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pass the critical point and bring down a significant part of the card
house of Reality, it was not unusual to have to sleep under a
particular hedge in the countryside.
And it was usual to survey various hedges to see which would be
least disturbed by farmers, tramps, even stray dogs, during the night.
But now Harlan, at the other end of the scale, slept in a bed with
a surface of field-permeated matter, a peculiar welding of matter and
energy that entered only the highest economic levels of this society.
Throughout Time it was less common than pure matter but more
common than pure energy. In any case it molded itself to his body as
he lay down, firm when he lay still, yielding when he moved or turned.
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Reluctantly he confessed the attraction of such things, and he
accepted the wisdom which caused each Section of Eternity to live on
the _median_ scale of its Century rather than at its most comfortable
level. In that way it could maintain contact with the problems and
"feel" of the Century, without succumbing to too close an
identification with a sociological extreme.
It is easy, thought Harlan, that first evening, to live with
aristocrats.
And just before he fell asleep, he thought of Noys.
He dreamed he was on the Allwhen Council, fingers clasped
austerely before him. He was looking down on a small, a very small,
Finge, listening in terror to the sentence that was casting him out of
Eternity to perpetual Observation of one of the unknown Centuries of
the far, far upwhen. The somber words of exile were coming from
Harlan's own mouth, and immediately to his right sat Noys 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 Noys 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
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of the wall as much as possible. His true function was that of a pair of
ears and a 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 Noys.
He stared savagely at the image of himself cast in three-
dimensional accuracy two feet in front of him by the Reflector. The
clinging garments of the 482nd, seamless and bright in coloring,
made him, he thought, look ridiculous.
Noys 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 whole. Even Eternals
sometimes forgot the difference between micro-changes (small "c")
and Changes (large "c") which significantly altered Reality.
He said, "Eternity knows what it's doing. Don't ask questions."
He said it proudly, as though he, himself, were a Senior Computer
and had personally decided that June was the proper moment in time
and that the micro-change induced by skipping three months could
not develop into a Change.
She said, "But then I've lost three months of my life."
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He sighed. "Your movements through Time have nothing to do
with your physiological age."
"Well, have I or haven't I?"
"Have or haven't what?"
"Lost three months."
"By Time, woman, I'm telling you as plainly as I can. You
haven't lost any time out of your life. You can't lose any."
She stepped backward at his shout and then, suddenly, giggled.
She said, "You have the funniest accent. Especially when you get
angry."
He frowned at her retreating back. What accent? He spoke
fiftymillennial as well as anyone in the Section. Better probably.
Stupid girl!
He found himself back at the Reflector staring at his image,
which stared back at him, vertical furrows deep between its eyes.
He smoothed them out and thought: I'm not handsome. My eyes
are too small and my ears stick out and my chin is too big.
He had never particularly thought about the matter before, but
now it occurred to him, quite suddenly, that it would be pleasant to be
handsome.
Late at night Harlan added his notes to the conversations he had
gathered, while it was all fresh in his mind.
As always in such cases he made use of a molecular recorder of
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