We sat in absolute silence then. I was stunned. I was, and I knew it, an ordinary person who long after he was grown retained the childhood assumption that the people who largely control our lives are somehow better informed than, and have judgment superior to, the rest of us; that they are more intelligent. Not until Vietnam did I finally realize that some of the most important decisions of all time can be made by men knowing really no more than, and who are not more intelligent than, most of the rest of us. That it was even possible that my own opinions and judgment could be as good as and maybe better than a politician's who made a decision of profound consequence. Some of that childhood awe and acceptance of authority remained, and while I was sitting before Esterhazy's desk — the room silent, everyone watching me, waiting — it seemed presumptuous that ordinary Simon Morley should question the judgment of this board. And of the men in Washington who agreed with it. Yet I knew I had to. And was going to.

I stumbled, though. I spoke badly and in confusion. I even began with what I suppose was the least important aspect of the entire decision. I said, "Go back and deliberately discredit Jake? Destroy his life? I, ah… does anyone have the right to do that?"

"The man's long dead, Si," Esterhazy said gently, as though to a simpleton he didn't want to offend. "We're what counts now."

"He won't be dead where I'll be seeing him."

"Well, yes. But, Si, a lot of men make far greater sacrifices than he will. For the good of the country."

"But he wouldn't even be consulted about it!"

"Neither are they; they're drafted into the army."

"Well, maybe they should be asked, too."

He genuinely didn't understand. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe it's wrong to force a man to join an army and kill other people against his own wishes."

They just looked at me. What I was saying was really incomprehensible to them, and I realized I'd been arguing the wrong point. I said, "Colonel, Rube, Mr. Fessenden and Professor Messinger — listen. Would it be — right to alter past events? I mean who knows it's a good thing to do? Who can be sure of it, I mean."

"Why, dammit, we can be sure!" Esterhazy said. "Do you deny that it would be one hell of a lot better if Cuba were long since a U.S. possession instead of a Communist country ninety miles from our mainland?"

I shrugged uneasily. "No, it isn't that I deny it. The point is it doesn't matter what I think; because I might be wrong. Who can be sure Cuba will ever do us any harm? It's awfully tiny, and hasn't hurt us yet."

"They tried, didn't they?" Esterhazy very nearly shouted.

Gently, trying to calm things down, Fessenden said, "The missile crisis," as though politely reminding me of something that might have slipped my mind.

I said, "Well, yeah. Though according to Robert Kennedy it was the military who tried to make JFK think the danger was greater than perhaps it might have been. But I don't want to bog down into a debate about Cuba. Whatever the truth there, I just don't think anyone has the godlike wisdom to actually rearrange the present by altering the past. It's going too far! My God, look what has already happened. The scientists make fantastic new discoveries which are immediately taken over by a group, almost a breed of men, who always know what's best for the rest of us. Science learns how to split the atom, and they immediately know that the best thing to do with that new knowledge is blow up Hiroshima!"

"Don't you think it was?" Esterhazy said coldly. "Or should we have allowed hundreds of thousands of American troops to die on the shores of Japan?"

"I don't know! Who does know? I think the most enormous kinds of decisions are being made by people who don't know either. Only in their own opinions do they know. They know it's right and necessary to poison the atmosphere with radioactivity. They know we should use our scientists' genetic discoveries to breed new and terrible kinds of disease. And that they don't even have to ask the consent of the ninety-nine and nine-tenths percent of the rest of us. And now that still another scientist, Dr. Danziger, has made this enormous discovery, he sits at home, squeezed out, unfit to decide what should be done with it. But you aren't. Once again you know that the best thing to do with his discovery is eliminate Castro Cuba. Well, how do you know? Who's given this new little breed of men who've polluted the entire environment and who may actually wipe out the human race — who gave them the power of God to control the lives and futures of the rest of us? Most of them we never heard of, and we sure as hell didn't elect them!" I sat looking from one to the other, then lowered my voice. "Even if you're right about Cuba, as you may be, look what it leads to. It leads directly to bigger and bigger changes, with a handful of military minds rewriting the past, present, and future according to their ideas of what's best for the rest of the entire human race. No, sir, gentlemen; I refuse."

Esterhazy's nostrils were so rigidly flared in rage that the edges were white. His teeth clenched, he drew a long sighing breath, a prolonged inhalation through his nostrils, filling his lungs to explode at me. Rube saw it and before Esterhazy could speak he said, "Let me!" and I heard the ring of command, and understood in astonishment that it was an order — from Major Prien to Colonel Esterhazy — and I knew I hadn't begun to understand the real relationships here in the project. Esterhazy forced his lips tight together, obeying. Rube turned to me and spoke in a flat calm voice; not catering to me one bit, not out to mollify me at all, but simply explaining the facts, take it or leave it.

He said, "We'll be sorry if you refuse; you're the best operative we have. Our recruiting has continued without letup, and it hasn't become one bit easier to find qualified people. But still… they can be found, and they have been. Furthermore, other portions of the project have continued; yours hasn't been the only one. The man who spent a few seconds in medieval Paris has done it again. Four days ago we reached Denver, 1901, for twenty minutes. We failed in North Dakota, failed at Vimy Ridge, failed in Montana. And we've had important trouble with the Winfield, Vermont, project. The man there succeeded. He made the transition twice, and never returned the second time. We don't know why; there is an obvious guess, but we don't know. Now, what am I driving at? I tell you frankly and honestly that we have serious difficulties and problems. I tell you that you may be the best operative by far that we will ever find. I tell you that we hope very much that you will reconsider. But I also tell you that if you do not — " He stopped, and sat looking at me, no smile at all in his eyes; then he finished the sentence, quietly and flatly: " — we'll simply get somebody else. And if the experiment cannot be made in New York City, 1882, with Jacob Pickering, then another will be made at some other place, some other time, and with somebody else. I'm not interested in arguing with you. Just understand this: It is going to be done."

Rube sat for several seconds, not moving, staring directly into my eyes. Then he allowed just a ghost of the old smile to appear. He said, "I agree with — not all, and not the most important part — but with a very great deal of what you said, and what you think. What you feel does you credit. But, Si, I can only repeat: With every possible precaution we are nevertheless going to do it. Now, take your time; sit and think; then tell us what you want to do. Whatever it is, it will be accepted instantly with no further argument or discussion."

I sat there for several very long slow minutes; and I thought more intensely, I suppose, than I'd ever done before. Once Messinger started to speak, but Colonel Esterhazy's hand shot up, and he said, "Hold it!" I'd looked up, and Esterhazy sat back in his chair, deliberately relaxing, taking his time, to let me know I had all the time I wanted. Silence again, for a long time, then presently I looked up at them.