Beyond the Barrier Read online

  Beyond the Barrier

  Damon Knight

  Sci-fi novel of a physics professor grappling to resolve a problem from 10,000 years in the future, triggering a series of violent events.

  Serialized originally in 3 parts: Dec. 1963, Jan. 1964, April 1964 editions of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction.

  BEYOND THE BARRIER

  by Damon Knight

  Chapter One

  The banked, fan-shaped classroom was silent with attention.

  “And now,” said Professor Gordon Naismith, “watch closely.

  I drop the charged particle into the tank.” He tripped the release of the mechanism suspended over the big glass tank, and saw a silvery spicule drop, almost too quickly to follow, into the clear liquid.

  “Contact with other partially charged molecules releases the time energy,” said Naismith, watching a sudden silvery cloud spread from the bottom of the tank, “and, as you see—”

  The silvery cloud grew rapidly, advancing on a wave front, a beautifully symmetrical curve that was determined by two factors: gravity, and the kinetic loss of the conversion process.

  It was perfect beauty, far beyond any curve of flesh or any line drawn by an artist, and Naismith watched it with a painful tightness in his throat, although he had seen it a hundred times before.

  Now the change was complete. The tank was full of silvery fluid, opaque, mirror-bright and luminous. “All the liquid has now been raised to a higher temporal energy level,” Naismith told the class, “and is in the state you may have heard described as ‘quasi-matter.’ Tomorrow, when we begin our experiments on this tank, we will see that it has some very odd physical properties. However, that concludes today’s demonstration. Are there any questions?”

  A student signaled with his desk light. Naismith glanced at the nameplate. “Yes, Hinkel?” He stood beside the table on the dais, tall and big-framed in his laboratory smock, aware as he answered the students’ questions that eight other Naismiths, in the other identical classrooms that radiated from a common center, were also standing, like eight mirror images of himself, also answering questions. It gave him an eerie shiver, just for a moment, to realize that he himself was one of the doppelgangers, not the “real” Naismith—somehow that was almost impossible to accept, no matter how often one went through the experience… then the moment passed, and he went on talking, calm, self-assured, his voice controlled and resonant.

  The tone sounded, and the students began to stir, gathering their recording equipment and sliding out of their seats.

  Naismith turned and fumbled for the duplicator control. The round brownish-black knob was hard to see, like a floating shadow on the tabletop. He found it at last, and turned it clockwise.

  At once the half-empty classroom vanished. He was in the tiny, circular control room, alone except for the duplicator apparatus. His knees suddenly weak, he leaned against the demonstration table. Discordant memories swarmed through his head—nine sets of them, all at once, like interfering video broadcasts. It was hard to take, just for a moment, but after two years of it he was an experienced multiple-class teacher, and the nine sets of memories settled quickly into place in his mind.

  As he prepared to leave, he became aware of an odd thing that had happened. The demonstration itself had been exactly the same in all nine classrooms, of course; it was only the questions afterward that had been different, and even those followed a familiar pattern.

  But one of the students in—which was it? classroom 7—had stepped up to the platform just as he was about to leave, and had said something extraordinary.

  He stood still, trying to bring the memory into sharper focus.

  It was a dark-skinned girl who sat in the second row: Lall was her name, probably Indian, although it was odd that she sat apart from the whispering, giggling group of Indian girls, bright in their saris and gold earrings, who perched at the top of the classroom. She had looked up at him with her oddly disturbing amber eyes, and had said in a distinct voice: “Professor, what is a Zug?”

  Nonsensical question! It had nothing to do with the demonstration, or with temporal energy at all—in fact, he was sure there was no such word in the vocabulary of physics. And yet it was odd what a shock had gone through him at her words: as if, deep down in his subconscious, the question did mean something—and something vital. He could remember snapping to attention, all his senses taut, a cold sweat beading on his forehead….

  And then what? What had he replied?

  Nothing.

  At that moment, the action of turning the control knob had been completed, and he had come out of the multiple state.

  Then the shock of reintegrating his consciousness, and now…

  Zug.

  The word had an unpleasant sound, somehow; it made a shudder of distaste run up his spine. Probably the girl was disturbed, that was all; he would put in a query to the college psychiatric office.

  But as he left the control room, taking the rear stair to his office, the feeling of vague apprehension and unease lingered.

  Perhaps it was the strain of multiple-class work; not everyone could bear it. But he was proud of his ability to stand up under the load; he had never felt like this after a class.

  He finished his day’s record-keeping and left quickly, anxious to be out in the air. The afternoon was sunny and warm as he walked across the campus; he could hear the surf in the distance, and the Inglewood-Ventura monorail went hushing across, bright cream and tan against the blue sky.

  Students were walking in little groups along the gravel paths between the flame trees. The lawns were richly green, neat and trim. The scene was familiar, soothing… and not entirely real.

  It depressed him to realize that after four years he still felt essentially disoriented. Everyone said he had made a remarkable recovery; he had passed his refresher courses with high marks, gotten his teaching license renewed: now he was established, competent . . and after all, these four years were all the memory he had: so why couldn’t he settle down and feel at home?

  Why should he feel there was some terrible secret buried in his past?

  Irritated, he tried to shake off the mood, but the girl and her question kept coming back to the surface of his mind. It was ridiculous, and yet he couldn’t help wondering if perhaps she had some connection with the lost thirty-one years of his life

  … the blank, the emptiness that was his image of himself before the bomber crash that had almost killed him….

  Zug…

  Impulsively, he turned and took the path to the university library. There was a vacant information machine. He punched

  “General,” and then spelled out “Z-U-G.”

  The machine’s transparency flashed, “SEARCHING,” and then, after a second, “GEOGRAPHY (EUROPA).” On the central screen appeared a portion of a page of text. Naismith read, “Zug. (tsooK) 1. Canton, n. central Switzerland, area 92 square miles. Pop. 51,000. 2. Commune, its capital, on Lake of Zug S of Zurich; pop. 16,500.”

  Naismith turned off the machine in disgust. Of course, he was wasting his time. It was a little surprising that there should be such a word at all; but the girl had said “a Zug” and besides, she hadn’t pronounced it as if it were German. This couldn’t be the answer.

  As he was leaving the library, he heard his name called.

  Plump Mr. Ramsdell, the bursar, came hurrying toward him along the graveled path between the flame trees, holding out a parcel wrapped in white paper. “How lucky to run into you like this,” Ramsdell panted. “Someone left this at my office for you, and I absent-mindedly carried it out with me—” He laughed uncertainly. “I was just going to take it over and drop it at the Science Building, when I saw you.”

  Naismith
took the parcel: it was unexpectedly heavy and hard inside the white paper. “Thanks,” he said. “Who left it for me, anyone I know?”

  Ramsdell shrugged. “Said his name was Churan. Short, swarthy fellow, very polite. But I really wasn’t paying attention.

  Well, I must fly.”

  “Thanks again,” Naismith called after him, but the little bursar did not seem to hear.

  Funny that he should have carried the parcel out of his office, straight to the library—almost too pat for coincidence, as if he had known Naismith would be there; but that was impossible.

  Funny, too, that anybody should leave a parcel for him with Ramsdell; he had nothing to do with the bursar’s office, except to collect his pay checks.

  Naismith weighed the parcel in his hands, curiously. He had an impulse to open it immediately, but decided not to—problem of disposing of the wrappings, or else carrying them around. Besides, the thing in the parcel might be in more than one piece, awkward to carry unless wrapped. Better wait till he got it home and could examine it properly.

  But what could it be? A piece of apparatus? He had several things on order, but was not expecting any of them immediately, and anyhow, when they did come, they would be delivered in the usual way, not left for him at the bursar’s office….

  Deep in thought, he walked to the tube entrance. He rode home with the thing on his knees, hard and metallically cool through the wrappings. There was no writing on the paper anywhere; it was neatly sealed with plastic tape.

  The tube car sighed to a stop at the Beverly Hills station.

  Naismith went aboveground and walked the two blocks to his apartment.

  When he opened the door, his visiphone was blinking red.

  He put the parcel down and crossed the room with his heart suddenly hammering. He saw that the recorded-call telltale was lit, and touched the playback button.

  A voice said urgently. “Naismith, this is Dr. Wells. Please call me as soon as you get in; I want to see you.” The voice stopped; after a moment the mechanism clicked and the neutral machine voice added, “Two thirty-five P.M.” The playback stopped; the telltale winked off.

  Wells was the head of the college psychiatric office; Naismith went to him as a patient every two weeks. Two thirty-five this afternoon—that was when Naismith had been in the middle of his temporal energy demonstration. He had a sense that things were happening all around him—first the girl with her disturbing question, and the dark man leaving a package for him at the bursar’s office, and—

  At the thought, Naismith turned and looked at the package on the table. At least he could find out about that, and without delay. With a certain grimness, he seized the package, put it on his desk, and with a bronze letter opener began to cut the tape.

  The wrapping came away easily. Naismith saw the gleam of blued metal, then spread the papers apart, and caught his breath.

  The machine was beautiful.

  It was box-shaped, with rounded edges and corners; all its lines flowed subtly and exactly into one another. On the top face there were oval inlays, arranged in a pattern that conveyed nothing to him, and slightly raised from the main shell.

  The metal was satiny and cool under his fingers. It looked machined, not stamped: fine, micrometically exact work.

  He turned it over, looking for a nameplate or a serial number stamped into the metal, but found nothing. There was no button, dial, or any other obvious way of turning the machine on. He could not see any way of opening it, except by removing the inlays from the top.

  Naismith felt cautiously at the inlays, trying to see if they would depress or turn, but without result. He paused, baffled.

  After a moment, his fingers began tracing around the outlines of the machine: it was beautiful workmanship, a pleasure just to touch it—and yet it seemed without function, useless, meaningless….

  Like the question: “What is a Zug?”

  Without warning, Naismith’s heart began hammering again.

  He had an irrational feeling that he was being carefully hemmed in—trapped, for some unguessable purpose, and by persons unknown. His fingers left the machine, then gripped it fiercely again, pressing hard, twisting, trying to move some part of the mechanism.

  He failed.

  The visiphone blinked and brrred.

  Naismith swore and hit the switch with his palm; the screen lighted up. It was Wells, with his iron-gray brush-cut and his deeply seamed face. “Naismith!” he said sharply. “I called before—did you get the message?”

  “Yes—I just got in—I was about to vise you.”

  “I’m sorry, Naismith, but I’m afraid this had better not wait.

  Come over to my private office.”

  “Now?”

  “Please.”

  “All right, but what’s it about?”

  “I’ll explain when you get here.” Wells’ wide mouth closed firmly, and the screen went gray.

  Wells’ private office was a big, sunny room adjoining his home, with a view of the Santa Monica beach and the ocean.

  As the door slid open, Wells looked up from his desk, his big, leather-brown face serious and stern. “Naismith,” he said without preamble, “I’m told you insulted and frightened a Mr. Churan today. What about it?”

  Naismith continued walking toward the desk. He sat down in the conical chair facing Wells, and planted his hands on his knees. “In the first place,” he said, “I’m not a criminal.

  Moderate your tone. In the second place, where do you get your information, and what makes you so positive it’s correct?”

  Wells blinked and leaned forward. “Didn’t you burst in on an importer named Churan, over in Hollywood, and threaten to kill him?”

  “No, categorically, I did not. What time was I supposed to have done this?”

  “Around two o’clock. And you didn’t threaten him, or break anything in his office?”

  “I never even heard of your Mr. Churan until today,” said Naismith angrily. “What else does he say I did?”

  Wells sat back, put a pipe in his mouth and looked at him meditatively. “Exactly where were you at two?”

  “In my classrooms, giving a demonstration.”

  “What kind of a demonstration?”

  “Temporal energy.”

  Wells picked up a gold pen in his big, well-kept fingers and made a note. “At two?”

  “Certainly. My afternoon class has been at two since March, when the schedules were changed.”

  “That’s right, I seem to remember now.” Wells frowned uncertainly, pulling at his lower lip. “It’s odd that Orvile didn’t seem to know that, although I suppose it might have slipped his mind… You know, Naismith, this could be a serious business. When Orvile called me, around two-thirty, he was shaking all over.” Orvile was the head of the Physics Department, a nervous, white-haired man. “He’d just had a call from the police—this man Churan had complained to them, and naturally, he passed the buck to me. He knows I’m treating you for that amnesic condition of yours. Now, I’ll put it on the line, Naismith—if you did black out and browbeat Churan, as he says you did, we’ve got to find out why.”

  Naismith began to stiffen with anger. “I’ve told you, I was in my classrooms at two o’clock. You can check on that, if you don’t choose to believe me—ask my students.”

  Wells glanced at his notepad, scratched a couple of aimless lines, then looked up and said, “You used the word ‘classrooms.’ I take it that means you were teaching by the multiple-class method.”

  “That’s right. Almost all the undergraduate classes are multiples. You know how crowded we are.”

  “Surely. But what I’m getting at is this: at two o’clock you were in several places at once.”

  “Nine places, or rather ten,” said Naismith. “It’s the nine-unit duplicator in the East Wing of the Science Building.”

  “All right. My question is this: Is there any possibility that you were in eleven places at once, at two o’clock today?”
<
br />   Naismith sat in silence, absorbing that. Then he said, “Off-hand, the idea is ridiculous. You say this Churan’s office is in Hollywood. The duplicator field has a range of only about five hundred feet.”

  “But would you say it’s absolutely impossible?”

  Naismith’s wide jaw knotted. “I couldn’t say that, of course.

  Impractical, at least, in the present state of the art. What are you suggesting, that I somehow gimmicked that Hivert Duplicator to project one of my doppelgangers into a stranger’s office?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything.” Wells’ pen made slow circles on the notepad. “But Naismith, tell me this: why should this fellow Churan lie about it?”

  “I don’t know!” Naismith exploded. His hands clenched into powerful fists. “Wells, something’s going on that I don’t understand and don’t like. I’m completely in the dark now, but I promise you—”

  He was interrupted by the brrr of the phone. Without looking away from Naismith, Wells reached over and touched the button. “Yes?”

  The first words swung his head around. “Wells! Now see what’s happened!” It was Orvile’s shrill voice, and Naismith could see his white-haired head, grotesquely elongated in the visiphone. “He’s dead—horribly burned to death! And Naismith was the last man seen with him! My God, Wells!

  Why don’t you—”

  “Naismith is here in my office now,” Wells cut in. “Who’s dead? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m telling you, Ramsdell! Ramsdell! My God, look here!”

  Orvile’s paper-gray face withdrew, and after a moment the pickup tilted downward.

  On the gray tile floor lay a plump body, sprawled like a hideously ruined doll. The head, chest and hands were nothing but shapeless masses of carbon.

  “I’m sending the police!” Orvile’s voice shrilled. “Don’t let him get away! Don’t let him get away!”

  Chapter Two

  With Orvile’s hysterical voice still ringing in his ears, Naismith turned: in two quick strides he was at the door.