The End of Eternity by Isaac Asimov Read Free Book Online Page A

so. Do nothing more than that.” Twissell dropped his cigarette and ground it savagely underfoot as though it were the face of a lifelong enemy.
    “I’d like to point out, Computer,” said Harlan, “that many Centuries under the current Reality somewhat resemble specific eras of Primitive history in one or more respects. It had been my intention to take him out to those Times, under careful spatio-temporal charting, of course, as a form of field trip.”
    “What? Listen, you chucklehead, don’t you ever intend to ask my permission for
anything
? That’s out. Just teach him Primitive history. No field trips. No laboratory experiments, either. Next you’ll be changing Reality just to show him how.”
    Harlan licked his dry lips with a dry tongue, muttered a resentful acquiescence, and, eventually, was allowed to leave.
    It took weeks for his hurt feelings to heal over somewhat.

4. COMPUTER
    Harlan had been two years a Technician when he reentered the 482nd for the first time since leaving with Twissell. He found it almost unrecognizable.
    It had not changed. He had.
    Two years of Technicianhood had meant a number of things. In one sense it had increased his feeling of stability. He had no longer to learn a new language, get used to new styles of clothing and new ways of life with every new Observation project. On the other hand, it had resulted in a withdrawal on his own part. He had almost forgotten now the camaraderie that united all the rest of the Specialists in Eternity.
    Most of all, he had developed the feeling of the
power
of being a Technician. He held the fate of millions in his fingertips, and if one must walk lonely because of it, one could also walk proudly.
    So he could stare coldly at the Communications man behind the entry desk of the 482nd and announce himself in clipped syllables: “Andrew Harlan, Technician, reporting to Computer Finge for temporary assignment to the 482nd,” disregarding the quick glance from the middle-aged man he faced.
    It was what some people called the “Technician glance,” a quick, involuntary sidelong peek at the rose-red shoulder emblem of the Technician, then an elaborate attempt not to look at it again.
    Harlan stared at the other’s shoulder emblem. It was not the yellow of the Computer, the green of the Life-Plotter, the blue of the Sociologist, or the white of the Observer. It was not the Specialist’s solid color at all. It was simply a blue bar on white. The man was Communications, a subbranch of Maintenance, not a Specialist at all.
    And
he
gave the “Technician glance” too.
    Harlan said a little sadly, “Well?”
    Communications said quickly, “I’m ringing Computer Finge, sir.”
    Harlan remembered the 482nd as solid and massive, but now it seemed almost squalid.
    Harlan had grown used to the glass and porcelain of the 575th, to its fetish of cleanliness. He had grown accustomed to a world of whiteness and clarity, broken by sparse patches of light pastel.
    The heavy plaster swirls of the 482nd, its splashy pigments, its areas of painted metal were almost repulsive.
    Even Finge seemed different, less than life-size, somewhat. Two years earlier, to Observer Harlan, Finge’s every gesture had seemed sinister and powerful.
    Now, from the lofty and isolated heights of Technicianhood, the man seemed pathetic and lost. Harlan watched him as he leafed through a sheaf of foils and got ready to look up, with the air of someone who is beginning to think he has made his visitor wait the duly required amount of time.
    Finge was from an energy-centered Century in the 600’s. Twissell had told him that and it explained a good deal. Finge’s flashes of ill-temper could easily be the result of the natural insecurity of a heavy man used to the firmness of field-forces and unhappy to be dealing with nothing morethan flimsy matter. His tiptoeing walk (Harlan remembered Finge’s catlike tread well; often he would look up from his desk, see Finge standing there staring