<p>The memories were coming back. This time, he didn't try to probe for +them; he just let them flow.</p> + +<p>He turned around again and looked deliberately at the big, bulky table. +There was a faint humming noise coming from it which had escaped his +notice before. He walked over to it and looked at the queerly-shaped +things that lay on its shining surface. He had already decided that the +table was no more wood than the wall, and a touch of a finger to the +surface verified the decision.</p> + +<p>The only thing that looked at all familiar on the table was a sheaf of +written material. He picked it up and glanced over the pages, noticing +the neat characters, so unlike any that he knew. He couldn't read a word +of it. He grinned and put the sheets back down on the smooth table top.</p> + +<p>The humming appeared to be coming from a metal box on the other side of +the table. He circled around and took a look at the thing. It had levers +and knobs and other projections, but their functions were not +immediately discernible. There were several rows of studs with various +unrecognizable symbols on them.</p> + +<p>This would certainly be something to tell in London—when and if he ever +got back.</p> + +<p>He reached out a tentative finger and touched one of the symbol-marked +studs.</p> + +<p>There was a loud <i>click!</i> in the stillness of the room, and he leaped +back from the device. He watched it warily for a moment, but nothing +more seemed to be forthcoming. Still, he decided it might be best to let +things alone. There was no point in messing with things that undoubtedly +controlled forces beyond his ability to cope with, or understand. After +all, such a long time—</p> + +<p>He stopped, Time? <i>Time?</i></p> + +<p>What had Contarini said about time? Something about its being like a +river that flowed rapidly—that much he remembered. Oh, yes—and that it +was almost impossible to try to swim backwards against the current or +... something else. What?</p> + +<p>He shook his head. The more he tried to remember what his fellow +prisoner had told him, the more elusive it became.</p> + +<p>He had traveled in time, that much was certain, but how far, and in +which direction? Toward the future, obviously; Contarini had made it +plain that going into the past was impossible. Then could he, Broom, get +back to his own time, or was he destined to stay in this—place? +Wherever and whenever it was.</p> + +<p>Evidently movement through the time-river had a tendency to disorganize +a man's memories. Well, wasn't that obvious anyway? Even normal movement +through time, at the rate of a day per day, made some memories fade. And +some were lost entirely, while others remained clear and bright. What +would a sudden jump of centuries do?</p> + +<p>His memory was improving, though. If he just let it alone, most of it +would come back, and he could orient himself. Meanwhile, he might as +well explore his surroundings a little more. He resolved to keep his +hands off anything that wasn't readily identifiable.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>There was a single oddly-shaped chair by the bulky table, and behind the +chair was a heavy curtain which apparently covered a window. He could +see a gleam of light coming through the division in the curtains.</p> + +<p>Broom decided he might as well get a good look at whatever was outside +the building he was in. He stepped over, parted the curtains, and—</p> + +<p>—And gasped!</p> + +<p>It was night time outside, and the sky was clear. He recognized the +familiar constellations up there. But they were dimmed by the light from +the city that stretched below him.</p> + +<p>And what a city! At first, it was difficult for his eyes to convey their +impressions intelligently to his brain. What they were recording was so +unfamiliar that his brain could not decode the messages they sent.</p> + +<p>There were broad, well-lit streets that stretched on and on, as far as +he could see, and beyond them, flittering fairy bridges rose into the +air and arched into the distance. And the buildings towered over +everything. He forced himself to look down, and it made him dizzy. The +building he was in was so high that it would have projected through the +clouds if there had been any clouds.</p> + +<p>Broom backed away from the window and let the curtain close. He'd had +all of that he could take for right now. The inside of the building, his +immediate surroundings, looked almost homey after seeing that monstrous, +endless city outside.</p> + +<p>He skirted the table with its still-humming machine and walked toward +the door that led to the other room. A picture hanging on a nearby wall +caught his eye, and he stopped. It was a portrait of a man in +unfamiliar, outlandish clothing, but Broom had seen odder clothing in +his travels. But the thing that had stopped him was the amazing reality +of the picture. It was almost as if there were a mirror there, +reflecting the face of a man who stood invisibly before it.</p> + +<p>It wasn't, of course; it was only a painting. But the lifelike, somber +eyes of the man were focused directly on him. Broom decided he didn't +like the effect at all, and hurried into the next room.</p> + +<p>There were several rows of the bulky tables in here, each with its own +chair. Broom's footsteps sounded loud in the room, the echoes rebounding +from the walls. He stopped and looked down. This floor wasn't covered +with the soft carpeting; it had a square, mosaic pattern, as though it +might be composed of tile of some kind. And yet, though it was harder +than the carpet it had a kind of queer resiliency of its own.</p> + +<p>The room itself was larger than the one he had just quitted, and not as +well lit. For the first time, he thought of the possibility that there +might be someone else here besides himself. He looked around, wishing +that he had a weapon of some kind. Even a knife would have made him feel +better.</p> + +<p>But there had been no chance of that, of course. Prisoners of war are +hardly allowed to carry weapons with them, so none had been available.</p> + +<p>He wondered what sort of men lived in this fantastic city. So far, he +had seen no one. The streets below had been filled with moving vehicles +of some kind, but it had been difficult to tell whether there had been +anyone walking down there from this height.</p> + +<p>Contarini had said that it would be ... how had he said it? "Like +sleeping for hundreds of years and waking up in a strange world."</p> + +<p>Well, it was that, all right.</p> + +<p>Did anyone know he was here? He had the uneasy feeling that hidden, +unseen eyes were watching his every move, and yet he could detect +nothing. There was no sound except the faint humming from the device in +the room behind him, and a deeper, almost inaudible, rushing, rumbling +sound that seemed to come from far below.</p> + +<p>His wish for a weapon came back, stronger than before. The very fact +that he had seen no one set his nerves on edge even more than the sight +of a known enemy would have done.</p> + +<p>He was suddenly no longer interested in his surroundings. He felt +trapped in this strange, silent room. He could see a light shining +through a door at the far end of the room—perhaps it was a way out. He +walked toward it, trying to keep his footsteps as silent as possible as +he moved.</p> + +<p>The door had a pane of translucent glass in it, and there were more of +the unreadable characters on it. He wished fervently that he could +decipher them; they might tell him where he was.</p> + +<p>Carefully, he grasped the handle of the door, twisted it, and pulled. +And, careful as he had been, the door swung inward with surprising +rapidity. It was a great deal thinner and lighter than he had supposed.</p> + +<p>He looked down at it, wondering if there were any way the door could be +locked. There was a tiny vertical slit set in a small metal panel in the +door, but it was much too tiny to be a keyhole. Still—</p> + +<p>It didn't matter. If necessary, he could smash the glass to get through +the door. He stepped out into what was obviously a hallway beyond the +door.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + + +<p>The hallway stretched away to either side, lined with doors similar to +the one he had just come through. How did a man get out of this place, +anyway? The door behind him was pressing against his hand with a patient +insistence, as though it wanted to close itself. He almost let it close, +but, at the last second, he changed his mind.</p> + +<p><i>Better the devil we know than the devil we don't</i>, he thought to +himself.</p> + +<p>He went back into the office and looked around for something to prop the +door open. He found a small, beautifully formed porcelain dish on one of +the desks, picked it up, and went back to the door. The dish held the +door open an inch or so. That was good enough. If someone locked the +door, he could still smash in the glass if he wanted to, but the absence +of the dish when he returned would tell him that he was not alone in +this mysterious place.</p> + +<p>He started down the hallway to his right, checking the doors as he went. +They were all locked. He knew that he could break into any of them, but +he had a feeling that he would find no exit through any of them. They +all looked as though they concealed more of the big rooms.</p> + +<p>None of them had any lights behind them. Only the one door that he had +come through showed the telltale glow from the other side. Why?</p> + +<p>He had the terrible feeling that he had been drawn across time to this +place for a purpose, and yet he could think of no rational reason for +believing so.</p> + +<p>He stopped as another memory came back. He remembered being in the +stone-walled dungeon, with its smelly straw beds, lit only by the faint +shaft of sunlight that came from the barred window high overhead.</p> + +<p>Contarini, the short, wiry little Italian who was in the next cell, +looked at him through the narrow opening. "I still think it can be done, +my friend. It is the mind and the mind alone that sees the flow of time. +The body experiences, but does not see. Only the soul is capable of +knowing eternity."</p> + +<p>Broom outranked the little Italian, but prison can make brothers of all +men. "You think it's possible then, to get out of a place like this, +simply by thinking about it?"</p> + +<p>Contarini nodded. "Why not? Did not the saints do so? And what was that? +Contemplation of the Eternal, my comrade; contemplation of the Eternal."</p> + +<p>Broom held back a grin. "Then why, my Venetian friend, have you not left +this place long since?"</p> + +<p>"I try," Contarini had said simply, "but I cannot do it. You wish to +know why? It is because I am afraid."</p> + +<p>"Afraid?" Broom raised an eyebrow. He had seen Contarini on the +battlefield, dealing death in hand-to-hand combat, and the Italian +hadn't impressed him as a coward.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said the Venetian. "Afraid. Oh, I am not afraid of men. I fight. +Some day, I may die—<i>will</i> die. This does not frighten me, death. I am +not afraid of what men may do to me." He stopped and frowned. "But, of +this, I have a great fear. Only a saint can handle such things, and I am +no saint."</p> + +<p>"I hope, my dear Contarini," Broom said dryly, "that you are not under +the impression that <i>I</i> am a saint."</p> + +<p>"No, perhaps not," Contarini said. "Perhaps not. But you are braver than +I. I am not afraid of any man living. But you are afraid of neither the +living nor the dead, nor of man nor devil—which is a great deal more +than I can say for myself. Besides, there is the blood of kings in your +veins. And has not a king protection that even a man of noble blood such +as myself does not have? I think so.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I have no doubt that you could do it, if you but would. And then, +perhaps, when you are free, you would free me—for teaching you all I +know to accomplish this. My fear holds me chained here, but you have no +chains of fear."</p> + +<p>Broom had thought that over for a moment, then grinned. "All right, my +friend; I'll try it. What's your first lesson?"</p> + +<p>The memory faded from Broom's mind. Had he really moved through some +segment of Eternity to reach this ... this place? Had he—</p> + +<p>He felt a chill run through him. What was he doing here? How could he +have taken it all so calmly. Afraid of man or devil, no—but this was +neither. He had to get back. The utter alienness of this bright, +shining, lifeless wonderland was too much for him.</p> + +<p>Instinctively, he turned and ran back toward the room he had left. If he +got back to the place where he had appeared in this world, +perhaps—somehow—some force would return him to where he belonged.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The door was as he had left it, the porcelain dish still in place. He +scooped up the dish in one big hand and ran on into the room, letting +the door shut itself behind him. He ran on, through the large room with +its many tables, into the brightly lighted room beyond.</p> + +<p>He stopped. What could he do now? He tried to remember the things that +the Italian had told him to do, and he could not for the life of him +remember them. His memory still had gaps in it—gaps he did not know +were there because he had not yet probed for them. He closed his eyes in +concentration, trying to bring back a memory that would not come.</p> + +<p>He did not hear the intruder until the man's voice echoed in the room.</p> + +<p>Broom's eyes opened, and instantly every muscle and nerve in his +hard-trained body tensed for action. There was a man standing in the +doorway of the office.</p> + +<p>He was not a particularly impressive man, in spite of the queer cut of +his clothes. He was not as tall as Broom, and he looked soft and +overfed. His paunch protruded roundly from the open front of the short +coat, and there was a fleshiness about his face that betrayed too much +good living.</p> + +<p>And he looked even more frightened than Broom had been a few minutes +before.</p> + +<p>He was saying something in a language that Broom did not understand, and +the tenseness in his voice betrayed his fear. Broom relaxed. He had +nothing to fear from this little man.</p> + +<p>"I won't hurt you," Broom said. "I had no intention of intruding on your +property, but all I ask is help."</p> + +<p>The little man was blinking and backing away, as though he were going to +turn and bolt at any moment.</p> + +<p>Broom laughed. "You have nothing to fear from me, little man. Permit me +to introduce myself. I am Richard Broom, known as—" He stopped, and his +eyes widened. Total memory flooded over him as he realized fully who he +was and where he belonged.</p> + +<p>And the fear hit him again in a raging flood, sweeping over his mind and +blotting it out. Again, the darkness came.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>This time, the blackness faded quickly. There was a face, a worried +face, looking at him through an aperture in the stone wall. The +surroundings were so familiar, that the bits of memory which had been +scattered again during the passage through centuries of time came back +more quickly and settled back into their accustomed pattern more easily.</p> + +<p>The face was that of the Italian, Contarini. He was looking both worried +and disappointed.</p> + +<p>"You were not gone long, my lord king," he said. "But you <i>were</i> gone. +Of that there can be no doubt. Why did you return?"</p> + +<p>Richard Broom sat up on his palette of straw. The scene in the strange +building already seemed dreamlike, but the fear was still there. "I +couldn't remember," he said softly. "I couldn't remember who I was nor +why I had gone to that ... that place. And when I remembered, I came +back."</p> + +<p>Contarini nodded sadly. "It is as I have heard. The memory ties one too +strongly to the past—to one's own time. One must return as soon as the +mind had adjusted. I am sorry, my friend; I had hoped we could escape. +But now it appears that we must wait until our ransoms are paid. And I +much fear that mine will never be paid."</p> + +<p>"Nor mine," said the big man dully. "My faithful Blondin found me, but +he may not have returned to London. And even if he has, my brother John +may be reluctant to raise the money."</p> + +<p>"What? Would England hesitate to ransom the brave king who has fought so +gallantly in the Holy Crusades? Never! You will be free, my friend."</p> + +<p>But Richard Plantagenet just stared at the little dish that he still +held in his hand, the fear still in his heart. Men would still call him +"Lion-hearted," but he knew that he would never again deserve the title.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>And, nearly eight centuries away in time and thousands of miles away in +space, a Mr. Edward Jasperson was speaking hurriedly into the telephone +that stood by the electric typewriter on his desk.</p> + +<p>"That's right, Officer; Suite 8601, Empire State Building. I was working +late, and I left the lights on in my office when I went out to get a cup +of coffee. When I came back, he was here—a big, bearded man, wearing a +thing that looked like a monk's robe made out of gunny sack. What? No, I +locked the door when I left. What? Well, the only thing that's missing +as far as I can tell is a ceramic ash tray from one of the desks; he was +holding that in his hand when I saw him. What? Oh. Where did he go?" Mr. +Jasperson paused in his rush of words. "Well, I must have gotten a +little dizzy—I was pretty shocked, you know. To be honest, I didn't see +where he went. I must have fainted.</p> + +<p>"But I think you can pick him up if you hurry. With that getup on, he +can't get very far away. All right. Thank you, Officer."</p> + +<p>He cradled the phone, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed +at his damp forehead. He was a very frightened little man, but he knew +he'd get over it by morning.</p> + + +<p>THE END</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Viewpoint, by Gordon Randall Garrett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VIEWPOINT *** + +***** This file should be named 23563-h.htm or 23563-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/5/6/23563/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Viewpoint + +Author: Gordon Randall Garrett + +Release Date: November 20, 2007 [EBook #23563] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VIEWPOINT *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +VIEWPOINT. + +BY RANDALL GARRETT + +Illustrated by Bernklau + +[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science +Fiction January 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence +that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] + + + + + _A fearsome thing is a thing you're afraid of--and it has nothing + whatever to do with whether others are afraid, nor with whether it + is in fact dangerous. It's your view of the matter that counts!_ + + +There was a dizzy, sickening whirl of mental blackness--not true +blackness, but a mind-enveloping darkness that was filled with the +multi-colored little sparks of thoughts and memories that scattered +through the darkness like tiny glowing mice, fleeing from something +unknown, fleeing outwards and away toward a somewhere that was equally +unknown; scurrying, moving, changing--each half recognizable as it +passed, but leaving only a vague impression behind. + +Memories were shattered into their component data bits in that maelstrom +of not-quite-darkness, and scattered throughout infinity and eternity. +Then the pseudo-dark stopped its violent motion and became still, no +longer scattering the fleeing memories, but merely blanketing them. And +slowly--ever so slowly--the powerful cohesive forces that existed +between the data-bits began pulling them back together again as the +not-blackness faded. The associative powers of the mind began putting +the frightened little things together as they drifted back in from vast +distances, trying to fit them together again in an ordered whole. Like a +vast jigsaw puzzle in five dimensions, little clots and patches formed +as the bits were snuggled into place here and there. + +The process was far from complete when Broom regained consciousness. + + * * * * * + +Broom sat up abruptly and looked around him. The room was totally +unfamiliar. For a moment, that seemed perfectly understandable. Why +shouldn't the room look odd, after he had gone through-- + +What? + +He rubbed his head and looked around more carefully. It was not just +that the room itself was unfamiliar as a whole; the effect was greater +than that. It was not the first time in his life he had regained +consciousness in unfamiliar surroundings, but always before he had been +aware that only the pattern was different, not the details. + +He sat there on the floor and took stock of himself and his +surroundings. + +He was a big man--six feet tall when he stood up, and proportionately +heavy, a big-boned frame covered with hard, well-trained muscles. His +hair and beard were a dark blond, and rather shaggy because of the time +he'd spent in prison. + +Prison! + +Yes, he'd been in prison. The rough clothing he was wearing was +certainly nothing like the type of dress he was used to. + +He tried to force his memory to give him the information he was looking +for, but it wouldn't come. A face flickered in his mind for a moment, +and a name. Contarini. He seemed to remember a startled look on the +Italian's face, but he could neither remember the reason for it nor when +it had been. But it would come back; he was sure of that. + +Meanwhile, where the devil was he? + +From where he was sitting, he could see that the room was fairly large, +but not extraordinarily so. A door in one wall led into another room of +about the same size. But they were like no other rooms he had ever seen +before. He looked down at the floor. It was soft, almost as soft as a +bed, covered with a thick, even, resilient layer of fine material of +some kind. It was some sort of carpeting that covered the floor from +wall to wall, but no carpet had ever felt like this. + +He lifted himself gingerly to his feet. He wasn't hurt, at least. He +felt fine, except for the gaps in his memory. + +The room was well lit. The illumination came from the ceiling, which +seemed to be made of some glowing, semitranslucent metal that cast a +shadowless glow over everything. There was a large, bulky table near the +wall away from the door; it looked almost normal, except that the +objects on it were like nothing that had ever existed. Their purposes +were unknown, and their shapes meaningless. + +He jerked his head away, not wanting to look at the things on the table. + +The walls, at least, looked familiar. They seemed to be paneled in some +fine wood. He walked over and touched it. + +And knew immediately that, no matter what it looked like, it wasn't +wood. The illusion was there to the eye, but no wood ever had such a +hard, smooth, glasslike surface as this. He jerked his fingertips away. + +He recognized, then, the emotion that had made him turn away from the +objects on the table and pull his hand away from the unnatural wall. It +was fear. + +Fear? Nonsense! He put his hand out suddenly and slapped the wall with +his palm and held it there. There was nothing to be afraid of! + +He laughed at himself softly. He'd faced death a hundred times during +the war without showing fear; this was no time to start. What would his +men think of him if they saw him getting shaky over the mere touch of a +woodlike wall? + +The memories were coming back. This time, he didn't try to probe for +them; he just let them flow. + +He turned around again and looked deliberately at the big, bulky table. +There was a faint humming noise coming from it which had escaped his +notice before. He walked over to it and looked at the queerly-shaped +things that lay on its shining surface. He had already decided that the +table was no more wood than the wall, and a touch of a finger to the +surface verified the decision. + +The only thing that looked at all familiar on the table was a sheaf of +written material. He picked it up and glanced over the pages, noticing +the neat characters, so unlike any that he knew. He couldn't read a word +of it. He grinned and put the sheets back down on the smooth table top. + +The humming appeared to be coming from a metal box on the other side of +the table. He circled around and took a look at the thing. It had levers +and knobs and other projections, but their functions were not +immediately discernible. There were several rows of studs with various +unrecognizable symbols on them. + +This would certainly be something to tell in London--when and if he ever +got back. + +He reached out a tentative finger and touched one of the symbol-marked +studs. + +There was a loud _click!_ in the stillness of the room, and he leaped +back from the device. He watched it warily for a moment, but nothing +more seemed to be forthcoming. Still, he decided it might be best to let +things alone. There was no point in messing with things that undoubtedly +controlled forces beyond his ability to cope with, or understand. After +all, such a long time-- + +He stopped, Time? _Time?_ + +What had Contarini said about time? Something about its being like a +river that flowed rapidly--that much he remembered. Oh, yes--and that it +was almost impossible to try to swim backwards against the current or +... something else. What? + +He shook his head. The more he tried to remember what his fellow +prisoner had told him, the more elusive it became. + +He had traveled in time, that much was certain, but how far, and in +which direction? Toward the future, obviously; Contarini had made it +plain that going into the past was impossible. Then could he, Broom, get +back to his own time, or was he destined to stay in this--place? +Wherever and whenever it was. + +Evidently movement through the time-river had a tendency to disorganize +a man's memories. Well, wasn't that obvious anyway? Even normal movement +through time, at the rate of a day per day, made some memories fade. And +some were lost entirely, while others remained clear and bright. What +would a sudden jump of centuries do? + +His memory was improving, though. If he just let it alone, most of it +would come back, and he could orient himself. Meanwhile, he might as +well explore his surroundings a little more. He resolved to keep his +hands off anything that wasn't readily identifiable. + + * * * * * + +There was a single oddly-shaped chair by the bulky table, and behind the +chair was a heavy curtain which apparently covered a window. He could +see a gleam of light coming through the division in the curtains. + +Broom decided he might as well get a good look at whatever was outside +the building he was in. He stepped over, parted the curtains, and-- + +--And gasped! + +It was night time outside, and the sky was clear. He recognized the +familiar constellations up there. But they were dimmed by the light from +the city that stretched below him. + +And what a city! At first, it was difficult for his eyes to convey their +impressions intelligently to his brain. What they were recording was so +unfamiliar that his brain could not decode the messages they sent. + +There were broad, well-lit streets that stretched on and on, as far as +he could see, and beyond them, flittering fairy bridges rose into the +air and arched into the distance. And the buildings towered over +everything. He forced himself to look down, and it made him dizzy. The +building he was in was so high that it would have projected through the +clouds if there had been any clouds. + +Broom backed away from the window and let the curtain close. He'd had +all of that he could take for right now. The inside of the building, his +immediate surroundings, looked almost homey after seeing that monstrous, +endless city outside. + +He skirted the table with its still-humming machine and walked toward +the door that led to the other room. A picture hanging on a nearby wall +caught his eye, and he stopped. It was a portrait of a man in +unfamiliar, outlandish clothing, but Broom had seen odder clothing in +his travels. But the thing that had stopped him was the amazing reality +of the picture. It was almost as if there were a mirror there, +reflecting the face of a man who stood invisibly before it. + +It wasn't, of course; it was only a painting. But the lifelike, somber +eyes of the man were focused directly on him. Broom decided he didn't +like the effect at all, and hurried into the next room. + +There were several rows of the bulky tables in here, each with its own +chair. Broom's footsteps sounded loud in the room, the echoes rebounding +from the walls. He stopped and looked down. This floor wasn't covered +with the soft carpeting; it had a square, mosaic pattern, as though it +might be composed of tile of some kind. And yet, though it was harder +than the carpet it had a kind of queer resiliency of its own. + +The room itself was larger than the one he had just quitted, and not as +well lit. For the first time, he thought of the possibility that there +might be someone else here besides himself. He looked around, wishing +that he had a weapon of some kind. Even a knife would have made him feel +better. + +But there had been no chance of that, of course. Prisoners of war are +hardly allowed to carry weapons with them, so none had been available. + +He wondered what sort of men lived in this fantastic city. So far, he +had seen no one. The streets below had been filled with moving vehicles +of some kind, but it had been difficult to tell whether there had been +anyone walking down there from this height. + +Contarini had said that it would be ... how had he said it? "Like +sleeping for hundreds of years and waking up in a strange world." + +Well, it was that, all right. + +Did anyone know he was here? He had the uneasy feeling that hidden, +unseen eyes were watching his every move, and yet he could detect +nothing. There was no sound except the faint humming from the device in +the room behind him, and a deeper, almost inaudible, rushing, rumbling +sound that seemed to come from far below. + +His wish for a weapon came back, stronger than before. The very fact +that he had seen no one set his nerves on edge even more than the sight +of a known enemy would have done. + +He was suddenly no longer interested in his surroundings. He felt +trapped in this strange, silent room. He could see a light shining +through a door at the far end of the room--perhaps it was a way out. He +walked toward it, trying to keep his footsteps as silent as possible as +he moved. + +The door had a pane of translucent glass in it, and there were more of +the unreadable characters on it. He wished fervently that he could +decipher them; they might tell him where he was. + +Carefully, he grasped the handle of the door, twisted it, and pulled. +And, careful as he had been, the door swung inward with surprising +rapidity. It was a great deal thinner and lighter than he had supposed. + +He looked down at it, wondering if there were any way the door could be +locked. There was a tiny vertical slit set in a small metal panel in the +door, but it was much too tiny to be a keyhole. Still-- + +It didn't matter. If necessary, he could smash the glass to get through +the door. He stepped out into what was obviously a hallway beyond the +door. + + * * * * * + +The hallway stretched away to either side, lined with doors similar to +the one he had just come through. How did a man get out of this place, +anyway? The door behind him was pressing against his hand with a patient +insistence, as though it wanted to close itself. He almost let it close, +but, at the last second, he changed his mind. + +_Better the devil we know than the devil we don't_, he thought to +himself. + +He went back into the office and looked around for something to prop the +door open. He found a small, beautifully formed porcelain dish on one of +the desks, picked it up, and went back to the door. The dish held the +door open an inch or so. That was good enough. If someone locked the +door, he could still smash in the glass if he wanted to, but the absence +of the dish when he returned would tell him that he was not alone in +this mysterious place. + +He started down the hallway to his right, checking the doors as he went. +They were all locked. He knew that he could break into any of them, but +he had a feeling that he would find no exit through any of them. They +all looked as though they concealed more of the big rooms. + +None of them had any lights behind them. Only the one door that he had +come through showed the telltale glow from the other side. Why? + +He had the terrible feeling that he had been drawn across time to this +place for a purpose, and yet he could think of no rational reason for +believing so. + +He stopped as another memory came back. He remembered being in the +stone-walled dungeon, with its smelly straw beds, lit only by the faint +shaft of sunlight that came from the barred window high overhead. + +Contarini, the short, wiry little Italian who was in the next cell, +looked at him through the narrow opening. "I still think it can be done, +my friend. It is the mind and the mind alone that sees the flow of time. +The body experiences, but does not see. Only the soul is capable of +knowing eternity." + +Broom outranked the little Italian, but prison can make brothers of all +men. "You think it's possible then, to get out of a place like this, +simply by thinking about it?" + +Contarini nodded. "Why not? Did not the saints do so? And what was that? +Contemplation of the Eternal, my comrade; contemplation of the Eternal." + +Broom held back a grin. "Then why, my Venetian friend, have you not left +this place long since?" + +"I try," Contarini had said simply, "but I cannot do it. You wish to +know why? It is because I am afraid." + +"Afraid?" Broom raised an eyebrow. He had seen Contarini on the +battlefield, dealing death in hand-to-hand combat, and the Italian +hadn't impressed him as a coward. + +"Yes," said the Venetian. "Afraid. Oh, I am not afraid of men. I fight. +Some day, I may die--_will_ die. This does not frighten me, death. I am +not afraid of what men may do to me." He stopped and frowned. "But, of +this, I have a great fear. Only a saint can handle such things, and I am +no saint." + +"I hope, my dear Contarini," Broom said dryly, "that you are not under +the impression that _I_ am a saint." + +"No, perhaps not," Contarini said. "Perhaps not. But you are braver than +I. I am not afraid of any man living. But you are afraid of neither the +living nor the dead, nor of man nor devil--which is a great deal more +than I can say for myself. Besides, there is the blood of kings in your +veins. And has not a king protection that even a man of noble blood such +as myself does not have? I think so. + +"Oh, I have no doubt that you could do it, if you but would. And then, +perhaps, when you are free, you would free me--for teaching you all I +know to accomplish this. My fear holds me chained here, but you have no +chains of fear." + +Broom had thought that over for a moment, then grinned. "All right, my +friend; I'll try it. What's your first lesson?" + +The memory faded from Broom's mind. Had he really moved through some +segment of Eternity to reach this ... this place? Had he-- + +He felt a chill run through him. What was he doing here? How could he +have taken it all so calmly. Afraid of man or devil, no--but this was +neither. He had to get back. The utter alienness of this bright, +shining, lifeless wonderland was too much for him. + +Instinctively, he turned and ran back toward the room he had left. If he +got back to the place where he had appeared in this world, +perhaps--somehow--some force would return him to where he belonged. + + * * * * * + +The door was as he had left it, the porcelain dish still in place. He +scooped up the dish in one big hand and ran on into the room, letting +the door shut itself behind him. He ran on, through the large room with +its many tables, into the brightly lighted room beyond. + +He stopped. What could he do now? He tried to remember the things that +the Italian had told him to do, and he could not for the life of him +remember them. His memory still had gaps in it--gaps he did not know +were there because he had not yet probed for them. He closed his eyes in +concentration, trying to bring back a memory that would not come. + +He did not hear the intruder until the man's voice echoed in the room. + +Broom's eyes opened, and instantly every muscle and nerve in his +hard-trained body tensed for action. There was a man standing in the +doorway of the office. + +He was not a particularly impressive man, in spite of the queer cut of +his clothes. He was not as tall as Broom, and he looked soft and +overfed. His paunch protruded roundly from the open front of the short +coat, and there was a fleshiness about his face that betrayed too much +good living. + +And he looked even more frightened than Broom had been a few minutes +before. + +He was saying something in a language that Broom did not understand, and +the tenseness in his voice betrayed his fear. Broom relaxed. He had +nothing to fear from this little man. + +"I won't hurt you," Broom said. "I had no intention of intruding on your +property, but all I ask is help." + +The little man was blinking and backing away, as though he were going to +turn and bolt at any moment. + +Broom laughed. "You have nothing to fear from me, little man. Permit me +to introduce myself. I am Richard Broom, known as--" He stopped, and his +eyes widened. Total memory flooded over him as he realized fully who he +was and where he belonged. + +And the fear hit him again in a raging flood, sweeping over his mind and +blotting it out. Again, the darkness came. + + * * * * * + +This time, the blackness faded quickly. There was a face, a worried +face, looking at him through an aperture in the stone wall. The +surroundings were so familiar, that the bits of memory which had been +scattered again during the passage through centuries of time came back +more quickly and settled back into their accustomed pattern more easily. + +The face was that of the Italian, Contarini. He was looking both worried +and disappointed. + +"You were not gone long, my lord king," he said. "But you _were_ gone. +Of that there can be no doubt. Why did you return?" + +Richard Broom sat up on his palette of straw. The scene in the strange +building already seemed dreamlike, but the fear was still there. "I +couldn't remember," he said softly. "I couldn't remember who I was nor +why I had gone to that ... that place. And when I remembered, I came +back." + +Contarini nodded sadly. "It is as I have heard. The memory ties one too +strongly to the past--to one's own time. One must return as soon as the +mind had adjusted. I am sorry, my friend; I had hoped we could escape. +But now it appears that we must wait until our ransoms are paid. And I +much fear that mine will never be paid." + +"Nor mine," said the big man dully. "My faithful Blondin found me, but +he may not have returned to London. And even if he has, my brother John +may be reluctant to raise the money." + +"What? Would England hesitate to ransom the brave king who has fought so +gallantly in the Holy Crusades? Never! You will be free, my friend." + +But Richard Plantagenet just stared at the little dish that he still +held in his hand, the fear still in his heart. Men would still call him +"Lion-hearted," but he knew that he would never again deserve the title. + + * * * * * + +And, nearly eight centuries away in time and thousands of miles away in +space, a Mr. Edward Jasperson was speaking hurriedly into the telephone +that stood by the electric typewriter on his desk. + +"That's right, Officer; Suite 8601, Empire State Building. I was working +late, and I left the lights on in my office when I went out to get a cup +of coffee. When I came back, he was here--a big, bearded man, wearing a +thing that looked like a monk's robe made out of gunny sack. What? No, I +locked the door when I left. What? Well, the only thing that's missing +as far as I can tell is a ceramic ash tray from one of the desks; he was +holding that in his hand when I saw him. What? Oh. Where did he go?" Mr. +Jasperson paused in his rush of words. "Well, I must have gotten a +little dizzy--I was pretty shocked, you know. To be honest, I didn't see +where he went. I must have fainted. + +"But I think you can pick him up if you hurry. With that getup on, he +can't get very far away. All right. Thank you, Officer." + +He cradled the phone, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed +at his damp forehead. He was a very frightened little man, but he knew +he'd get over it by morning. + + +THE END + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Viewpoint, by Gordon Randall Garrett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VIEWPOINT *** + +***** This file should be named 23563.txt or 23563.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/5/6/23563/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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