Essa é uma pergunta complexa: temos duas histórias para identificar e a coleção em que elas apareceram.
I. A PRIMEIRA HISTÓRIA é definitivamente "Momento sem tempo" by Joel Townsley Rogers, publicado pela primeira vez em Thrilling Wonder StoriesAbril 1952, disponível no Internet Archive.
"Uma história era sobre um cientista russo que estava pesquisando viagens no tempo, chegando perto de entendê-las. Ele foi preso e prestes a ser executado por um pelotão de fuzilamento. Pouco antes de ser baleado, ele tem uma visão sobre seu trabalho".
Piridov was facing the firing squad in the execution cellars when the solution hit him.
It was the answer he needed, the answer to the mathematical relation of time to the three spatial dimensions. It came to him in the form of an equation, as simple as the German's historic energy-mass formula—"e = mc2", where "c" represents the speed of light.
"Ele diz 'espera'. E o tempo quase pára. As balas ainda estão no ar, fora dos rifles, ainda não o alcançaram. "
Só assim, exceto que ele não diz "Espere". Ele diz "O que aconteceu?"
Only for the sudden coming to him of the time solution, too late to add it to the sum of human knowledge, did he feel regret in this final instant. An equation of blinding whiteness on his closed eyelids. But to be lost with him. . . .
Sergeant Death had shouted "Fire!", it seemed to Piridov, minutes ago. The waiting was painful. Slowly and reluctantly, he opened his eyes on the cellar scene.
The white-painted walls lit by thousand-watt bulbs, the four rifle muzzles pointed at him, the squinted eyes behind the sights, the taut retracted trigger-fingers, squat thick-chested Sergeant Death standing to one side with his hand down at his thigh in the conclusion of the sweeping axe-blade gesture with which he had accompanied the command to fire, the bullets coming at his breast. Four of them, straight at his heart, not more than twelve to fifteen inches away; while from the corner, out of the range of fire, the one-eyed scavenger directed the stream of water around his feet to wash the blood away.
No, the bullets weren't coming. They were motionless in space. The eyes behind the sights were motionless. The water hosing over his feet was motionless, both the stream and the up-splattering drops of it. The red second hand of the electric clock on the wall above the steel door was motionless, the minute and hour hands straight up and down at six.
Piridov brought up a numb hand and felt his throat.
"What's happened?" He moved his throat and lips.
No sound. Absolutely no sound could he hear. The silence and motionlessness remained.
"Ele sai do site"
The way out was long and multiple-guarded, but not labyrinthine. Four separate flights of stairs, a dozen doors, a thousand silent hurrying steps, and he was in the front receiving lobby of the huge old granite tsarist prison—historic Moscow landmark, from which all the modern underground extensions stemmed—and crossing the worn flagstones. Out through the grim barred entrance doors, leaving them open behind him like all the others, past the last machine-gun boxes beneath the stone archway.
In a moment more he was mingled with the motionless throngs of Lubianka Square, beneath the red sunset sky.
"visita sua esposa e outras pessoas, tem dificuldade em mover as coisas"
Outra pequena discrepância, ele não tem dificuldade em mover as coisas. Ele visita os grandes chefes do Kremlin, ele visita seu filho no trabalho, ele visita sua esposa:
Aged Piridov bent over her, brushing his lips across her cheek.
"I have loved you very dearly, Anna," he whispered.
He laid the dewy rose beside her on the pillow. Just for the moment his heart was breaking.
"finalmente decide que não vale a pena continuar sua vida assim. Então ele volta a terminar de levar um tiro".
Piridov went past them as quietly as a shadow. At the farther wall he turned, facing the squad, placing his feet carefully on the dry spots, in the empty spaces of the spattering water, which marked where he had been standing. The bullets in their swift rifled flight were poised twelve inches from his breast.
Piridov closed his eyes.
"I had a dream," he told himself. "A dream of a bright equation within a timeless instant. Of things I love and things I hate. Of a sword sweeping. A dream of water. But I am very tired. So let the dream be over."
And so it was. . . .
"Ele usa uma das balas de chumbo para escrever sua nova fórmula na parede".
Não, isso aconteceu no começo do momento atemporal, antes de andar pela cidade, porque ele não tem mais nada para escrever:
The white cell walls themselves! If he only had time to reach the one back of the firing-squad, the whitest and cleanest, and only had something to mark or scratch with. A knife or a nail, or anything. Quickly! Before the swift instant moved on.
The four bullets were poised in space in front of him, like a flight of miniature wingless jets irregularly spaced. They were slightly flattened at their heads by the massed air in front of them, slightly oblate axially in their rifled spin. They were lead, he saw, for hitting power and spread, not steel.
With a breathless terror in him, watching the motionless eyes for indication that his gesture was being detected, he reached his thumb and finger up, and picked the nearest bullet from in front of his breast. He took a tentative step to the side away from the other three that remained suspended in their flight.
"Então ele fica na frente das balas e diz" OK ". O tempo continua e ele é baleado / morto. O chefe da execução vê a escrita"
He frowned. On the white wall beside the door, just below the ceiling, there was some dim marking. He walked towards it, looking up. It looked as though someone had started to do an algebraic problem. He studied the figures, reading them aloud, for he had had algebra in high school, and was rather proud of it.
"T equals," he read profoundly, "a. Divided by pi. Times one-sixth e cubed. Which one of you half-witted characters wrote that there?"
"e diz a um dos soldados para limpá-lo."
"What does that stuff mean, sarge?" said the one-eyed janitor. "That t, a, e stuff?"
"Why, nothing," said Sergeant Smert. "Just gibberish. Swing your hose on it, idiot, and wash it off."
II A SEGUNDA HISTÓRIA é quase certamente "E sai aqui" by Lester del Rey, publicado pela primeira vez em Ficção científica da galáxia, Fevereiro 1951, disponível no Internet Archive. Aqui está uma revisão de scheduleravelreviews.com:
Author Lester Del Rey tackles an age old circular paradox about the future influencing the past which in turns creates a future which comes back to influence the past.
A stranger shows up on the doorstep of engineer Jerome Bell, one day with a fantastic tale. The stranger however isn't as strange as Jerome might expect since it is himself thirty years older. His older self relates a dizzying first person account of how Jerome will travel a hundred years into the future steal a model of the first household atomic generator from a museum, come back and invent the generator.
This mobius strip of a story is an interesting tale of a seemingly never-ending cycle of the past and present influencing each other. As with similar stories, such as Anson's "By His Own Bootstraps", the story becomes an exercise for both the reader and author in juggling the different perspectives of the characters. Its interesting to note that the 1950's promise of cheap atomic energy is reflected directly in Del Rey's future where small power plants are used to power households.
A maior discrepância com sua descrição é que o herói monta a máquina do tempo no futuro para roubar um gerador atômico, não uma máquina do tempo. Aqui estão os pontos que correspondem à sua descrição:
1. O personagem é visitado em sua casa por seu eu mais velho, que veio do futuro com uma máquina do tempo.
2. O cara mais velho dá ao jovem instruções para roubar um dispositivo (o gerador atômico) de um museu no futuro.
3. O museu exibe uma série de modelos em ordem cronológica; os posteriores são menores, os anteriores maiores e mais desajeitados. O ladrão de tempo leva o modelo mais antigo (porque é o único que não está preso).
4. Ele descobre que é o inventor do gerador atômico. (No entanto, ele faz não descubra isso no museu; depois de voltar ao seu tempo livre (1951), ele examina os documentos que acompanham o dispositivo e encontra um antigo pedido de patente com sua própria caligrafia.)
III A ANTOLOGIA parece conter essas duas histórias.
A primeira história é bastante obscura. Na medida em que ISFDB ou de Índice Contento sabe, foi captado apenas por uma antologia, O melhor das histórias surpreendentes, que foi reimpresso no Reino Unido como Histórias surpreendentes e quanto Momento sem tempo. Isto é não uma antologia de histórias de viagens no tempo, é Samuel Minescompilação de histórias das duas revistas que ele editou, Histórias surpreendentes e Thrilling Wonder Stories; não contém a história de Lester del Rey, ou qualquer outra história remotamente semelhante à sua descrição da segunda história.
A segunda história, por outro lado, é bastante famosa; tem sido reimpresso muitas vezes, incluindo traduções para várias línguas estrangeiras. Em particular, ele está incluído em duas antologias de viagem no tempo: Groff Conklin'S 1953 Aventuras de ficção científica em dimensão (uma antologia de histórias de viagens no tempo e mundos paralelos) aquie Robert Silverberg'S 1967 Viajantes no Tempo. Eu acho que um desses dois pode ser a antologia de viagem no tempo que você tem em mente; mas você deve ter lido "Momento sem tempo" na antologia de Minas, a menos que o tenha lido na revista original 1952.