Part 2

The papers gathered, the pencils broke, and the night gradually turned to morning. The finished sketch of the cycle travellers was basically correct, but the most important operating mechanism was still missing. Try as he could, he was unable to bring it up from his memory.

"By the solar system," he swore, "what is the matter with me? I have forgotten every detail."

He tried to think back. At one time he had known the mechanism thoroughly. As an engineer he was completely familiar with every single plate and tube, but now he couldn't remember anything but the general appearance of the finished machine. Fear spurred his mind as he hunted for a solution. Something was happening to his mind. He began to think of his stories. The same thing had happened there. At one time he remembered every detail of life in the 25th century, and could describe them easily. Now events were dim and he knew now why his recent stories were poor. They were not written from actual memory of the future, but were the ordinary stories one might expect from a 20-year-old boy. The past was dim and memory faded. Blascomb and Crane, Crane and Blascomb, which was the C.D. agent, and what was C.D. anyway?

Enough of the details remained to shock him into an awareness of his desperate plight. The rejuvenation process had worked too well, for Donovan had waited dangerously long. As the body grew younger the tissue cells were consumed and youthful cells replaced them. The process that had worked for body cells did the same for the cells of the brain. Those portions of the brain containing the knowledge and ability of a 70-year-old man were gradually being replaced with new, untrained cells. He had failed to re-educate himself as new cells replaced the old, and had come to the brink of disaster. Sufficient intelligence and manual dexterity remained to compensate for that, but in a few years the task would be hopeless.

* * * * *

Excitedly, for he knew his life depended on it, he rummaged through his book shelves looking for a copy of his first story, "Turn Backward, O Time!" It contained, he remembered, a concise, accurate description of the mechanism for the time-machine. The magazine itself was old, the sheets turning brown and the pages breaking. He read the story in haste, vaguely remembering the plot. The actual description of the operating mechanism, he found to his consternation, was missing. "I will cut one or two paragraphs," the editor had said, "_They are not convincing, technically ... they lack verisimilitude!_"

Not convincing! If he did not find them he was doomed to become a child, and then a babbling idiot of a baby and would disappear entirely within twenty years. He telephoned the magazine's office and asked for the editor.

"Sorrree," the secretary said, "Mr. O'Sloane is quite ill. The doctors are afraid he might not pass through the night. He's very old, you know."

"Can he speak?" Donovan asked desperately.

"He's had a stroke. Can't say a word. Completely paralyzed, Sorrreee."

Donovan cursed the carelessness that had led him to this difficult position. He knew that O'Sloane kept the originals of his favorite stories in a collection in his office. If O'Sloane died it was possible that some enterprising youthful editor would destroy the old manuscripts in a fit of house-cleaning.

"This is Donovan," he said quickly, "I am trying to locate the original copy of "Turn Backward, O Time" which O'Sloane has in his files. I must study the original papers; it's extremely important. If there is a substitute editor, will you ask him to keep an eye open for it."

"Cerrrtainleee."

He sighed and took a taxi to the editorial office. It would be best to get it as quickly as possible. The original manuscript was quite safe. Donovan need only copy the original description. Even if he were no longer able to grasp the theory of it, the machine was still easy enough to build from the description.

Within a few hours he would be back in the 25th century for a reversal. For his next trip back he would choose Ancient Egypt. The 20th century was heading for the Atomic Wars and he was fortunate in being able to escape. After Egypt he would choose the Inca civilization. Did they not have legends of white gods that ruled them? The world was his, and he would be forever young. Immortality was within his grasp. No one could stop him now.

He arrived at the building and rushed up the steps to the editorial office.

"We found the manuscript, Mr. Donovan," the secretary told him brightly, looking twice at the flushed, handsome face.

* * * * *

Donovan stepped into O'Sloane's office. Practically nothing had been touched as yet, for one of the staff editors had just begun to sort a pile of stacked papers from several cabinets. Donovan recognized the original manuscript of "Turn Backward, O Time!" upon the desk, and hurriedly skimmed through the pages. The description was intact, and while he could not remember why such a machine would work, he knew that it could be built and he could escape.

With a sigh he pocketed the manuscript and introduced himself to the young editor who would probably succeed O'Sloane upon his death.

"Oh yes," the editor with the curious thin smile said, "I have heard quite a bit about you, and have been waiting a long time for this meeting. We've met before, you know."

"Really?" Donovan said. The face did appear familiar, but he could not recall the occasion.

"My name is Edel W. Crane, C.D."

Donovan felt a cold tremor of fear shake his body.

He moistened his lips.

"What do the letters C.D. stand for?"

The pasty-faced young man closed and then locked the door of the office. Walking towards Donovan, the smile no longer there, he told him. Then he did what he had come to do.