i said: "seems hopeless to check fitzjohn back second by second. at that rate we might just as well go through all the names on the list."

"what else is there to do?"

i said: "look, the prognosticator flirted twice with something interesting when we were conning fitzjohn's career. it was something mentioned all through the future, too."

"i don't recall—" the c-s began.

"it was a lecture, sir," i explained. "fitzjohn's first big lecture when he set out to refute criticism. i think we ought to pick that up and go through it with a fine comb. something is bound to come out of it."

"very well."

images blurred across the spinning crystal as yarr hunted for the scene. i caught fuzzy fragments of a demolished manhattan city with giant crablike creatures mashing helpless humans, their scarlet chiton glittering. then an even blurrier series of images. a city of a single stupendous building towering like babel into the heavens; a catastrophic fire roaring along the atlantic seaboard; then a sylvan civilization of odd, naked creatures flitting from one giant flower to another. but they were all so far off focus they made my eyes ache. the sound was even worse.

groating leaned toward me and whispered: "merely vague possibilities—"

i nodded and then riveted my attention to the crystal, for it held a clear scene. before us lay an amphitheater. it was modeled on the ancient greek form, a horseshoe of gleaming white-stone terraces descending to a small square white rostrum. behind the rostrum and surrounding the uppermost tiers of seats was a simple colonnade. the lovely and yet noble dignity was impressive.

the controller said: "hel-lo, i don't recognize this."

"plans are in the architectural offices," groating said. "it isn't due for construction for another thirty years. we intend placing it at the north end of central park—"

it was difficult to hear them. the room was filled with the bellow and roar of shouting from the amphitheater. it was packed from pit to gallery with quick-jerking figures. they climbed across the terraces; they fought up and down the broad aisles; they stood on their seats and waved. most of all they opened their mouths into gaping black blots and shouted. the hoarse sound rolled like slow, thunderous waves, and there was a faint rhythm struggling to emerge from the chaos.

a figure appeared from behind the columns, walked calmly up to the platform and began arranging cards on the small table. it was fitzjohn, icy and self-possessed, statuesque in his white tunic. he stood alongside the table, carefully sorting his notes, utterly oblivious of the redoubled roar that went up at his appearance. out of that turmoil came the accented beats of a doggerel rhyme:

neon

crypton

ammoniated

fitzjohn

neon

crypton

ammoniated

fitzjohn

when he was finished, fitzjohn straightened and, resting the fingertips of his right hand lightly on top of the table, he gazed out at the rioting—un-smiling, motionless. the pandemonium was reaching unprecedented heights. as the chanting continued, costumed figures appeared on the terrace tops and began fighting down the aisles toward the platform. there were men wearing metal-tubed frame-works representing geometric figures. cubes, spheres, rhomboids and tesseracts. they hopped and danced outlandishly.

two young boys began unreeling a long streamer from a drum concealed behind the colonnade. it was of white silk and an endless equation was printed on it that read:

eia = 1 + ia - a2! + a3! - a4!...

and so on, yard after yard after yard. it didn't exactly make sense, but i understood it to be some kind of cutting reference to fitzjohn's equations.

there were hundreds of others, some surprising and many obscure. lithe contortionists, made up to represent möbius strips, grasped ankles with their hands and went rolling down the aisles. a dozen girls appeared from nowhere, clad only in black net representing giant aleph-nulls, and began an elaborate ballet. great gas-filled balloons, shaped into weird topological manifolds were dragged in and bounced around.

it was utter insanity and utterly degrading to see how these mad college kids were turning fitzjohn's lecture into a mardi gras. they were college kids, of course, crazy youngsters who probably couldn't explain the binomial theorem, but nevertheless were giving their own form of expression to their teachers' antagonism to fitzjohn. i thought vaguely of the days centuries back when a thousand harvard undergraduates did a very similar thing when oscar wilde came to lecture. undergraduates whose entire reading probably consisted of the police gazette.

and all the while they danced and shouted and screamed, fitzjohn stood motionless, fingertips just touching the table, waiting for them to finish. you began with an admiration for his composure. then suddenly you realized what a breathtaking performance was going on. you glued your eyes to the motionless figure and waited for it to move—and it never did.

what?

you don't think that was so terrific, eh? well, one of you get up and try it. stand alongside a table and rest your fingertips lightly on the top—not firmly enough to bear the weight of your arm—but just enough to make contact. maybe it sounds simple. just go ahead and try it. i'll bet every credit i ever own no one of you can stand there without moving for sixty seconds. any takers? i thought not. you begin to get the idea, eh?

they began to get the same idea in the amphitheater. at first the excitement died down out of shame. there's not much fun making a holy show of yourself if your audience doesn't react. they started it up again purely out of defiance, but it didn't last long. the chanting died away, the dancers stopped cavorting, and at last that entire audience of thousands stood silent, uneasily watching fitzjohn. he never moved a muscle.

after what seemed like hours of trying to outstare him, the kids suddenly gave in. spatters of applause broke out across the terraces. the clapping was taken up and it rose to a thunder of beating palms. no one is as quick to appreciate a great performance as a youngster. these kids sat down in their seats and applauded like mad. fitzjohn never moved until the applause, too, had died down, then he picked up his card and, without preamble—as though nothing at all had happened—he began his lecture.

"ladies and gentlemen, i have been accused of creating my theory of energy-dynamics and my mathematics out of nothing—and my critics cry: 'from nothing comes nothing.' let me remind you first that man does not create in the sense of inventing what never existed before. man only discovers. the things we seem to invent, no matter how novel and revolutionary, we merely discover. they have been waiting for us all the time.

"moreover, i was not the sole discoverer of this theory. no scientist is a lone adventurer, striking out into new fields for himself. the way is always led by those who precede us, and we who seem to discover all, actually do no more than add our bit to an accumulated knowledge.

"to show you how small my own contribution was and how much i inherited from the past, let me tell you that the basic equation of my theory is not even my own. it was discovered some fifty years prior to this day—some ten years before i was born.

"for on the evening of february 9, 2909, in central park, on the very site of this amphitheater, my father, suddenly struck with an idea, mentioned an equation to my mother. that equation:

i = (b/a) π i e/μ..."

was the inspiration for my own theory. so you can understand just how little i have contributed to the 'invention' of the tension energy-dynamics equations—"

fitzjohn glanced at the first card and went on: "let us consider, now, the possible permutations on the factor

e/μ..."

i yelled: "that's plenty. cut!" and before the first word was out of my mouth the controller and the c-s were shouting, too. yarr blanked out the crystal and brought up the lights. we were all on our feet, looking at each other excitedly. yarr jumped up so fast his chair went over backward with a crash. we were in a fever because, boys, that day happened to be february 9, 2909, and we had just about two hours until evening.

the controller said: "can we locate these fitzjohns?"

"in two hours? don't be silly. we don't even know if they're named fitzjohn today."

"why not?"

"they may have changed their name—it's getting to be a fad nowadays. the son may have changed his name as a part of that cover-up of his past. heaven only knows why not—"

"but we've got to split them up—whoever they are."

the c-s said: "take hold of yourself. how are we going to separate eleven million married people? didn't you ever hear of stability?"

"can't we publish a warning and order everybody out of the park?"

"and let everybody know about the prog building?" i said. "you keep forgetting stability."

"stability be damned! we can't let them have that conversation—and if they do anyway, we can't let them have that boy!"

groating was really angry. he said: "you'd better go home and read through the credo. even if it meant the salvation of the universe i would not break up a marriage—nor would i harm the boy."

"then what do we do?"

"have patience. we'll think of something."

i said: "excuse me, sir—i've got an idea."

"forget ideas," the controller yelled, "we need action."

"this is action."

the c-s said: "go ahead, carmichael."

"well, obviously the important thing is to keep all married couples out of the north sector of central park tonight. suppose we get a special detail of police together at once. then we beat through the park and get everyone out. we can quarantine it—set up a close cordon around the park and guard it all night."

the controller yelled: "it may be one of the policemen."

"o.k., then we pick the unmarried ones. furthermore, we give strict orders that all women are to stay away."

the c-s said: "it might work—it'll have to work. we can't let that conversation take place."

i said: "excuse me, sir, do you happen to be married?"

he grinned: "my wife's in washington. i'll tell her to stay there."

"and the controller, sir?"

the controller said: "she'll stay home. what about yourself?"

"me? strictly bachelor."

groating laughed. "unfortunate, but excellent for tonight. come, let's hurry."

we took the pneumatic to headquarters and let me tell you, stuff began to fly, but high! before we were there ten minutes, three companies were reported ready for duty. it seemed to satisfy the controller, but it didn't satisfy me. i said: "three's not enough. make it five."

"five hundred men? you're mad."

i said: "i wish it could be five thousand. look, we've knocked our brains out digging through a thousand years for this clue. now that we've got it i don't want us to muff the chance."

the c-s said: "make it five."

"but i don't think we've got that many unmarried men in the service."

"then get all you can. get enough so they can stand close together in the cordon—close enough so no one can wander through. look—this isn't a case of us hunting down a crook who knows we're after him. we're trying to pick up a couple who are perfectly innocent—who may wander through the cordon. we're trying to prevent an accident, not a crime."

they got four hundred and ten all told. the whole little regiment was mustered before headquarters and the c-s made a beautifully concocted speech about a criminal and a crime that had to be prevented and hoopus-gadoopus, i forget most of it. naturally we couldn't let them know about the prog building any more than we could the citizens—and i suppose you understand why the secret had to be kept.

you don't, eh? well, for the benefit of the hermit from the moon i'll explain that, aside from the important matter of stability, there's the very human fact that the prog would be besieged by a million people a day looking for fortunetelling and hot tips on the races. most important of all, there's the question of death. you can't let a man know when and how he's going to die. you just can't.

there wasn't any sense keeping the news from the papers because everyone around central park was going to know something was up. while the c-s was giving instructions, i slipped into a booth and asked for multi-dial. when most of the reporters' faces were on segments of the screen, i said: "greetings, friendlies!"

they all yelled indignantly because i'd been out of sight for three days.

i said: "no more ho-hum, lads. carmichael sees all and tells all. hot-foot it up to the north end of central park in an hour or so. big stuff!"

the journal said: "take you three days to find that out?"

"yep."

the post said: "can it, carmichael. the last time you sent us north, the south end of the battery collapsed."

"this is no gag. i'm giving it to you straight."

"yeah?" the post was belligerent. "i say gowan!"

"gowan yourself," the ledger said. "this side of the opposition is credible."

"you mean gullible."

i said: "the word this time is sensational. four hundred police on the march. tramp-tramp-tramp—the beat of the drum—boots—et cetera. better get moving if you want to tag along."

the news gave me a nasty smile and said: "brother, for your sake it better be good—because i'm preparing a little sensation of my own to hand over."

i said: "make it a quick double cross, newsy. i'm in a hurry," and i clicked off. it's funny how sometimes you can't get along right with wrong people.

you know how fast night comes on in february. the blackness gathers in the sky like a bunched cape. then someone lets it drop and it sinks down over you with swiftly spreading black folds. those dusky folds were just spreading out toward the corners of the sky when we got to the park. the cops didn't even bother to park their helios. they vaulted out and left them blocking the streets. in less than half a minute, two hundred were beating through the park in a long line, driving everyone out. the rest were forming the skeleton of the cordon.

it took an hour to make sure the park was clear. somehow, if you tell a hundred citizens to do something, there will always be twenty who'll fight you—not because they really object to doing what they're told, but just out of principle or curiosity or cantankerousness.

the all-clear came at six o'clock, and it was just in time because it was pitch dark. the controller, the c-s and myself stood before the high iron gates that open onto the path leading into the rock gardens. where we stood we could see the jet masses of foliage standing crisp and still in the chill night. to either side of us stretched the long, wavering lines of police glow lamps. we could see the ring of bright dots drawn around the entire north end of the park like a necklace of glowing pearls.

the silence and the chill waiting was agonizing. suddenly i said: "excuse me, sir, but did you tell the police captain to o.k. the reporters?"

the c-s said: "i did, carmichael—" and that was all. it wasn't so good because i'd hoped we'd have a little talk to ease the tension.

again there was nothing but the cold night and the waiting. the stars overhead were like bits of radium and so beautiful you wished they were candy so you could eat them. i tried to imagine them slowly blotted out, and i couldn't. it's impossible to visualize the destruction of any lovely thing. then i tried counting the police lamps around the park. i gave that up before i reached twenty.

at last i said: "couldn't we go in and walk around a bit, sir?"

the c-s said: "i don't see why not—"

so we started through the gate, but we hadn't walked three steps into the park when there was a shout behind us and the sharp sounds of running feet.

but it was only old yarr running up to us with a couple of cops following him. yarr looked like a banshee with his coat flying and an enormous muffler streaming from his neck. he dressed real old-fashioned. he was all out of breath and just gasped while the c-s told the cops it was all right.

yarr panted: "i ... i—"

"don't worry, dr. yarr, everything is safe so far."

yarr took an enormous breath, held it for a moment and then let it out with a woosh. in natural tones he said: "i wanted to ask you if you'd hold on to the couple. i'd like to examine them for a check on the prognosticator."

gently, the c-s explained: "we're not trying to catch them, dr. yarr. we don't know who they are and we may never know. all we want to do is to prevent this conversation."

so we forgot about taking a walk through the gardens and there was more cold and more silence and more waiting. i clasped my hands together and i was so chilled and nervous it felt like i had ice water between the palms. a quick streak of red slanted up through the sky, the rocket discharges of the lunar transport, and ten seconds later i heard the wham of the take-off echoing from governor's island and the follow-up drone. only that drone kept on sounding long after it should have died away and it was too thin—too small—

i looked up, startled, and there was a helio making lazy circles over the center of the rock gardens. its silhouette showed clearly against the stars and i could see the bright squares of its cabin windows. suddenly i realized there was a stretch of lawn in the center of the gardens where a helio could land—where a couple could get out to stretch their legs and take an evening stroll.

i didn't want to act scared, so i just said: "i think we'd better go inside and get that helio out of there."

so we entered the gate and walked briskly toward the gardens, the two cops right at our heels. i managed to keep on walking for about ten steps and then i lost all control. i broke into a run and the others ran right behind me—the controller, the c-s, yarr and the cops. we went pelting down the gravel path, circled a dry fountain and climbed a flight of steps three at a clip.

the helio was just landing when i got to the edge of the lawn. i yelled: "keep off! get out of here!" and started toward them across the frozen turf. my feet pounded, but not much louder than my heart. i guess the whole six of us must have sounded like a herd of buffalo. i was still fifty yards off when dark figures started climbing out of the cabin. i yelled: "didn't you hear me? get out of this park!"

and then the post called: "that you, carmichael? what goes on?"

sure—it was the press.

so i stopped running and the others stopped and i turned to the c-s and said: "sorry about the false alarm, sir. what shall i do with the reporters—have them fly out or can they stay? they think this is a crime hunt."

groating was a little short of breath. he said: "let them stay, carmichael, they can help us look for dr. yarr. he seems to have lost himself somewhere in the woods."

i said: "yes, sir," and walked up to the helio.

the cabin door was open and warm amber light spilled out into the blackness. all the boys were out by this time, getting into their coveralls and stamping around and making the usual newspaper chatter. as i came up, the post said: "we brung your opposition along, carmichael—hogan of the trib."

the news said: "now's as good a time as any for the wrasslin' match, eh? you been in training, carmichael?" his voice had a nasty snigger to it and i thought: "oh-ho, this hogan probably scales two twenty and he'll mop me up, but very good—to the great satisfaction, no doubt, of my confrere from the news."

only when they shoved hogan forward, he wasn't so big, so i thought: "at a time like this—let's get it over with fast." i took a little sprint through the dark and grabbed hogan around the chest and dumped him to the ground.

i said: "o.k., opposition, that's—"

suddenly i realized this hogan'd been soft—soft but firm, if you get me. i looked down at her, full of astonishment and she looked up at me, full of indignation, and the rest of the crowd roared with laughter.

i said: "i'll be a pie-eyed emu!"

and then, my friends, six dozen catastrophes and cataclysms and volcanoes and hurricanes and everything else hit me. the c-s began shouting and then the controller and after a moment, the cops. only by that time the four of them were on top of me and all over me, so to speak. little yarr came tearing up, screaming at groating and groating yelled back and yarr tried to bash my head in with his little fists.

they yanked me to my feet and marched me off while the reporters and this halley hogan girl stared. i can't tell you much about what happened after that—the debating and the discussing and the interminable sound and fury, because most of the time i was busy being locked up. all i can tell you is that i was it. me. i. i was the one man we were trying to stop. i—innocent me. i was x, the mad scientist and y, the ruthless dictator and z, the alien planet—all rolled into one. i was the one guy the earth was looking to stop.

sure—because you see if you twist "i'll be a pie-eyed emu" enough, you get fitzjohn's equation:

i = (b/a) π i e/μ..."

i don't know how my future son is going to figure i was talking mathematics. i guess it'll just be another one of those incidents that turn into legend and get pretty well changed in the process. i mean the way an infant will say "goo" and by the time his pop gets finished telling about it it's become the preamble to the credo.

what?

no, i'm not married—yet. in fact, that's why i'm stationed up here editing a two-sheet weekly on this god-forsaken asteroid. old groating, he calls it protective promotion. well, sure, it's a better job than reporting. the c-s said they wouldn't have broken up an existing marriage, but he was going to keep us apart until they can work something out on the prognosticator.

no—i never saw her again after that time i dumped her on the turf, but, boys, i sure want to. i only got a quick look, but she reminded me of that barbara leeds girl, six hundred years from now. that lovely kind with shingled hair and a clean-cut face that looks fresh and wind-washed—

i keep thinking about her and i keep thinking how easy it would be to stow out of here on an earth-bound freighter—change my name—get a different kind of job. to hell with groating and to hell with stability and to hell with a thousand years from now. i've got to see her again—soon.

i keep thinking how i've got to see her again.

the end