Times Without Number by John Brunner Read Free Book Online

here-and-now. They had not been -- therefore

the rule was being obeyed.

Given almost a century of routine time-travel, though, it was scarcely

to be marvelled at if that element of caution which was founded on fear

rather than rational judgment were to fade. People were likely to grow

blasé about anything routine, even when not merely their lives but the

very history which led up to them depended on non-interference.

And if the rule were broken wholesale . . .

Don Miguel had inchoate visions of vast areas of time being swept

into some unimaginable vacuum, into the formlessness of absolute

not-being. Contemplating the consequences made his head ache. Like any

other Licentiate, he had struggled through a full three-year course in

the theory of time-travel on top of a regular university education -- for

him, the latter had included history, mathematics and natural philosophy

-- in order to graduate from Probationer to Licentiate status. He had

cracked his skull over the relationship between familiar substantive time,

in which one measured out one's daily life, and hard-to-grasp durative

time in which one experienced events during a time-journey, and he had

written his graduation thesis on the subject of so-called hypertime,

the barrier which prevented a time-traveller returning from the past

from going any further futurewards than the moment "then" reached by

the apparatus which had launched him.

But all these were as nothing compared to the hypothetical complexities

of speculative time, in which events would be otherwise than as history

recounted.

What reality would take the place of his own if someone really smashed

the non-interference rule to bits? Would Jorque be York; would an English

monarch sit the Imperial throne? Would a Mohawk Prince rule New Castile

and call his subjects braves and squaws? Would there -- could there --

be a world in which men travelled into space instead of through time,

by some undreamed-of miracle of propulsion?

But pondering such incredible speculations was not to Don Miguel's

pragmatic taste. After doing his best to discipline his mind into logical

analysis of the implications, he decided he was better employed in action

than in mentation, and accordingly set off for another interview with

the merchant, Higgins.

The guards on the door of Higgins's cell inspected his commission before

admitting him; on discovering that it was over the Prince's own seal,

they gave way with much bowing and scraping. Passing the door, he found

himself in a room which -- by prison standards -- was spacious, though

poorly lit and not at all well ventilated.

In the centre Higgins sat lolling on a chair, his head on one shoulder,

his mouth ajar. He was fastened down with leather straps. At a

table facing him were two inquisitors charged with his interrogation,

conferring in low tones. Their expressions were anxious and they frowned

continually. Upon Don Miguel's entrance they rose to greet him.

"How goes it?" demanded Don Miguel, and they exchanged glances.

"Badly," said the taller of the two at last. "We greatly fear he may

have been bewitched."

For a second Don Miguel wondered if the remark was meant for a joke.

When he realised it was not, his heart sank. Was it not bad enough

to have tangled with the paradoxes of temporal interference -- must

he now confront the shady, seldom-acknowledged borderline universe

of enchantment?

Keeping his self-control with some effort, he said, "How so?"

"We have used all means that are lawful to unlock his tongue," the

shorter inquisitor said. "We have employed liquors of divers kinds and

we have used mirrors and pendulums. Since he is not convicted of any

offence as yet we are forbidden to try more drastic methods. So far,

all we have established is that while he remembers purchasing the mask

he cannot recall the face of the man who sold it, nor his name, nor any

clue to his identity."

Don Miguel felt a pang of dismay. He