The Time Machine - Robert F. Young, ebook, CALIBRE SFF 1970s, Temp 2
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//-->fictionBy Robert F. Younghe knew his brilliance would be rewarded—even if it wasn’t in this worldThe Time MachineCAMERA NUMBER ONE: At long last my time machine has become a reality! Late afternoonsunlight filters through its translucent panels, lies like a golden carpet upon the floor of my lodgings. Trafficnoises from far below, muted by its photon field, faintly reach my ears as I recline upon the satin pillowsof my sumptuous studio couch, gazing fondly at the concretion of my lifelong dream. Soon—tonight,perhaps no later than tomorrow—I shall take that giant step forward so long envisioned by my erstwhilecolleagues and myself. And I shall never return.CAMERA NUMBER TWO: The time machine is the dirty window of his lodgings seen throughthick subjective lenses. His lodgings consist of a sordid fourth-story room that contains a bed, a chair, abureau and a lavatory. In one corner of the room there is a pile of empty wine bottles. In another cornerthere is a pile of dusty notebooks. Scraps of paper covered with erratic jottings litter the floor. He is lyingon the bed, wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday and the day before, that he has slept in for twonights running. The toilet is down the hall.CAMERA NUMBER ONE: The machine incorporates the photon-diffusion principle I described inthe paper that I published in theScientific Ledger—thesame paper, incidentally, that estranged mycolleagues and led ultimately to my expulsion from the project. The warp principle, on which the originalgrant for the project was obtained, has become in their eyes a sort of sacred cow, and in advancing amuch more practicable solution to the problem of time travel I inadvertently desecrated the cow andbrought down their collective wrath upon my head. Thus, instead of heaping upon my paper theencomiums it deserved, they contemned it and relegated it to the project's dusty files.However, I should not judge them too harshly. Hutchinson, Hull, Stasser, Bodin—they are all fineand honorable men, dedicated to the attainment of the noble goal for which the project was created, intheir hearts as eager as I to find the doorway to tomorrow. The paper was a mistake—I see that now. Inever should have published it. It served only to antagonize them, to turn them against me.No, I should not judge them too harshlyCAMERA NUMBER TWO: He could not judge them harshly enough. Hull is a middle-class snob,Stasser prizes his little brain as though it were a gold nugget, Bodin loves himself scarcely less than heloves his neighbor's wife. As for Hutchinson, the position he was born to fill is that of postmaster in somesmall, smug American town.It is true that they are dedicated men. But they are bureaucrats first and scientists second, and it is tothe perpetuation of the project per se that they are dedicated, not to the attainment of its goal. Grieze'sdiametrically different approach to the problem of breaching the time barrier impugned the validity of thewarp principle and jeopardized future grants. For them to have endorsed it would have beenunthinkable.Nevertheless, it was not Grieze's paper that occasioned his dismissal. It was Grieze himself. Grieze isa drunk. It is said that drunks are born. In Grieze's case, this is not quite true. He became a drunk at theage of seven when his second-grade schoolteacher slapped his face, repeatedly and resoundingly, forcommitting the heinous crime of whispering to the girl who sat behind him. The years that elapsedbetween that moment and the moment he took his first drink are irrelevant.But to say that Grieze is a drunk only serves to give credence to the official—not the real—reason hewas fired. There is an old verse:I do not love thee, Dr. Fell;The reason why l cannot tell;But this I know, and know full well:I do not love thee, Dr. Fell.Grieze is endowed with what must be called, for lack of a better term, anticharisma. No one likeshim. No one ever has. He turns everybody off. Men, women, children.His wife. Mildred, loved him for a little while, but she never liked him.Even dogs do not like him.It is highly probable that his second-grade school-teacher hated him.CAMERA NUMBER ONE: If ever an occasion called for a celebration, this one does. I go over tomy liquor cabinet, select a bottle of my favorite brandy and pour myself three generous fingers. Returningto the couch, I take a measured sip and resume my position on the comfortable pillows—CAMERA NUMBER Two: He steps over to the battered bureau, uncaps the pint of Old Friarmuscatel be brought home with him after spending the afternoon in the Poker Chip Cafe, carries thebottle back to the bed, takes a long pull and flops back down onto the filthy sheets.CAMERA NUMBER ONE: I resume my contemplation of the time machine. The longer I gaze at it,the more fascinated I become, the more compelled to set sail at once for Tomorrow. There is no longerany need for me to tarry. I have been to see Mildred and have said goodbye to her. I went there thismorning. It is true that I said goodbye mutely and from a distance. It would have been cruel to have actedotherwise. Moreover, I do not believe. I could have borne the pain and the distress that would haveleaped into her eyes had I told her point-blank that I am going away, never to return. It is better thisway—better that she be apprised gradually by my continued absence that the life we shared has officiallycome to an end—that she must continue without me.CAMERA NUMBER TWO: He stood on the wind-blown corner, shivering in the wind, andwatched her come out the door by which both had once gone in; watched her descend the porch stepsand walk down the walk to the gleaming Olds 88 in which her latest lover waited behind the wheel; stoodthere, seeing neither car nor driver, only her walking—walking down the walk, lithe and graceful, lovelystill, despite the years, and the remembered face still thin, thinner, perhaps, yet soft, soft, soft, thememories serving as a gauzy veil to hide the hardness he had always known was there and pretendedwasn't, the way he pretended then, standing on the wind-blown corner shivering in the wind of time.CAMERA NUMBER ONE: But tonight is not a suitable occasion to brood over sadfarewells—tonight is an occasion to make merry, to go forth and show the world by one's verydemeanor, by the jauntiness of one's step, that time's seemingly rigid prison bars can be bent and that itsseemingly impervious prison walls can be breached.I finish my brandy, rise from my sumptuous couch and replace the glass on the liquor cabinet.Leaving my lodgings, I descend the apartment manor's helical stairway to the avenue—CAMERA NUMBER TWO: He kills the rest of the pint, gets up from the rumpled bed, tosses thebottle into the corner, leaves the wretched little room and lurches down four flights of noisome stairs tothe street.CAMERA NUMBER ONE: In the last light of day I walk north to Center, where the posh PokerChip stands upon the corner, its windows glowing warmly in the dusk. Entering the elegantly furnishedinterior, I stride, over to the leather-upholstered bar along whose length a number of neatly dressedbusinessmen are sitting, their attention focused on the television screen, where an American historicaldrama is in progress. At length Dave, the bartender, perceives my presence and, smiling warmly, comesover to where I am standing and asks me what I would like. It happens that my favorite brandy is freshlyout of stock. Since my sensitive palate will not tolerate inferior brands, I turn my back on the bar andstride from the room—CAMERA NUMBER TWO: He goes into the shabby little gin mill where he spent the afternoon anda hundred other afternoons, edges between two winos who ate watchingGunsmokeand orders a glassof muscatel. When the bartender refuses to serve him, he returns unsteadily to the street.CAMERA NUMBER ONE: I visit three similar establishments and in each I am told the same sorrytale. It is too much. Worse, the sudden dearth of my favorite brandy serves to point up a truth of which Ihave long been aware but up to now have avoided facing: The present no longer takes cognizance of mywhims and wants—in effect, it has forgotten my existence. I am stranded on a lofty peak, washed thereby the ebb and flow of the cruel human tide—a lonely pinnacle from which there is no descendingCAMERA NUMBER TWO: It is a pinnacle of his own making. It is constructed of empty muscateland white-port bottles mortared by Grieze's middle-class devotion to a never-quite-realizedposhlustlifestyle and by his inability to see either himself or the world with more than an iota of objectivity.How long ago did he lower the filmy curtain through which he gazes with muscatel-muddied eyes?Through which cheap wine takes on the texture of expensive brandy and the telangiectasis afflicting hisface passes for the rose-red bloom of youth? Was it when he realized that the project to which he haddevoted ten years of his life was but another bureaucratic hoax? Was it when he discovered that hiscolleagues thought no more of him because of his mind than the rest of the world did because of hispersonality? Did it date back to the moment he first knew, without quite knowing how he knew, that hiswife shared someone's bed besides his own?Or did he lower it on that distant, consciously forgotten day when his second-grade schoolteacherslapped his face?Such curtains are not easily come by. Sometimes they require half a lifetime to create. Thus, whileGrieze probably lowered his when he was seven, it only gradually acquired the consummate distortioneffect that characterizes it today.CAMERA NUMBER ONE: After stopping at a discreet little liquor establishment and purchasingtwo bottles of the brandy so inexplicably lacking in the better bars, I return to my apartment manor andascend the helical stairway—somewhat wearily, I must admit—to my lodgings.I do not switch on the lights. I do not feel like brightness. Besides, the time machine providesillumination enough. As I stand there toasting it, I am captivated by its simple lines, awed by the unlimitedfreedom it represents. Its photon field pulses with a red raw energy reminiscent of a powerful neon light.The redness washes over me and the walls and ceiling of my lodgings seem bathed with blood.As I stand there, unmindful of the onward rushing river of the night, deaf to the cacophony of the city,blind to all else save my machine, I am gradually overwhelmed by the conviction that my moment ofdeparture is at hand. The machine's controls are preset, its portal will open of its own accord. Thephoton field will transmit me the instant I leap into it.The muscles of my calves and thighs tense in anticipation of my command. But the command doesnot come. Something draws me back into the room. I find that I am sweating, that my entire body istrembling. A terrible exhaustion washes over me and I collapse upon the couch. There, I fall into a deep,dreamless sleepCAMERA NUMBER TWO: Dreamless to him, because he will not remember the dream.It is a recurrent dream. In it, he is making his way through the gray aisles of a rain-canopy forest. Theaisles are anfractuous and not a single ray of sunlight reaches them through the thick foliage above.Around him in the gloom, the leaves of the trees are whispering. He does not want them to whisper andhe begs them to be still—not to betray his whereabouts to his pursuer. There is a native settlement not faraway, and if he can reach it before he is overtaken, he will be safe.But it becomes increasingly evident that the leaves do not want him to reach the settlement, for theykeep whispering louder and louder, unerringly pointing out his position with their tiny sonic fingers.He ishere! He is here! He is here!Up ahead, there is a faint stirring of the underbrush. The crack of asnapped twig reaches his ears. He halts in a sudden silence. Around him, the world stands still.He wants to turn and flee, but cannot. He is certain that his pursuer, guided by the whispering of thetreacherous leaves, has detoured around him and waits for him to pass. Then the underbrush partsrevealing, to his consternation and delight, the face of a rosy checked girl.Smiling at him reassuringly, she steps out of the underbrush. She is tall, lithe and lovely. Her clothingconsists of a miniskirt woven of leaves and kick-boots made of bark. From each of her nipples issuspended a silver pendant shaped like a U235 atom. Her black hair drifts down to her shoulders,emitting sporadic sparks of pulsing light.She points at a right angle to the direction he has been traveling, beckons him to follow her andplunges out of sight among the trees. Certain that she knows a short cut to the settlement, he plunges afterher. Only she can save him now. Already he can hear his pursuer's padded footsteps behind him, thesound of heavy breathing, the susurrus of tawny flanks brushing against tangled vines. And above thesesounds, the tattletale whispering of the leaves.Up ahead, the nymph has halted. Now she turns and beckons furiously to him hurry. Leg musclesstraining, his heart a clenched fist in his chest, he tries to obey. Subtly the ground beneath his feet acquiresa strange softness. It seems to be caving in. Itiscaving in! Grass, twigs, dead leaves, earth are all falling,falling, and he is falling, too. Down, down, down. Above him, the dryad laughs: below him, he can seefour waiting serpents, each bearing the face of a man. He recognizes Hutchinson, Masser, Hull andRodin. All of them are smiling broadly and presently they interweave their ophidian bodies to form afireman's net to break his fall. He is saved!The net proves to be as resilient as a trampoline, and after he lands on it, he finds himself reboundingfrom the pit; it is all a great joke, he sees that now: the dryad is still laughing and she has been joined bythe gaunt lioness from whom he has been fleeing and the two of them, the lioness and the dryad, aresitting on the edge of the pit, laughing uproariously, the lioness displaying two great tiers of gleamingPepsodent-polished teeth. As he passes, she makes a playful swipe at him with her right forepaw,catching him on the side of the head and tearing away half of his face. The force of the blow sends himcartwheeling back through the forest aisles to the dawn of a new day.CAMERA NUMBER ONE: My lodgings are cobwebbed with the remnants of night as I arise togreet the morning. Dawn has painted the panels of the time machine a pale pink.I step into my ultramodern bathroom, its chrome fixtures and gleaming porcelain tiles, and performmy morning ablutions.CAMERA NUMBER TWO: He goes over to the lavatory and splashes cold water onto his face,forgetting that he urinated in the bowl the night before.CAMERA NUMBER ONE: Refreshed. I return to my study. Upon the floor beside studio couchare two bottles whose labels bear the name of my favorite brandy. Both, inexplicably, are empty. Athorough investigation of my liquor cabinet reveals it to be empty too. I am horrified at my ownthoughtlessness. Suppose some visitor arrives—what can I possibly offer him to drink? In this day andage of frequent callers, it is downright indecent to have nothing in the way of liquid refreshment on one’spremises. I must remedy the oversight at once.I start for the door, only to be drawn up short by the dawnlight, which by this time has crept into theroom. No vendor will open his establishment to me at this hour, even were I able to rouse him. It will bean eternity before I can set aright the hospitality of my house.Any moment, some visitor may arrive. In God's name, what am I to do?CAMERA NUMBER TWO: He has not had a visitor since the landlord dunned him for the rentthree weeks ago. Other than that, the only person ever to come to his door during the ten months he hasinhabited the loom is the hooker who lives down the hall. She knocked one evening when business wasdull and offered him a cut rate lay. He told her he wasn't interested.CAMERA NUMBER ONE: In my anguish, I begin pacing the floor. Presently, I discover that Ialready have three visitors—three beldams who apparently entered when my back was turned. They arewearing Salvation Army uniforms and carrying tambourines. They follow me about, shaking thetambourines, but I have no change to give them. Their faces seem to be made of bread dough, whichthey keep kneading with their free hand into different shapes, each more gruesome than its predecessor.I try to avoid bumping into them, but this is difficult and becomes more so by the second, for the flooris swarming with vermin and I have watch every step I take in order not to crush one of the horrifyinglittle creatures beneath my feet. I make a mental note to report this deplorable state of affairs to thelandlord next time I see him. If he again refuses to call in an exterminator, I shall go directly to city halland ask to sue the building inspector.In the meantime, I must be careful. More and more vermin are emerging from the mopboards andclimbing up through the register; the air is filled with their minuscule squealing and squeakings; their balefulBBs of eyes gleam and glisten in the pink light that now fills the room. They appear to be organizingthemselves, to be forming into ranks. It is as though they are preparing to attack. Too late. I realize thatthey have drawn themselves up into a Lilliputian army between me and the door.Oh, they are clever, these loathsome little beasties—but not quite as clever as they think. They haveeffectively blocked me off from the door, yes—but not from the time machine.However, I must act quickly before they discover that I have a second avenue of escape andsurround me. But not too quickly, lest I precipitate their charge and bring them swarming over me in anoisome unspeakable mass. My three visitors, I note out of the corner of my eye, have departed. Good.Slyly, I turn toward the machine. I am no quite close enough. I take a slow step towards it. Another—I stand there, frowning. Why am I hesitating? Certainly not because I am afraid. There is nothing tobe afraid of. My transition will be virtually instantaneous, the future age I will emerge in can be no lesskind than the one I am about to leave. And it is possible that news of my coming will have preceded me,in which case I shall be welcomed with open arms.Why, then?A loud whispering comes from behind me. I feel something soft touch me feet. Someone beginsscreaming into my ear—someone I know very well but whose voice I cannot quite place. I hesitate nolonger. My legs bend, straighten: I hurl myself into the machine. Brightness breaks all around me as Ipenetrate the photon field: the time barrier dissolves into a trillion tinkling sounds then I amfalling—twisting, turning, plunging through the continuum, the wind of time whistling past my face.Suddenly, the temporal stresses multiply, come crashing against my body in a great red wave. I blankout.CAMERA NUMBER TWO: In due course, the time machine receives him to its breast. Although itis already loaded with time travelers, the addition of one more has no effect upon its speed, orequilibrium.Ineluctably, it forges onward into the future, constantly taking more time travelers on board. All ofthem except Grieze, who is scheduled for a brief stopover, are bound for the same destination. But this isa misstatement, for at the termination of his stopover, Grieve will reboard the time machine and help itkeep its rendezvous with Nowhen.CAMERA NUMBER THREE: It is raining over Megalopolis 16 and the horizontal vista windows ofthe R & R Center reception room are adorned with water diamonds. The windows overlook a medley ofglass-brick laboratories and pyramidal computer complexes crisscrossed with Astroturf malls. In thebackground a range of high-rise apartment towers pierces the low-hung clouds.The man from TimeLab has the room all to himself. He has been waiting there since early morning.He rises quickly to his feet as the inner-office door opens and the director of R & R appears. “He's onhis way," the director says, advancing into the room. “By the time he gets here he’ll know who he is—or,rather, who he was."“Why did it take so long? I was given to understand that R & R has been perfected to the pointwhere it can be accomplished in less than an hour.”"You forget that this is the first time we've gone higher than a chimp. It’s true that the more materialwe have to extrapolate from, the faster we can get the job done, and that in this case we had the entireendoskeleton. But this is our firstman.""I want him intact," man from TimeLab says."What I can’t understand is why you want him at all.”“We need him. We need him desperately. We see him as a sort of savior. Quite by accident, wediscovered a paper he published on photon difffusion, and we are convinced from what he wrote he mayhave the answer to our problem tucked away in the back of his mind.""How do you know he won't jump out another fourth-story window?"
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