“I understand all this,” said Cabell, “but Personnel explained it would be to my advantage, too.”

  “That is true, of course, but it’ll not take you long to find that money is of slight moment to a traveler. Since you have no family, or we would hope you haven’t, what would you need it for? The only leisure time you’ll have is a six-week’s annual leave and you can earn enough in a trip or two to spend that leave in utmost luxury or the deepest vice. .

  “Most of the men, however, don’t even bother to do that. They just wander off and get re-acquainted with the era they were born into. Vice and luxury in this present century has but slight appeal to them after all the hell they’ve raised in past centuries at the company’s expense.”

  “You are kidding, sir.”

  “Well, maybe just a little. But in certain cases that I have In mind, it is the honest truth.”

  Spencer stared across at Cabell.

  “None of this bothers you?” he asked.

  “Not a thing so far.”

  “There’s just one thing else, Mr. Cabell, that you should enow about. That is the need—the imperative, crying need for objectivity. When you go into the past, you take no part in it. You do not interfere. You must not get involved

  “That should not be hard.”

  “I warn you, Mr. Cabell, that it requires moral stamina. The man who travels in time has terrible power. And there’s something about the feel of power that makes it almost compulsive for a man to use it. Hand in hand with that power s the temptation to take a hand in history. To wield a judicious knife, to say a word that needs saying very badly, to save a life that, given a few more years of time, might lave pushed the human race an extra step toward greatness.”

  “It might be hard,” admitted Cabell.

  Spencer nodded. “So far as I know, Mr. Cabell, no one as ever succumbed to these temptations. But I live in terror f the day when someone does.”

  And he wondered as he said it how much he might -be talking through his hat, might be whistling past the graveyard. For surely there must by now have been some interference.

  What about the men who had not come back?

  Some of them undoubtedly had died. But surely some had stayed. And wasn’t staying back there the worst form of intervention? What were the implications, he wondered, of a child born out of time—a child that had not been born before, that should never have been born? The children of that child and the children of those children—they would be a thread of temporal interference reaching through the ages.

  V

  Cabell asked: “Is there something wrong, sir?”

  “No. I was just thinking that the time will surely come, some day, when we work out a formula for safely interfering in the past. And when that happens, our responsibilities will be even greater than the ones that we face now. For then we’ll have license for intervening, but will in turn be placed under certain strictures to use that power of intervention only for the best. I can’t imagine what sort of principle it will be, you understand. But I am sure that soon or late we will arrive at it.

  “And perhaps, too, we’ll work out another formula which will allow us to venture to the future.”

  He shook his head and thought: How like an old man, to shake your head in resigned puzzlement. But he was not an old man—not very old, at least.

  “At the moment,” he said, “we are little more than gleaners. We go into the past to pick up the gleanings—the things they lost or threw away. We have made up certain rules to make sure that we never touch the sheaves, but only the ear of wheat left lying on the ground.”

  “Like the Alexandria manuscripts?”

  “Well, yes, I would suppose so—although grabbing all those manuscripts and books was inspired entirely by a sordid profit motive. We could just as easily have copied them. Some of them we did; but the originals themselves represented a tremendous sum of money. I would hate to tell you what Harvard paid us for those manuscripts. Although, when you think of it,” Spencer said, reflectively. “I’m not sure they weren’t worth every cent of it. It called for the closest planning and split-second co-ordinating and we used every man we had. For, you see, we couldn’t grab the stuff until it was on the verge of burning. We couldn’t deprive even so much as a single person the chance of even glancing at a single manuscript. We can’t lift a thing until it’s lost. That’s an iron-bound rule.

  “Now, you take the Ely tapestry. We waited for years, going back and checking, until we were quite sure that it was finally lost. We knew it was going to be lost, you understand. But we couldn’t touch it until it was lost for good. Then we h’isted it.” He waved a hand. “I talk too much. I am boring you.”

  “Mr. Spencer, sir,” protested Cabell, “talk like yours could never bore me. This is something I have dreamed of. I can’t tell you how happy..

  Spencer raised a hand to stop him. “Not so fast. You aren’t hired yet.”

  “But Mr. Jensen down in Personnel…”

  “I know what Jensen said. But the final word is mine.”

  “What have I done wrong?” asked Cabell.

  “You have done nothing wrong. Come back this afternoon.”

  “But, Mr. Spencer, if only you could tell me ..

  “I want to think about you. See me after lunch.”

  Cabell unfolded upward from his chair and he was ill at ease.

  “That man who was in ahead of me …”

  “Yes. What about him?”

  “He seemed quite angry, sir. As if he might be thinking of making trouble for you.”

  Spencer said angrily, “And that’s none of your damn business!”

  Cabell stood his ground. “I was only going to say, sir, that I recognized him.”

  “So?”

  “If he did try to cause you trouble, sir, it might be worth your while to investigate his association with a stripper down at the Golden Hour. Her name is Silver Starr.”

  Spencer stared at Cabell without saying anything.

  The man edged toward the door.

  He put out his hand to grasp the knob, then turned back to Spencer. “Perhaps that’s not actually her name, but it’s fine for advertising—Silver Starr at the Golden Hour. The Golden Hour is located at..

  “Mr. Cabell,” Spencer said, “I’ve been at the Golden Hour.”

  The impudent punk! What did he figure he was doing— buying his way in?

  He sat quietly for a moment after Cabell had gone out, cooling down a bit, wondering about the man. There had been something about him that had been disturbing. That look in his eyes, for one thing. And the awkwardness and shyness didn’t ring quite true. As if it had been an act of some sort. But why, in the name of God, should anyone put on such an act when it would be quite clearly to his disadvantage?

  You’re psycho, Spencer told himself. You’re getting so you jump at every shadow, sight a lurking figure behind every bush.

  Two down, he thought, and another one to see—that is, if more had not piled into the office and were out there waiting for him.

  He reached out his hand to press the buzzer. But before his finger touched it, the back door of the office suddenly burst open. A wild-eyed man came stumbling through it. He had something white and wriggly clutched within his arms. He dumped the white and wriggly thing on Hallock Spencer’s desk and unhappily stepped back.

  It was a rabbit—a white rabbit with a great pink ribbon tied around its neck in a fancy bow.

  Spencer glanced up, startled, at the man who’d brought the rabbit.

  “Ackermann,” he shouted. “For Chrissake, Ackermann, what is the matter with you? It isn’t Easter yet!”

  Ackermann worked his mouth in a painful manner and his Adam’s apple went bobbing up and down. But he made no words come out.

  “Come on, man!” What is it?”

  Ackermann got his voice back. “It’s Nickerson!” he blurted.

  “O.K., so Nickerson brought a rabbit back …”

  “He didn’t bring it back, sir. It came all by itself!”

  “And Nickerson?”

  Ackermann shook his head. “There was just the rabbit.”

  Spencer had started to get up from the chair. Now he sat back down again, harder than intended.

  “There’s an envelope, sir, tied to the rabbit’s bow.”

  “So I see,” said Spencer, absently. But he felt the coldness running through him.

  The rabbit hoisted itself around until it was face to face with Spencer. It flapped an ear, wiggled its pink nose at him, put its head carefully to one side and lifted a deliberate hind leg to scratch a flea.

  He pivoted in his chair and watched the operator sidle through the door. Three men lost in the last ten days. And now there was a fourth.

  But this time, at least, he’d got back the carrier. The rabbit had brought back the carrier. Any living thing, once the mechanism had been rigged, by its very presence would have brought back the carrier. It need not be a man.

  But Nickerson! Nickerson was one of the best there were. If a man could not depend on Nickerson, there was no one that he could.

  . He turned back to the desk and reached for the rabbit. It didn’t try to get away. He slipped out the folded sheet of paper and broke the blob of sealing wax. The paper was so stiff and heavy that it crackled as he smoothed it.

  The ink was dead black and the script cramped. No fountain pen, thought Spencer—nothing but a goose quill.

  The letter was addressed to him. It said:

  Dear Hal: I have no logical excuse and I’ll attempt no explanation. I have found a sense of springtime and cannot compel myself to leave it. You have your carrier and that is better than any of the others ever did for you. The rabbit will not mind. A rabbit knows no time. Be kind to him—for he is no coarse, wild hare of the briery fields, but a loving pet. Nick.

  Inadequate, thought Spencer, staring at the note, with its scrawly black more like cabalistic pattern than a communication.

  He had found a sense of springtime. What did he mean by that? A springtime of the heart? A springtime of the spirit? That might well be it, for Nickerson had gone to Italy in the early Renaissance. A springtime of the spirit and the sense of great beginnings. And perhaps that wasn’t all of it. Would there be as well a certain sense of spiritual security in that smaller world—a world that tinkered with no time, that reached toward no stars?

  The buzzer sounded softly.

  Spencer tipped up the lever on the intercom. “Yes, Miss Crane?”

  “Mr. Garside on the phone.”

  The rabbit was nibbling at the phone cord. Spencer pushed him to one side. “Yes, Chris.”

  The gray, clipped voice said: “Hal, what’s with you and Ravenholt? He gave me a bad half hour.”

  “It was Project God.”

  “Yes, he told me that. He threatened to raise a howl about the ethics of our magazine project.”

  “He can’t do that,” protested Spencer. “He’d have no grounds at all. That one is clean. It has the green light from Legal and from Ethics and the review board gave its blessing. It’s simply historical reporting. Eyewitness from the battle of Gettysburg, fashion notes on the spot from the time of Queen Victoria—it’s the biggest thing we’ve tackled. Its promotional value alone, aside from the money that we’ll make . ..”

  “Yes, I know,” said Garside, tiredly. “All of that is true. But I don’t want to get into a hassle with anyone—particularly not with Ravenholt. We have too many irons in the fire right now for anything unfavorable to pop. And Ravenholt can be a terribly dirty fighter.”

  “Look, Chris. I can take care of Ravenholt.”

  “I knew you would. What is more, you’d better.”

  “And,” demanded Spencer, bristling, “what do you mean by that?”

  “Well, frankly, Hal, your record doesn’t look too good. You’ve been having trouble …”

  “You mean the men we’ve lost.”

  “And the machines,” said Garside. “You’re all the time forgetting—a machine costs a quarter million.”

  “And the men?” asked Spencer bitterly. “Perhaps you think they’re comparatively cheap.”

  “I don’t suppose,” said Garside blandly, “that you can place an actual value on a human life.”

  “We lost another one today,” said Spencer. “I imagine you’ll be happy to know that he was loyal beyond the call of duty. He sent a rabbit back and the machine is safe and sound.” {

  “Hal,” said Garside, sternly, “this is something we can discuss at some later time. Right now I’m concerned with Ravenholt. If you’d go and apologize to him and try to fix things up …”

  “Apologize!” exploded Spencer. “I know a better way than that. He’s been shacking with a stripper down at the Golden Hour. By the time I get through …”

  “Hal!” yelled Garside. “You can’t do a thing like that! You can’t involve Past, Inc., in anything like that! Why, it isn’t decent!”

  “You mean it’s dirty,” Spencer said. “No dirtier than Ravenholt. Who is he fronting for?”

  “It makes no difference. Young man …”

  “Don’t young man me,” yelled Spencer. “I’ve got troubles enough without being patronized.”

  “Perhaps your troubles are too much for you,” said Gar-side, speaking very gray and clipped. “Perhaps we ought to find another man.”

  “Do it then!” yelled Spencer. “Don’t just sit there shooting off your face. Come on down and fire me!”

  He slammed the receiver down into its cradle and sat shivering with rage.

  Damn Garside, he thought. To hell with Past, Inc. He’d taken all he could!

  Still, it was a lousy way to end after fifteen years. It was a stinking thing to happen. Maybe he ought to have kept his mouth shut, kept his temper down, played it sweet and smooth.

  Perhaps, he could have done it differently. He could have assured Garside he’d take care of Ravenholt without saying anything about Silver Starr. And why had he grabbed hold so trustfully of what Cabell had told him that moment before leaving? What could Cabell know about it? In just a little while now he’d have to check if there were anyone by the name of Silver Starr down at the Golden Hour.

  Meanwhile there was work to do. Hudson now, he thought.

  He reached for the buzzer.

  But his finger never touched it. Once more the back door burst open with a smashing rattle and a man came tearing in. It was Douglas Marshall, operator for E.J.’s machine.

  “Hal,” he gasped, “you’d better come. E.J.’s really tore it!”

  VI

  Spencer didn’t ask a question. One look at Doug’s face was quite enough to tell him the news was very bad. He bounced out of his chair and rushed through the door, close on the operator’s heels.

  They tore down the corridor and turned left into Operations, with the rows of bulgy, bulky carriers lined against the wall.

  Down at the far end a small crowd of operators and mechanics formed a ragged circle and from the center of the circle came the sound of ribald song. The words were not intelligible.

  Spencer strode forward angrily and pushed through the circle. There, in the center of it, was EJ. and another person—a filthy, bearded, boisterous barbarian wrapped in a mangy bearskin and with a tremendous sword strapped about his middle.

  The barbarian had a smallish keg tilted to his mouth. The keg was gurgling; he was drinking from it, but he was missing some as well, for streams of pale, brown liquid were running down his front.

  “E.J.!” yelled Spencer.

  At the shout, the barbarian jerked the keg down from his face and tucked it hurriedly underneath an arm. With a big and dirty hand, he mopped the whiskers adjacent to his mouth.

  EJ. stumbled forward and threw his arms around Spencer’s neck, laughing all the while.

  Spencer jerked E.J. loose and pushed him, stumbling, backwards.

  “EJ!” he yelled. “What is so damn funny?”

  EJ. managed to stop stumbling backwards. He tried to pull himself together, but he couldn’t because he still was laughing hard. ’

  The barbarian stepped forward and thrust the keg into Spencer’s hands, shouting something at him in a convivial tone of voice and pantomiming with his hands that the keg had stuff to drink.

  EJ. made an exaggerated thumb at the gent in bearskin. “Hal, it wasn’t any Roman officer!” Then he went off into gales of laughter once again.

  The barbarian started to laugh, too, uproariously, throwing back his head and bellowing in great peals of laughter that shook the very room.

  EJ. staggered over and they fell into one another’s arms, guffawing happily and pounding one another on the back. Somehow they got tangled up. They lost their balance. They fell down on the floor and sat there, the two of them, looking up at the men around them.

  “Now!” Spencer roared at E.J.

  EJ. clapped the man in bearskin a resounding whack upon his hairy shoulder. “Just bringing back the Wrightson-Graves her far-removed grand-pappy. I can’t wait to see her face when I take him up there!”

  “Oh, my God!” said Spencer. He turned around and thrust the dripping keg into someone’s hands.

  He snapped, “Don’t let them get away. Put them someplace where they can sleep it off.”

  A hand grabbed him by the arm and there was Douglas Marshall, sweating. “We got to send him back, Chief,” said Doug. “E.J.’s got to take him back.”

  Spencer shook his head. “I don’t know if we can. I’ll put it up to Legal. Just keep them here, and tell the boys..-Tell them if one of them so much as whispers …”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Doug. “But I don’t know. They’re a bunch of blabbermouths.”

  Spencer jerked away and sprinted for the corridor.

  What a day, he thought. What a loused-up day!

  He charged down the corridor and saw that the door marked Private was closed. He skidded almost to a halt, reaching for the knob, when the door flew open. Miss Crane came tearing out.