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“No. Not and stayed sane. But really, I am your son; the same entity I was yesterday. I’ve just had what you might call an educational short cut.”

“I’ll say you have!” His father laughed in real amusement. He discovered that his cigar had gone out, and re-lit it. “Here; if you can remember the next thirty years, suppose you tell me when the War’s going to end. This one, I mean.”

“The Japanese surrender will be announced at exactly 1901–7:01 P. M. present style–on August 14. A week from Tuesday. Better make sure we have plenty of grub in the house by then. Everything will be closed up tight till Thursday morning; even the restaurants. I remember, we had nothing to eat in the house but some scraps.”

“Well! It is handy, having a prophet in the family! I’ll see to it Mrs. Stauber gets plenty of groceries in…. Tuesday a week? That’s pretty sudden, isn’t it?”

“The Japs are going to think so,” Allan replied. He went on to describe what was going to happen.

His father swore softly. “You know, I’ve heard talk about atomic energy, but I thought it was just Buck Rogers stuff. Was that the sort of bomb that got you?”

“That was a firecracker to the bomb that got me. That thing exploded a good ten miles away.”

Blake Hartley whistled softly. “And that’s going to happen in thirty years! You know, son, if I were you, I wouldn’t like to have to know about a thing like that.” He looked at Allan for a moment. “Please, if you know, don’t ever tell me when I’m going to die.”

Allan smiled. “I can’t. I had a letter from you just before I left for the front. You were seventy-eight, then, and you were still hunting, and fishing, and flying your own plane. But I’m not going to get killed in any Battle of Buffalo, this time, and if I can prevent it, and I think I can, there won’t be any World War III.”

“But–You say all time exists, perpetually coexistent and totally present,” his father said. “Then it’s right there in front of you, and you’re getting closer to it, every watch tick.”

Allan Hartley shook his head. “You know what I remembered, when Frank Gutchall came to borrow a gun?” he asked. “Well, the other time, I hadn’t been home: I’d been swimming at the Canoe Club, with Larry Morton. When I got home, about half an hour from now, I found the house full of cops. Gutchall talked the .38 officers’ model out of you, and gone home; he’d shot his wife four times through the body, finished her off with another one back of the ear, and then used his sixth shot to blast his brains out. The cops traced the gun; they took a very poor view of your lending it to him. You never got it back.”

“Trust that gang to keep a good gun,” the lawyer said.

“I didn’t want us to lose it, this time, and I didn’t want to see you lose face around City Hall. Gutchalls, of course, are expendable,” Allan said. “But my main reason for fixing Frank Gutchall up with a padded cell was that I wanted to know whether or not the future could be altered. I have it on experimental authority that it can be. There must be additional dimensions of time; lines of alternate probabilities. Something like William Seabrook’s witch-doctor friend’s Fan-Shaped Destiny. When I brought memories of the future back to the present, I added certain factors to the causal chain. That set up an entirely new line of probabilities. On no notice at all, I stopped a murder and a suicide. With thirty years to work, I can stop a world war. I’ll have the means to do it, too.”

“The means?”

“Unlimited wealth and influence. Here.” Allan picked up a sheet and handed it to his father. “Used properly, we can make two or three million on that, alone. A list of all the Kentucky Derby, Preakness, and Belmont winners to 1970. That’ll furnish us primary capital. Then, remember, I was something of a chemist. I took it up, originally, to get background material for one of my detective stories; it fascinated me, and I made it a hobby, and then a source of income. I’m thirty years ahead of any chemist in the world, now. You remember I. G. Farbenindustrie? Ten years from now, we’ll make them look like pikers.”

His father looked at the yellow sheet. “Assault, at eight to one,” he said. “I can scrape up about five thousand for that–Yes; in ten years–Any other little operations you have in mind?” he asked.

“About 1950, we start building a political organization, here in Pennsylvania. In 1960, I think we can elect you President. The world situation will be crucial, by that time, and we had a good-natured nonentity in the White House then, who let things go till war became inevitable. I think President Hartley can be trusted to take a strong line of policy. In the meantime, you can read Machiavelli.”

“That’s my little boy, talking!”

Blake Hartley said softly. “All right, son; I’ll do just what you tell me, and when you grow up, I’ll be president…. Let’s go get supper, now.”