We all like to have our little oddities on the faculty at Miskatonic. Von Juntz liked to look like a nineteenth century Heidelberger. Pangborn of Physics liked to assume a personality pattern that would annoy people. Doctor Randall of the Department of Advertising Arts wrote poetry in secret. And I liked to drink....
"Problem of killing grandparents before parents were born," I said, pouring myself another. "Question if you can be born after that. Question if you can't be born, how did you do it? Not really possible, Pangborn. You can't test it." I made a mental note to bring up the low quality of Faculty Club whiskey at the next business meeting. It had everything else a good faculty club should have: brown leather armchairs, old magazines, fresh newspapers, a dusty chess board, cut glass decanters ... it was a place well suited for comfortable reading, talking and drinking—except for the quality of the whiskey.
"Can't kill grandpa," Doctor Randall said, from far down in his comfortable chair. "No such thing as time travel."
"You underestimate the Physics department," Pangborn told us coldly. "In spite of heavy losses to our staff—last year's treason trials cost us three of our most brilliant young men—we've made some very remarkable strides. We have what is crudely termed a time machine—although the correct term is temporal transducer. In fact we are currently conducting some very interesting researches with it."
"Then you have tried the killing of a grandfather, Herr Doctor?" Von Juntz inquired. "You have found why it cannot be done, yes?"
"We have not yet gotten around to such minor matters," Pangborn said. "But in time...." He began to look interested, "Ah ... wait a minute.... In practice that would be.... Whose grandfather should we choose?" His eyes glittered. "There is always the question of risk, of course, but it would be difficult for the law to legally consider it as actually murder. My grandfather is already dead." He hesitated. "There is the possibility of disappearing."
"But," Von Juntz reminded him, "by your own statement you said it, that there is no paradox, and no risk. Grandpa would be dead, you would be alive, and there is no paradox, yes?"
"Q. E. D." Pangborn snapped. "Reduction ad absorbum."
"Et pons asinorum," Von Juntz snapped back, his beard bristling.
These exchanges would have been ever so much better if any of us had ever taken Latin. But I could see that Pangborn was ruffled.