Fugitive of Time. John Russell Fearn

I’ve got to know!”

      “Very well. The date when this happens will be October the nineteenth, 2019.”

      Gordon thought for a moment then started. “But that’s only thirteen years hence! I’ll only be thirty-eight!”

      “Yes, I’m sorry you asked me. There it is and you cannot alter it.”

      “That’s where you’re wrong, Doc!” Gordon’s face was grim. “I deliberately asked you the date so that I can sidestep it. On that date I’ll lock myself in prison, go down a mine, fly to the arctic, or something. That will not come true! Not one bit of it!”

      “You cannot alter time, my boy.”

      “I believe I can. The only reason people walk blindly into death is because they don’t know when it’s coming. If they did, they’d take steps to avoid it. If you knew a certain bus was going to run you down, you’d go up another street, wouldn’t you?”

      “I wouldn’t be able. Time is written and no human power can change it. On October nineteenth, 2019, at eleven-three, you will be in that train—dead!”

      Gordon was silent for a moment. “You have your views on that, sir. I have mine.”

      Royd put the photographs in a new manilla folder, then placed it in the cabinet. He turned thoughtfully.

      “Thank you, young man, for your co-operation. Would you care to see any intermediate scenes from your future life? Prior to the fatal date, that is.”

      “After what I’ve seen, Doc, I’d prefer to leave the whole thing severely alone—at least for the moment. You have enough proof now for any Scientific Association, surely? You can satisfy the scientists now that the ‘mind reading’ act isn’t confined to you alone.”

      “You have done science an immense service. Now you will depart with your ten thousand and the inerasable memory of a certain day in 2019. I still wish you hadn’t asked me to give you that date.”

      Gordon set his jaw. “I’m glad you did, and I’ve told you why. Now I’d better be going.”

      Nevertheless Gordon hesitated and he was not sure why. He decided that it was possibly because he had happened on to something utterly extraordinary and for that reason was loath to turn his back on it. Besides, he had somehow developed quite a regard for this pottering old genius with his Time-Camera, Scanner, or whatever he called it. That photograph of October 19, 2019, needed seeing far more than once. It needed profound study. He had to find a way to circumvent its implications.

      “You hesitate, Mr. Fryer,” Royd remarked. “Worried over your check? I can assure you it’s quite genuine.”

      “I’ve not a second’s doubt on that, sir. I’m just sort of weighing things up. Ten thousand pounds sets me on my feet nicely, of course, and I suppose I can afford to wait for a while until something comes my way. I—I don’t quite know what it is, but there is something about this place and particularly this invention of yours, which gets me. Since I’m an engineer I can appreciate your genius.”

      “I’m no genius, my boy: just a research scientist.” Royd peered over his glasses. “You know, you’ve restored a lost pleasure for me and I’m very grateful. I’ve been stewing so long over scientific problems I had about forgotten what companionship could be like, especially the companionship of a young man who has a scientific flair as well.”

      Gordon began to wander, inspecting the instruments.

      “I’ve always had the idea, Doc, that I might make something of an inventor, given the right place to settle. Tell you what: here’s a proposition. Suppose I return this check, and ask you, instead, to take me on as an assistant? You could perhaps do with one?”

      Royd laughed. “Do with one! I’ve been advertising for one for months only you probably haven’t noticed. You are the ideal man for me—already proven in courage, scientific inclinations, and you’re a trained engineer. What more could I ask? That is, if you’re willing to tolerate a rather muddling old fool like me?”

      “No muddling fool ever invented a thing like the Time-scanner! Besides I want to know more about it—in regard to my intermediate life, I mean. I also want to stand by you as living proof when you explain your theory to the scientists.”

      Royd rubbed his hands. “It’s settled, then. As for your ten thousand pounds, that is yours—for a nerve-racking job well performed. To stand beside me I’ll give you three hundred pounds a week and everything found.”

      Gordon spread his hands and grinned. “What could be fairer than that? That being so, I’d better depart for a moment and see if this village can supply me with some decent clothes and a laboratory smock—”

      He stopped suddenly, pondering, a surprised look in his eyes.

      “Well?” Royd questioned, and Gordon glanced at him sharply.

      “I was just thinking, sir. That photograph you took of me as I’ll be tomorrow. It showed me in here, in a smock. It looks as though it would come true.”

      “It will, my boy. It’s inevitable.”

      “So it begins to appear, which makes it seem that that other date, thirteen years hence, may perhaps be—” Gordon shook his head firmly. “No! I’ll find a way round that in the intervening years, even if I have to go abroad to do it!”

      Royd did not say anything. His whole attitude suggested a fatalistic acceptance of immutable law.