The Third Time Travel Read online

  Then, one historic day, a round trip was achieved. From that time on, the Foundation began to earn money faster than it could be spent. It accomplished this by making time travel a plaything of the idle rich.

  Old Philip Phleger personally took charge of hawking tours to Phleger’s future among adventurous young millionaires whose current fad, motor-sledding in the Antarctic, had begun to pall.

  “Have you tried phluttering?” Old Man Phleger would say. “It’s the latest thing. Certain tax advantages, too, you know.”

  Bill Marcer, after Phleger’s legal section codified, his medical people examined, his psychologists analyzed, and the Old Man himself had a whirl at it, was among the first non-professionals to phlutter.

  Marcer signed the check, the waiver and the medical form and climbed onto the open-railed platform in the great shed. The shimmering came, obscuring the figures of the chronicians watching him intently from their banks of machines. Things went gray, he sneezed a couple of times and, gripping the railing tightly, he phluttered into 2177.

  “And here I am,” he told Jeems and Aces and Stands and the rest. “Just a playboy on a fling. It’s certainly been good of you to give up your valuable time to entertain me.”

  “Not at all,” Aces Jack said pleasantly. “Don’t low-rate yourself. It takes two to tango.”

  “If you mean my money and Phleger’s brains, you’re right. Well, then, if you don’t mind, I’d like to see more of 2177. I’ve only got two hours.”

  Jeems Kenth looked at his wristwatch.

  “Why, that’s the same as mine,” Marcer said. He pushed up his sleeve to compare them. “A Hamilton.”

  “An heirloom,” Kenth explained. “Been in the family for generations. My time is your time, eh, Rudy?”

  Marcer laughed. “I’ve heard of Rudy Vallee, of course, but he was really before my time. You know, if you don’t mind my saying so, all these slang expressions—well, they’re a bit of a strain. We speak—spoke—pretty straight English back in 1977.”

  Kenth looked hurt. “We were trying to make you feel at home. I, for one, put in many an hour at the histoviewer to learn your quaint expressions.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve offended you.”

  “Forget it,” Jenfooz Ed broke in. “Sweep it under the rug. Look, fellas, our man from the past has to go back soon and we’re wasting his valuable time. And I do mean valuable, eh, Bill? I’ll bet Old Man Phleger took a stack of the green before he let you climb aboard.”

  “I have some left,” Marcer grinned.

  “Well, you won’t spend it here. Everything’s on the house. Now what would you like to do? How about—”

  “I’d like to see what you’re doing with silicones,” Marcer interrupted. “It’s the family business, you know. I’ll probably be going into it when or if I settle down.”

  “Great idea,” Aces Jack said, “but I’m afraid the slix works is pretty far out. You’d never get back in time to go back in time, if you follow me. We’ve got to get you on that platform when the gong sounds or I hate to think what’d happen to your molecules.”

  “Oh?” Marcer said in alarm. “I didn’t know—”

  “Never fear,” Jenfooz Ed boomed. “We’ll see that you’re de-phluttered in one piece. What I was going to say was, why don’t we give our guest a gander at the girly line?”

  “Girly line?” Marcer brightened. “You mean women? Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any of your women. They’re not extinct, are they?”

  “Perish forbid!” Stands Thom exclaimed. “Let’s show the young buck.”

  “Bring on the girls!” cried Jenfooz Ed. “Va-va-voom!” He ran to a door on which the word Women was lettered.

  “Open the door, Richard!” Aces Jack shouted to him. “Let there be titillation for our guest in his last remaining minutes!”

  The door opened and Bill Marcer was indeed titillated by the bevy of near-buxom young women who emerged in a little dancing run. Lilting music from hidden speakers accompanied their entry. Each wore a differently daring costume and each danced up to him and introduced herself with a kiss and a verse.

  “I’m Daysend Mae, for your hours of play,” said a red-headed charmer.

  A raven-haired beauty told him: “They call me Jet; I help you forget.”

  “Abandon your worry and play with Terri,” recited a striking blonde.

  Marcel’s head was swimming from the subtly changing whiffs of perfume. He was laughing in delight and had difficulty puckering his lips to do justice to the variegated kisses he was receiving.

  He grabbed at the fourth girl and for a delicious moment held her in his arms. This one whispered: “I’m off at six, honey. Meet me at Exit C.” She gave him a little bump with her tummy and winked as she danced away.

  Before he could digest her message—she was a most appealing strawberry blonde—an auburn-haired dream was upon him, cooing: “Flee with Bea beyond the sea.” She flickered her long eyelashes against his cheek as she bestowed her kiss.

  A great gong sounded just as he was puckering up for a statuesque creature whose hair he failed to notice because of her other assets. But at a gesture from Jeems Kenth, she reversed her dance and flitted away. “Sorry, big boy,” she said. “Time’s up.”

  And off they went, the gorgeous lot of them, doing a little time step back through the door marked Women.

  Marcer, dizzy and lipsticked, reluctantly permitted himself to be led out of the building to the platform that was to take him back to 1977.

  “That was fun,” Marcer said, “but what was it? Is that the way you choose your—uh—companions in 2177?”

  “One of the ways,” Sperris Theo said. “Those were the playgirls. For a more permanent alliance, there’s the mate date. We knew you wouldn’t have time for that.”

  “Hated to drag you away,” Aces Jack put in, “but we can’t have your molecules congealing.”

  “Been great having you,” Lucez Hank told him. “Now on your horse and awa-a-y!”

  Marcer climbed up on the platform. His hosts gathered around it to shake hands. Even Phoebes Dick, holding back traffic for his departure, gave him a clipped salute.

  “I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed knowing you all,” Marcer said. He searched for words. “It was the—the cat’s pajamas.” They were laughing and waving while the shimmering began.

  * * * *

  When the shimmering stopped, he was back in the shed. Back in the dull past of his own time, he thought, with the sweet kisses of the future still tingling his lips. In a moment, he supposed, he’d get his amnesia shot. Meanwhile, he savored his memory.

  The chronicians were shouting and milling around.

  “Get that curtain up!” someone seemed to be yelling.

  “Throw something over those mockups,” somebody else cried, “and, for God’s sake, get out of here with those costumes. Something’s gone wrong with the shim!”

  Marcer clutched the platform rail and stared. He couldn’t see too well because they had a spotlight on him and the rest of the shed was dim. But wasn’t that Wobanx Joce disappearing through a door? And Jeems Kenth crowding behind him, throwing a look of consternation over his shoulder? Kenth, the one who’d worn that “heirloom” wristwatch.

  And at the other side of the big room, peeping out from behind a slab of painted scenery—wasn’t that a giggling gang of girls, among whom could be discerned Jet and Terri and Daysend Mae?

  Chorus girls. Undoubtedly, for there among them was the strawberry blonde, looking boldly at him and holding up six fingers. “I’m off at six, honey,” she had told him in “2177.”

  He’d been taken for a joyride into a phony future. Swindled. Bilked.

  Angrily he looked around for Old Man Phleger. He didn’t see him. But there was the top “chronician,” Wagner, the chief of staff of these confidence men who had tried to rook him so expensively. Wagner, a harassed, perspiring man in a smock, was scurrying desperately from one bank of controls to another, throwin
g occasional hopeless glances at Marcer.

  “Wagner!” Marcer said. “You crook! Wait till I get my hands on you!” He climbed over the rail.

  Wagner threw out his hands appealingly. “Don’t get excited, Mr. Marcer. I know what you think, but it’s not that way at all. I mean not entirely. I can explain.”

  “You’ll explain to the police,” Marcer said. “I’ve had all the explanation I need. Phleger’s future! Nothing but movie sets!”

  “Please, Mr. Marcer—”

  “—federal offense,” Marcer said, unheeding. “I’m sure the FBI will be interested, too. You even had the gall to hang their name on one of your actors. ‘Phoebes Dick’!”

  “Now, Mr. Marcer—”

  “Va-va-voom!” Marcer shouted at him. “Oh, phlut-phlut! Yes, we have no bananas! Very clever! The music goes round and round and it comes out fraud. Twenty-three skiddoo to you, kiddo. I’ll be seeing you in court.”

  “Mr. Marcer, listen to me,” Wagner pleaded. “I admit we staged the whole thing. I admit it and I’ll tear up your check if you want me to. But first listen. Time travel is possible. You would have gone into the legitimate future if our machine hadn’t broken down at the last minute.”

  Wagner’s earnestness was obvious.

  “The machine broke down?”

  Wagner wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his smock. “We didn’t want to disappoint you. Frankly, we were afraid that if we weren’t ready on time, you’d change your mind about your donation, and we needed the money. So we faked it, intending to explain later and give you a rain check.”

  “A rain check?” Marcer echoed.

  “Yes. When the machine is repaired, we’re prepared to send you into the legitimate future—free of charge—if you’re still interested.”

  “Free?” Marcer calmed down. “Well, now.” He considered. “I guess there’s nothing to lose. I could stop payment on the check even if you didn’t tear it up.”

  “We’ll tear it up. After this fiasco, we need your good will even more than your money.”

  * * * *

  The Phelger people fixed their machine within a week.

  Bill Marcer thought it over, went back, laughed with Wagner and let his check go through. He signed a new waiver and climbed up on the railed platform.

  His decision might have been influenced by the strawberry blonde, whose role in the phony follies of 2177 was the only one that really meant anything. She’d waited for him, as she had promised, at Exit C, at six.

  Now the shimmering began and the figures of Wagner and the other chronicians faded.

  Marcer didn’t like anything about the real future. It was chill and drizzly and he couldn’t see very far. Men in gray uniforms ringed the platform. They wouldn’t talk to him and refused to let him climb over the rail. His visit lasted only ten minutes, but it seemed an hour and he kept sneezing all the time.

  He preferred the fake.

  When he got back from this damp nothing of a future, he promised himself, he and the strawberry blonde were going to have a mate date.

  ABSOLUTELY NO PARADOX, by Lester del Rey

  The old men’s section of the Arts and Science Club was always the best ordered. The robots somehow managed to avoid clanking there; the greensward beyond the veranda was always just right, and the drinks were the best for six counties. Old Ned Brussels touched his glass to his lips appreciatively, sighed in contentment, and waited for some of the other oldsters to break the silence.

  Finally, Lem Hardy took the plunge. “He did it,” he announced, referring to a conversation of weeks before. Then, at their puzzled looks, he amplified. “My grandson, damn it! He’s got a time machine—it works. Sent a cat four days up, and it came through unharmed.”

  The glass fell from Old Ned’s hand, bouncing on the floor, and spilling good liquor. A robot came forward silently to clean it up, but Ned didn’t look at it. “Four days doesn’t mean a thing. Lem—is that kid planning on trying it out?”

  “He’s going to try it next week.”

  “Then for the Lord’s sake, stop him! Look, does it work like this?” His fingers slipped over the pencil smoothly, as they had always done when he worked, drafting robot bodies in the old days. A rude schematic seemed to grow almost instantly on the paper.

  Lem took it, then stiffened suddenly. “Who told you?”

  “A youngster named Pete LeFranc—and it was forty years…no, over fifty years ago. Lem, if you like your grandson, keep him out of the machine. Four days, four weeks—they don’t mean anything. Time machines don’t work, however well they seem to.”

  A bustle from behind them pulled their eyes around. One of the robots was quietly restraining a nervous young man who was trying to break free and join the group. His face was tense, excited, with an odd bitter fear behind it. His words were seemingly cut out of steel. “…told me I’d find him here. Damn it…”

  “Sorry, sir. You’ll have to wait.” The robot’s voice was adamant under its smoothness.

  Ned grunted, and then impulse led him to look again. He’d seen the man somewhere. He hunted for it, then dismissed it, knowing that his memory was tricky these days. But he motioned the robot aside. “We don’t allow interruptions for junior members,” he told the man, letting his voice soften the words. “Still, if you want to sit down and listen—quietly—nobody’ll stop you.”

  “But…”

  “Quietly!” The robot stressed the word. The man looked at it, then swiveled to Ned Brussels. For a moment, the bitterness halted, as if frozen, then gave place to a sudden sharp amusement. His eyes searched Ned’s, and he nodded, dropping into a chair.

  Lem took up the conversation again. “It worked. And if it works for four days, it should work for four centuries. You’re just scared of paradoxes, Ned—going back and killing your grandfather, or such rot. You’ve been reading too many stories on it.”

  “Fifty years ago, Pete LeFranc said the same thing. Young man, either sit down, or get out! This is the Old Men’s section! He had answers for all the paradoxes, too—except one question.”

  * * * *

  Ned had been young, then, just getting started at synthanatomy drafting, and not rich enough for wine of the type Pete always kept. He sipped it with relish, and looked at the odd cage Pete was displaying. “All the same, it won’t work!”

  Pete laughed. “Reality doesn’t mean a thing to an artist, does it? Be damned to your paradoxes—there’s some answer to them. It did work; the dog appeared exactly four weeks later, just finishing his bark!”

  “Then why haven’t time machines come back from the future?” Ned shot at him. He’s been saving that as his final argument, and he sat back to watch the bomb explode.

  For a second, Pete blinked. “You never figured that out yourself.”

  “Nope. I got it from a science fiction story. But why haven’t they? If yours works, there’ll be more time machines built. With more built, they’ll be improved. They’ll get to be commonplace. People’d use them—and someone would turn up here with one. Or in the past. Why haven’t we met time travelers, Pete?”

  “Maybe we have met them, but didn’t know it?”

  “Nonsense. You get in that machine and go back to Elizabethan England. Try to pass yourself off as being native to that time even an hour. No, there’d be slip-ups.”

  Pete considered it, pouring more wine. “An idea—but you’re right, maybe. I haven’t tried going back—if I’d sent the dog backwards, I couldn’t have checked up on it, while I could be waiting in the future. Okay, you’ve convinced me.”

  “Then you’re not going in the contraption.”

  Pete’s laughter was spontaneous and loaded with amusement. “I’m going forward and find out why no one has come back! I’ve got a nice collection of rare coins I can trade off up there—should be more valuable—and I’ll bring you back a working invention from the next century. With luck, I’ll bring you the answer. And after that, maybe I can go back and kill an ancestor, just to
see what happens.”

  “Don’t be a fool!”

  But Pete was grinning, and opening the door to the cage that rested in the middle of his laboratory. “Fifty years this trip,” he said, spinning the dials. “And you won’t have long to wait; I’ll come back just about in no time.”

  Ned started to yell something, but there was a curious flicker, such as he’d seen when Pete sent the dog forward. The time machine blurred over, its surface seeming to stretch into infinity while contracting to nothing at the same time.

  Then it was gone. Ned groped for the wine bottle, cursing, and drained the contents. Then he sat down to wait.

  Three days later, the police came looking for Pete, on some mysterious tip, probably from a fellow worker. It was a pretty rough time, for a while, though they finally decided it was just another mystery, and that Ned’s yarn of having been there only to keep an appointment was true. Ned had influential friends, even if he didn’t have money, then.

  For three years, he rented Pete’s laboratory, before he made enough to buy it. For a decade, he lived in it; but by then he’d begun to know Pete wasn’t coming back.

  * * * *

  “The building’s still there,” Old Ned finished.

  “The diagrams of his machine are still in the drawers. But Pete never showed up. I tell you, keep your fool grandson out of time machines, Lem. They don’t work. Too many paradoxes—if they’d work, you could steal a future invention, get credit for inventing it, and nobody would ever have to invent it. When things have that many angles that can’t work, the thing itself can’t work.”

  Lem shook his head stubbornly. “It worked; the kid got the cat back. Something just happened to your friend—maybe his power failed.”

  “Then he wouldn’t have gotten all the way—and he’d have reappeared years ago. Pete measured things—and there was no displacement in space. If something had happened to him, the machine would have been there, anyhow. Besides, I had alarms wired to call the police in—told ’em it was to protect a safe—the minute he showed up. He never showed up; he never came back.”