"Yet, you would let me live. Even—"
"I can make you forget," Del reminded him. "You will forget everything vital. There's the chance that, some day perhaps under hypnosis, it might come back to you. I think it will, but that's a chance I must take."
"You said you would kill most people."
"Yes. My education of this period went into broad aspects, and specific points such as stock market quotations for certain years. Individuals didn't matter. Still, there were certain things I remembered. When presidents and kings and scientists and people of note would die—history records you as the inventor of the Transmatter in the year 1962—"
"History!"
"Yes. 1962. An important date to be remembered because of the Transmatter. It was one much cruder than that which connects my tunnel to the warehouse. Still, it worked, and it changed civilization more than any one invention ever had. Therefore you were alive in 1962. If I kill you"—Del shrugged—"I don't know, frankly, what would happen. I have no intention of trying to find out. I was warned, specifically, to take no action that would conflict in any way with history as I knew it. We couldn't chance introducing a possible paradox into time-history. We've too much dependent upon this project.
"You see, I couldn't kill you. You must live. Even at the risk of some day remembering. I think that chance is rather strong, in view of the fact that you are to invent—or will it be discover?—the Transmatter. However—"
Tredel's thoughts swung abruptly away, back to the future. "How many are there in your Underground?"
"Approximately a hundred thousand people."
A hundred thousand revolutionists against a world of ten billion! That would mean only one person out of every hundred thousand belonged to the Underground. No wonder they would need such a store of weapons and supplies. One hundred thousand to one!
Tredel's mind worked with the picture, now seen as a whole. He tried to fit the pieces into one certain pattern, so he might be sure.
Then he stood up slowly, stretched, and walked toward the desk. He moved casually, yet not too casually. He stopped when he reached the desk and faced Del. He opened his lips, as though about to speak.
It had to be fast. Even as his fist shot out, moving across the width of the desk, his body was bending forward so his arm would have the range it needed.
Del only half-understood the action. He moved forward slightly to get the pistol, instead of throwing himself back. Tredel's fist caught him on the side of the head, threw him back, overbalancing the chair,
