Authors: Karl Alexander
Time After Time (22 page)
He fell back onto the couch, closed his eyes and placed his hand on his forehead. The music seemed louder. His flesh tingled.
She lay back next to him. “Good stuff, huh?”
“I feel remarkable.”
She smoked the last of the homegrown, stubbed it out on the upturned lid of a jar and thenâmuch to his astonishmentâswallowed the remains.
“I've always been a conservationist,” she said wryly.
He nodded, but was unable to speak. He had no idea what she was talking about.
“What's it all about, anyway?” she saidânot to him in particularâand stared at the bare walls.
“Life, I suppose,” he croaked.
“Yeah, that's part of it, I guess, but you never really know, do you? I mean, sometimes I wonder, if you know what I mean.”
He didn't, but he thought that he must understand, so he nodded again, slowly and with import.
“Hawaii is so far away and yet you can get there in just a couple of hours.”
“I've never been.”
“Neither have I.”
“What's it like?”
“Oh, you know. What's this space like? I mean, we're into it, but what's it all about? It's the same there, for sure. Only warmer. But then again, maybe not. They have freak storms, too, you know.”
“It must be nice.”
“Let's go.”
“We can't.”
“Why not?”
“You have to open up the shop in the morning.”
“Ah.” She paused to take a long swig of her wine cooler and to reflect on the significance of his last statement. It seemed to linger in the air, blending nicely with the flights of Fleetwood Mac. “Limitations.”
“Need not exist.” His voice was thick and droll.
“To hell with them. All I want is to have a good time.”
“That makes sense.”
“I may never go back to work again.”
“How delightful.”
“And that may be what it's all about, anyway.” She ran her hand lightly across his cheek. “You want some more wine before we leave?”
“Leave? Where are we going?” He frowned imperceptibly.
“I don't know. Somewhere.”
“I'm surely not averse to staying here, if it's all the same to you, Marsha.”
“Hey!” She bounced up, suddenly full of energy. “I know!”
“What? Hawaii again?”
“No, no, we'll do that tomorrow.”
“What, then?”
“Have you ever seen a porno flick?”
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Amy parked in the empty lot by the Japanese Tea Gardens. H.G. took her hand and led her in a wide circle around the back of the museum concourse. They made their way to the side door of the museum, from which he had first emerged into the future some three days ago.
Since the door was locked, he took a chisel out of the small bag of tools and began prying the metal face of the handle away from the door. When he had enough room to work, he inspected the bowels of the lock with a penlight. It was a sophisticated, cylinder dead bolt that operated on the same principle as the first pin tumbler lock did, invented by the American Linus Yale, Jr., in 1861.
He had her hold the penlight and began to dismantle the device. He became totally absorbed with his task and started to tinker. He took apart little nuances of machinery that he didn't have to, admiring modern man's advancement in the field of security. He came to a series of tumblers that interfaced, which meant that he would have to remove the entire bolt. With her nail file, he sawed through the machine screws that held the bolt plate into the door. Obviously, the bolt was flanged and could not otherwise be extracted. He began whistling a Brahms melody through his teeth.
“Shhhh!”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Will you hurry up?” she whispered frantically.
“This is not a mere wooden bar behind a castle door, mind you,” he replied with a touch of sarcasm.
“Why don't you just break it?” She handed him a small hammer.
He spurned the crude bludgeon. “What do you think I am? A bloody Philistine?”
Before she could respond, he removed the cylinder, the door handles, then the bolt itself, which he held up in the light and inspected, as if he had just extracted an impacted tooth from someone's mouth.
Then they gathered up the tools and quickly slipped inside the museum's basement. After their eyes had adjusted to the blackness, he led her up to the first floor. Night lights were on.
Suddenly, they heard the ring of footfalls coming in their direction. Amy looked around wildly for some place to go and started pulling him. He gasped when he looked up, for she was about to yank him inside the ladies' room.
He struggled with her, ignoring her frantic whispers. She finally gave up and pushed him away. The sudden change in momentum caused him to fall over backward, arms flailing at the air. He landed on his back and looked up in time to see the ladies' room door close behind her. He scrambled up and saw, across from Amy's cache, the sanctuary of the men's room. He ran for it and slipped inside just as a guard rounded the turn into the great hall.
H.G. hid inside a stall. When he heard the guard also come inside the bathroom, he climbed on top of the toilet seat and crouched. Cold, nervous sweat ran down his flanks. Then he heard a sigh and urine hitting porcelain. There was a great roar as the urinal was flushed, footsteps, a door opening and hissing shut, the faint echo of receding footfalls. H.G. crept to the door, stuck his head out and looked. He was momentarily startled, for he saw Amy directly opposite him, peering out of the ladies' room in a similar fashion.
They were reunited in the center of the hall, and despite her protests, he took her farther inside the museum.
They came to a rotunda. There was an information desk in the middle of the space, and the guard sat behind it, reading the newspaper
and drinking coffee. They hid behind a pillar for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, the guard put the paper down, yawned, got up, nonchalantly crossed the rotunda and disappeared into a dark corridor.
and drinking coffee. They hid behind a pillar for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, the guard put the paper down, yawned, got up, nonchalantly crossed the rotunda and disappeared into a dark corridor.
H.G. nodded to Amy, and they continued on. Eventually, they got to the display room. He ushered her inside, and turned on the lights. Then they stepped over the rope barrier which separated guided tours from the milestones in the career of H.G. Wells. Beaming, he went to The Utopia. He patted its dull surface as if greeting an old friend and felt a surge of emotion. He yearned to be home again, enjoying a good read and a glass of claret in his study by the fire. He sighed. Another time, perhaps.
He looked inside the engine compartment. The crystalline bars glistened like new and the stainless-steel gears still turned with ease. The insulation on the RRL circuitry was brittle, but still intact, and the ivory and diamond buffers had aged only in color. Metal rot had affected only thin sheets of casing. The critical parts were in splendid operating condition. He was pleased. He lubricated the connections, closed the hatch, straightened up and wiped his hands on a rag. Suddenly, he realized that Amy wasn't there. He hurried around the time machine and saw her perusing an old book atop a display case.
“What are you doing?”
She didn't look up. “How come you didn't like George Bernard Shaw?” she asked lightly.
Her question puzzled him. “You don't mean the drama critic for The Times, do you?”
She laughed. “Among other things.”
“I've never even met the man!”
“Well, apparently you found him stuffy.” She read from the book. “âA dried-up, old vegetarian virgin who wrote for insomniacs.'” She looked at H.G. knowingly. “If, of course, you are who you say you are.”
He jerked the book out of her hands and slammed it shut. He trembled. “Would you mind terribly much not doing that?”
“What's wrong?”
“I'd rather write the books before someone quotes me.”
“I was only kidding.”
“Well, I'm not. There won't be any point to my life if I know what I'm going to write and invent in the future.” He dropped the book back onto the display case. “Blasted thing is nothing but an oversized epitaph.”
He noticed that she was looking from him to some old photographs in another display case, comparing his visage to the black and white prints.
“Yes. The resemblance is uncanny, isn't it?”
She nodded, somewhat bewildered.
He went to the cabin door, kneeled down and pulled on a small ring handle. A prism-shaped deviceâcovered with a fine, multicolored dustâcame out of the time machine. He wiped it off and inspected it.
“What's that?”
“My version of a declinometer. It holds the magnetic variation steady during flight. In the process, it collects extratemporal residue and occasionally should be cleaned.”
“What's it for?”
“It keeps the machine from rotating into infinity.”
“What's wrong with infinity?”
“It has no beginning and no end. So once you get there, you stay there.”
“Why can't you get back?”
“Because there is nothing to get back from,” he replied hollowly. “You become permanently frozen in a time warp.”
“Oh,” she said thoughtfully after a pause. She regarded him critically. “You certainly know a lot about this, don't you?”
He blushed and looked down modestly.
“I know!” she exclaimed, then snapped her fingers. “You heard about this exhibit, boned up on time machines, then brought me along because you were afraid to sneak in here and try it yourself! Right?”
He frowned. “Wrong.”
“And you're not really H. G. Wells, you just happen to look like him, right?”
“Wrong again.” He carefully pushed the prismlike device back into its housing, then climbed into the cabin.
She followed. “Hey, it's okay. I'll try anything once.”
Miffed, he ignored her and frowned with disgust when he saw the dials on the control panel. The glass coverings were so smoked with age that it was impossible to read the facings. With a small screwdriver, he removed the covers and tossed them into the corner. They shattered with small, brittle tinkles.
“What are you doing?”
“Using my poor but immediate resources to correct a careless flaw in design.”
He inspected the controls. Fortunately, the switches which activated and blended the engine's energy fields had been cast with porcelain, so they had survived the ravages of time. A drop of oil on each lubricated the brass springs beneath, making the switches easier to manipulate.
Soon he came to the Rotator Control, frozen in the eastward position. He cursed his lack of foresight in using a low-grade steel for this crucial handle, then dumped the rest of the oil over it. He tugged on it, mouthing Victorian obscenities. Finally, he tried to kick it loose. The Rotator Control did not budge. He turned to her, smiled weakly and spread his hands.
“At the present time, I am not equipped to repair the Rotator Control. Hence, we can go only into the future.”
“Oh.” She thought for a moment, then said flippantly, “So who wants to go back and change history?”
Once again, he ignored her remark. He gestured at the swivel chair. “When to, Miss Robbins?”
“Saturday,” she said lightly. “Let's just go to Saturday. After all, I wouldn't want to lose touch now, would I? Or the entire weekend.”
“Very well,” he said politely. He turned and squinted at the dials, then very carefully set them with the aid of the small screwdriver. After synchronizing the cabin's clock with his digital watch, he finally straightened up.
“How long will it take?” She sat casually in the chair.
“To travel three days?” He raised his eyebrows. “Precisely one quarter of a second.”
She laughed. “That's impossible.”
“You don't think it works, do you?” he exploded. “You just think that I'm a bloody, asinine fool who's mucking about with a useless relic of a museum piece, don't you?”
“I didn't say those things.”
“You didn't have to.”
He closed and locked the hatch, squeezed in next to her, strapped them in, then engaged the switches. Then he cast a sidelong glance at her. He was redeemed and smiled grimly, for at that moment an expression of utter terror was on her face. She might as well have said, what ifâby some miracleâthis mad Englishman were right? He drummed his fingers on the mahogany arm of the chair while waiting for the familiar whine of the electromagnetic energy fields as they spun up to speed and interlocked.
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