Highway of Eternity Read Free Page A

is becoming mired in history and philosophy. He is looking for the basic errors we humans made and he thinks that he will find the roots of them in the first few thousand years of human history. He has found a few, of course, but one does not need to study history to be aware of them: the problem of surpluses, the profit motive, and the war motive which arises from one man or tribe having more than another man or tribe may have; or the need of huddling—the need of men and women to huddle in tribes, nations, and empires, reflecting that terrifying sense of insecurity that is part of the human psyche. You could go on and on, of course, but I think Timothy is deluding himself. The meaning that he seeks is a deeper meaning and it is to be found otherwhere than in history.”
    He asked, quite seriously, “Enid, do you have some idea? Even a faint idea?”
    â€œNot yet,” she said. “Perhaps never. All I know is that Timothy is looking in all the wrong places.”
    â€œMaybe we should be going in to dinner,” he suggested.
    â€œYes, I think we should. We can’t keep the others waiting. Emma has been in a tizzy that you would be late. Timothy has been sharpening the carving knife. Nora, out in the kitchen, has been in a flutter. The mutton’s almost done.”
    He offered her his arm and they went across the drawing room, carefully threading their way between the shadowed, half-seen furniture.
    â€œOh, there you are!” cried Horace when they came into the dining room. “I have been wondering where you were. The mutton cannot wait, you know. Here, you must, each of you, have a glass of this port. It is quite the best I have tasted in years. It is really excellent.”
    He poured and stepped around the table, handing each of them a glass. He was a squat man, short and powerful of body, and with the appearance of excessive hairiness. His hair and beard were so black that the blackness seemed to shade into blue.
    â€œYou seem in excellent spirit,” David said to him.
    â€œI am,” said Horace. “Gahan will be here tomorrow. I suppose Enid told you that.”
    â€œYes, she did. Will he be alone or will someone else be with him?”
    â€œHe didn’t say. There was reception trouble. Interference of some sort. That is something that has not been perfected. Teddy, back in the Pleistocene, thinks it has to do with stresses in the duration alignment. Maybe something to do with directional anomalies.”
    Horace knew nothing about the problem, David told himself. He might have some slight knowledge of time techniques, but certainly no grasp of the theory. However, on any stated subject, he was an instant expert and could talk convincingly and authoritatively.
    Horace was about to expand further on the matter, but was interrupted when Nora came in from the kitchen, bearing in triumph the platter of mutton. She placed it in front of Timothy and went bustling back into the kitchen. The rest of them found their places at the table and Timothy began the carving of the saddle, making an occasion of it, plying knife and fork with his customary flourish.
    David tasted the port. It was excellent. Occasionally, on certain small matters like the selection of a good bottle of port, the law of averages, unassisted, would make Horace right.
    They ate in silence for some time. Then Horace judiciously wiped his mouth on his napkin, stuffed the cloth back into his lap, and said, “For some time I have been worried about our twentieth-century outpost in New York. I don’t trust this Martin fellow. I’ve been trying to raise him for the last few months and the blighter does not answer.”
    â€œMaybe he has gone away for a while,” suggested Emma.
    â€œIf he were going,” said Horace, “as our security man, he should have kept us informed. He has this woman, Stella, with him. If he’s not there, at least she could answer.”
    â€œMaybe she