Hall of Mirrors

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  Hall of Mirrors

  By FREDRIC BROWN

  _It is a tough decision to make--whether to give up your life so you can live it over again!_

  For an instant you think it is temporary blindness, this sudden darkthat comes in the middle of a bright afternoon.

  It _must_ be blindness, you think; could the sun that was tanning youhave gone out instantaneously, leaving you in utter blackness?

  Then the nerves of your body tell you that you are _standing_, whereasonly a second ago you were sitting comfortably, almost reclining, in acanvas chair. In the patio of a friend's house in Beverly Hills. Talkingto Barbara, your fiancee. Looking at Barbara--Barbara in a swimsuit--her skin golden tan in the brilliant sunshine, beautiful.

  You wore swimming trunks. Now you do not feel them on you; the slightpressure of the elastic waistband is no longer there against your waist.You touch your hands to your hips. You are naked. And standing.

  Whatever has happened to you is more than a change to sudden darkness orto sudden blindness.

  You raise your hands gropingly before you. They touch a plain smoothsurface, a wall. You spread them apart and each hand reaches a corner.You pivot slowly. A second wall, then a third, then a door. You are in acloset about four feet square.

  Your hand finds the knob of the door. It turns and you push the dooropen.

  There is light now. The door has opened to a lighted room ... a roomthat you have never seen before.

  * * * * *

  It is not large, but it is pleasantly furnished--although the furnitureis of a style that is strange to you. Modesty makes you open the doorcautiously the rest of the way. But the room is empty of people.

  You step into the room, turning to look behind you into the closet,which is now illuminated by light from the room. The closet is and isnot a closet; it is the size and shape of one, but it contains nothing,not a single hook, no rod for hanging clothes, no shelf. It is an empty,blank-walled, four-by-four-foot space.

  You close the door to it and stand looking around the room. It is abouttwelve by sixteen feet. There is one door, but it is closed. There areno windows. Five pieces of furniture. Four of them you recognize--moreor less. One looks like a very functional desk. One is obviously achair ... a comfortable-looking one. There is a table, although its topis on several levels instead of only one. Another is a bed, or couch.Something shimmering is lying across it and you walk over and pick theshimmering something up and examine it. It is a garment.

  You are naked, so you put it on. Slippers are part way under the bed (orcouch) and you slide your feet into them. They fit, and they feel warmand comfortable as nothing you have ever worn on your feet has felt.Like lamb's wool, but softer.

  You are dressed now. You look at the door--the only door of the roomexcept that of the closet (closet?) from which you entered it. You walkto the door and before you try the knob, you see the small typewrittensign pasted just above it that reads:

  This door has a time lock set to open in one hour. For reasons you will soon understand, it is better that you do not leave this room before then. There is a letter for you on the desk. Please read it.

  It is not signed. You look at the desk and see that there is an envelopelying on it.

  You do not yet go to take that envelope from the desk and read theletter that must be in it.

  Why not? Because you are frightened.

  You see other things about the room. The lighting has no source that youcan discover. It comes from nowhere. It is not indirect lighting; theceiling and the walls are not reflecting it at all.

  Illustrated by VIDMER]

  They didn't have lighting like that, back where you came from. What didyou mean by _back where you came from_?

  You close your eyes. You tell yourself: _I am Norman Hastings. I am anassociate professor of mathematics at the University of SouthernCalifornia. I am twenty-five years old, and this is the year nineteenhundred and fifty-four._

  You open your eyes and look again.

  * * * * *

  They didn't use that style of furniture in Los Angeles--or anywhere elsethat you know of--in 1954. That thing over in the corner--you can't evenguess what it is. So might your grandfather, at your age, have looked ata television set.

  You look down at yourself, at the shimmering garment that you foundwaiting for you. With thumb and forefinger you feel its texture.

  It's like nothing you've ever touched before.

  _I am Norman Hastings. This is nineteen hundred and fifty-four._

  Suddenly you must know, and at once.

  You go to the desk and pick up the envelope that lies upon it. Your nameis typed on the outside: _Norman Hastings_.

  Your hands shake a little as you open it. Do you blame them?

  There are several pages, typewritten. Dear Norman, it starts. You turnquickly to the end to look for the signature. It is unsigned.

  You turn back and start reading.

  "Do not be afraid. There is nothing to fear, but much to explain. Muchthat you must understand before the time lock opens that door. Much thatyou must accept and--obey.

  "You have already guessed that you are in the future--in what, to you,seems to be the future. The clothes and the room must have told youthat. I planned it that way so the shock would not be too sudden, so youwould realize it over the course of several minutes rather than read ithere--and quite probably disbelieve what you read.

  "The 'closet' from which you have just stepped is, as you have by nowrealized, a time machine. From it you stepped into the world of 2004.The date is April 7th, just fifty years from the time you last remember.

  "You cannot return.

  "I did this to you and you may hate me for it; I do not know. That is upto you to decide, but it does not matter. What does matter, and not toyou alone, is another decision which you must make. I am incapable ofmaking it.

  "Who is writing this to you? I would rather not tell you just yet. Bythe time you have finished reading this, even though it is not signed(for I knew you would look first for a signature), I will not need totell you who I am. You will know.

  "I am seventy-five years of age. I have, in this year 2004, beenstudying 'time' for thirty of those years. I have completed the firsttime machine ever built--and thus far, its construction, even the factthat it has been constructed, is my own secret.

  "You have just participated in the first major experiment. It will beyour responsibility to decide whether there shall ever be any moreexperiments with it, whether it should be given to the world, or whetherit should be destroyed and never used again."

  * * * * *

  End of the first page. You look up for a moment, hesitating to turn thenext page. Already you suspect what is coming.

  You turn the page.

  "I constructed the first time machine a week ago. My calculations hadtold me that it would work, but not how it would work. I had expected itto send an object back in time--it works backward in time only, notforward--physically unchanged and intact.

  "My first experiment showed me my error. I placed a cube of metal in themachine--it was a miniature of the one you just walked out of--and setthe machine to go backward ten years. I flicked the switch and openedthe door, expecting to find the cube vanished. Instead I found it hadcrumbled to powder.

  "I put in another cube and sent it two years back. The second cube cameback unchanged, except that it was newer, shinier.

  "That gave me the answer. I had been expecting the cubes to go back intime, and they had done so, but not in the sense I had expected them to.Those metal c
ubes had been fabricated about three years previously. Ihad sent the first one back years before it had existed in itsfabricated form. Ten years ago it had been ore. The machine returned itto that state.

  "Do you see how our previous theories of time travel have been wrong? Weexpected to be able to step into a time machine in, say, 2004, set itfor fifty years back, and then step out in the year 1954 ... but it doesnot work that way. The machine does not move in time. Only whatever iswithin the machine is affected, and then just with relation to itselfand not to the rest of the Universe.

  "I confirmed this with guinea pigs by sending one six weeks old fiveweeks back and it came out a baby.

  "I need not outline all my experiments here. You will find a record ofthem in the desk and you can study it later.

  "Do you understand now what has happened to you, Norman?"

  * * * * *

  You begin to understand. And you begin to sweat.

  The _I_ who wrote that letter you are now reading is _you_, yourself atthe age of seventy-five, in this year of 2004. You are