Time and Time Again | Page 2

His eyes swept the
room, wide with wonder. Every detail was familiar: the flower-splashed chair covers; the
table that served as desk and catch-all for his possessions; the dresser, with its mirror
stuck full of pictures of aircraft. It was the bedroom of his childhood home. He swung his
legs over the edge of the bed. They were six inches too short to reach the floor.
For an instant, the room spun dizzily; and he was in the grip of utter panic, all confidence
in the evidence of his senses lost. Was he insane? Or delirious? Or had the bomb really
killed him; was this what death was like? What was that thing, about "ye become as little
children"? He started to laugh, and his juvenile larynx made giggling sounds. They
seemed funny, too, and aggravated his mirth. For a little while, he was on the edge of
hysteria and then, when he managed to control his laughter, he felt calmer. If he were
dead, then he must be a discarnate entity, and would be able to penetrate matter. To his
relief, he was unable to push his hand through the bed. So he was alive; he was also fully
awake, and, he hoped, rational. He rose to his feet and prowled about the room, taking
stock of its contents.
There was no calendar in sight, and he could find no newspapers or dated periodicals, but
he knew that it was prior to July 18, 1946. On that day, his fourteenth birthday, his father
had given him a light .22 rifle, and it had been hung on a pair of rustic forks on the wall.
It was not there now, nor ever had been. On the table, he saw a boys' book of military
aircraft, with a clean, new dustjacket; the flyleaf was inscribed: To Allan Hartley, from
his father, on his thirteenth birthday, 7/18 '45. Glancing out the window at the foliage on
the trees, he estimated the date at late July or early August, 1945; that would make him
just thirteen.
His clothes were draped on a chair beside the bed. Stripping off his pajamas, he donned
shorts, then sat down and picked up a pair of lemon-colored socks, which he regarded
with disfavor. As he pulled one on, a church bell began to clang. St. Boniface, up on the
hill, ringing for early Mass; so this was Sunday. He paused, the second sock in his hand.

There was no question that his present environment was actual. Yet, on the other hand, he
possessed a set of memories completely at variance with it. Now, suppose, since his
environment were not an illusion, everything else were? Suppose all these troublesome
memories were no more than a dream? Why, he was just little Allan Hartley, safe in his
room on a Sunday morning, badly scared by a nightmare! Too much science fiction,
Allan; too many comic books!
That was a wonderfully comforting thought, and he hugged it to him contentedly. It
lasted all the while he was buttoning up his shirt and pulling on his pants, but when he
reached for his shoes, it evaporated. Ever since he had wakened, he realized, he had been
occupied with thoughts utterly incomprehensible to any thirteen-year-old; even thinking
in words that would have been so much Sanscrit to himself at thirteen. He shook his head
regretfully. The just-a-dream hypothesis went by the deep six.
He picked up the second shoe and glared at it as though it were responsible for his
predicament. He was going to have to be careful. An unexpected display of adult
characteristics might give rise to some questions he would find hard to answer credibly.
Fortunately, he was an only child; there would be no brothers or sisters to trip him up.
Old Mrs. Stauber, the housekeeper, wouldn't be much of a problem; even in his normal
childhood, he had bulked like an intellectual giant in comparison to her. But his father--
Now, there the going would be tough. He knew that shrewd attorney's mind, whetted
keen on a generation of lying and reluctant witnesses. Sooner or later, he would forget for
an instant and betray himself. Then he smiled, remembering the books he had discovered,
in his late 'teens, on his father's shelves and recalling the character of the openminded
agnostic lawyer. If he could only avoid the inevitable unmasking until he had a plausible
explanatory theory.
* * * * *
Blake Hartley was leaving the bathroom as Allan Hartley opened his door and stepped
into the hall. The lawyer was bare-armed and in slippers; at forty-eight, there was only a
faint powdering of gray in his dark hair, and not a gray thread in his clipped mustache.
The old Merry Widower, himself, Allan thought, grinning as he