Astounding British Edition, Vol. 6, No. 2 — page 68: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

64 He hated me for my intellect, my pride. And each laid on the other the blame for our present fate. And so, a few days rie I pealeaed that Givens was planning to kill way, I think it was not so much from hatred of me as because he had missed for thirty years the petty conniving of his old life and now at last saw that a grand crime was possible for him. He! thought that he was hiding it from me. Of course he could not. I knew every bulge of the possessions that he wore, and easily recognized the revolver when he stole it and added it to his gear. We were in Los Angeles because I had come to look at myself. I found an odd pleasure in doing that occasionally, as you will have realized from my - “ghosts,” a bitter sort of joy. So now I stood in the Queen of the Angels Hospital peering through glass at my red-faced yowling two-day old self. A nurse. smiled at me with recognition, and I saw she thought I was Gramps. There, looking at my begin- ning life, I resolved to save my life, however tortured and reversed it was. We were then living in the room you know on West Adams. For some time we had developed the technique of watching for people moving into a place. After that —before, from the normal viewpoint—the place is untenanted and safe for our abode for a while. I returned to the room to find Tim Givens’ body on the bed. Then I knew that death had the power to stop our wanderings, that the dead body resumed its normal movement in time. And I knew what else I must do. The rest of that scene you know. How I took your card, gave your official-looking friend my confession, and backed out— when you thought me entering. When I next visited the room, Givens was there alive. It was surprisingly simple. Underestimating me in practical] matters, he was not on his guard. I secured the revolver with no trouble.-Just before I pressed the trigger—for the bullet, free from my field, moved for a moment in normal time—I saw. the bullet strike. I pressed hard, and gave him release. Now I seek it for myself. Only death can end this Odyssey, this voyage of lonli- ness and pain compared to which The Flying Dutchman sailed on a luxury cruise. 4 ‘how atomic power ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION And when this manuscript is typed, I shall swallow the cyanide I stole yesterday. This manuscript must reach the World Institute for Paranormal Research. They will find my notes in my laboratory. They must know that those who foretold danger were right, that my method must not be used again save with serious revision. | And yet this cannot reach them before the experiment; for they would stop me and I was not stopped. Seal it, then. Place it in the hands of some trustworthy in- stitution. And inscribe on it: To be delivered to the World Institute for Paranormal Research, Basle, Switzerland, F, E. D., February 3, 1971. Perhaps the name of Hull may yet not be forgotten. Fergus O’Breen swore comprehensively for a matter of minutes. “The egotist! The lowdown egocentric idiot! Think what he could have told us: How the war came out, how the peace was settled, was finally de- veloped—! And what does he ‘give us? Nothing that doesn’t touch him.” “T wish that’s all I had to worry about,” said Detective lieutenant A. Jack- son morosely. “There are hints, of course. Obviously a United Nations victory or he wouldn't have been living in such a free world in 1971. And that F. E. D. in the address— “What would that mean?” “Maybe Federated European Democ- racies—I hope. But at least we’ve learned a wonderful new word. Chronokinesis—” He savored it. Jackson rose gloomily. “And I’ve got to get down to the office and try to write a report on this. I'll take this manu- script—” “Uh uh. This was given me in trust. Andy. And somehow it’s going to get to the WIRP: on the appointed date.” “O.K. I'm just as glad. If the in- spector saw that in the files— Want to come down with me and see what we can cook up?” “Thanks no, Andy. I’m headed for the Queen of the Angels.” “The hospital? Why?” “Because,” Fergus grinned, “I want to a what a two-day-old murderer looks ike.” p p COnmncooolkxs (C@)