by Anthology
Sitting in the chair was like sitting on a column of air that let me sit upright or slump as I chose. One of the arms had a row of buttons. I pressed one and waited nervously to find out if I'd done something that would get me into trouble.
Concealed lights in the ceiling and walls began glowing, getting brighter, while the room gradually turned dark. I glanced around bewilderedly to see why, because it was still daylight.
The windows seemed to be sliding slightly, very slowly, and as they slid, the sunlight was damped out. I grinned, thinking of what my ancient Egyptian would make of that. I knew there were two sheets of polarizing glass, probably with a vacuum between to keep out the cold and the heat, and the lights in the room were beautifully synchronized with the polarized sliding glass.
I wasn't doing so badly. The rest of the objects might not be too hard to figure out.
The spools in the case alongside the teacher's chair could be wire recordings. I looked for something to play them with, but there was no sign of a playback machine. I tried to lift a spool off a spindle. It wouldn't come off.
Hah! The wire led down the spindle to the base of the box, holding the spool in place. That meant the spools could be played right in that position. But what started them playing?
* * * * *
I hunted over the box minutely. Every part of it was featureless--no dials, switches or any unfamiliar counterparts. I even tried moving my hands over it, figuring it might be like a theramin, and spoke to it in different shades of command, because it could have been built to respond to vocal orders. Nothing happened.
Remember the Poe story that shows the best place to hide something is right out in the open, which is the last place anyone would look? Well, these things weren't manufactured to baffle people, any more than our devices generally are. But it's only by trying everything that somebody who didn't know what a switch is would start up a vacuum cleaner, say, or light a big chandelier from a wall clear across the room.
I'd pressed every inch of the box, hoping some part of it might act as a switch, and I finally touched one of the spindles. The spool immediately began spinning at a very low speed and the screen on the wall opposite the window glowed into life.
"The history of the exploration of the Solar System," said an announcer's deep voice, "is one of the most adventuresome in mankind's long list of achievements. Beginning with the crude rockets developed during World War II...."
There were newsreel shots of V-1 and V-2 being blasted from their takeoff ramps and a montage of later experimental models. I wished I could see how it all turned out, but I was afraid to waste the time watching. At any moment, I might hear the footsteps of a guard or janitor or whoever tended buildings then.
I pushed the spindle again. It checked the spool, which rewound swiftly and silently, and stopped itself when the rewinding was finished. I tried another. A nightmare underwater scene appeared.
"With the aid of energy screens," said another voice, "the oceans of the world were completely charted by the year 2027...."
I turned it off, then another on developments in medicine, one on architecture, one on history, the geography of such places as the interior of South America and Africa that were--or are--unknown today, and I was getting frantic, starting the wonderful wire films that held full-frequency sound and pictures in absolutely faithful color, and shutting them off hastily when I discovered they didn't have what I was looking for.
They were courses for children, but they all contained information that our scientists are still groping for ... and I couldn't chance watching one all the way through!
I was frustratedly switching off a film on psychology when a female voice said from the door, "May I help you?"
* * * * *
I snapped around to face her in sudden fright. She was young and slim and slight, but she could scream loud enough to get help. Judging by the way she was looking at me, outwardly polite and yet visibly nervous, that scream would be coming at any second.
"I must have wandered in here by mistake," I said, and pushed past her to the corridor, where I began running back the way I had come.
"But you don't understand!" she cried after me. "I really want to help--"
Yeah, help, I thought, pounding toward the street door. A gag right out of that psychology film, probably--get the patient to hold still, humor him, until you can get somebody to put him where he belongs. That's what one of our teachers would do, provided she wasn't too scared to think straight, if she found an old-looking guy thumbing frenziedly through the textbooks in a grammar school classroom.
When I came to the outside door, I stopped. I had no way of knowing whether she'd given out an alarm, or how she might have done it, but the obvious place to find me would be out on the street, dodging for cover somewhere.
I pushed the door open and let it slam shut, hoping she'd hear it upstairs. Then I found a door, sneaked it open and went silently down the steps.
In the basement, I looked for a furnace or a coal bin or a fuel tank to hide behind, but there weren't any. I don't know how they got their heat in the winter or cooled the building in the summer. Probably some central atomic plant that took care of the whole city, piping in the heat or coolant in underground conduits that were led up through the walls, because there weren't even any pipes visible.
I hunched into the darkest corner I could find and hoped they wouldn't look for me there.
* * * * *
By the time night came, hunger drove me out of the school, but I did it warily, making sure nobody was in sight.
The streets of the shopping center were more or less deserted. There was no sign of a restaurant. I was so empty that I felt dizzy as I hunted for one. But then a shocking realization made me halt on the sidewalk and sweat with horror.
Even if there had been a restaurant, what would I have used for money?
Now I got the whole foul picture. She had sent old people back through time on errands like mine ... and they'd starved to death because they couldn't buy food!
No, that wasn't right. I remembered what I had told Lou Pape: anybody who gets hungry enough can always find a truck garden or a food store to rob.
Only ... I hadn't seen a truck garden or food store anywhere in this city.
And ... I thought about people in the past having their hands cut off for stealing a loaf of bread.
This civilization didn't look as if it went in for such drastic punishments, assuming I could find a loaf of bread to steal. But neither did most of the civilizations that practiced those barbarisms.
I was more tired, hungry and scared than I'd ever believed a human being could get. Lost, completely lost in a totally alien world, but one in which I could still be killed or starve to death ... and God knew what was waiting for me in my own time in case I came back without the information she wanted.
Or maybe even if I came back with it!
That suspicion made up my mind for me. Whatever happened to me now couldn't be worse than what she might do. At least I didn't have to starve.
I stopped a man in the street. I let several others go by before picking him deliberately because he was middle-aged, had a kindly face, and was smaller than me, so I could slug him and run if he raised a row.
"Look, friend," I told him, "I'm just passing through town--"
"Ah?" he said pleasantly.
"--And I seem to have mislaid--" No, that was dangerous. I'd been about to say I'd mislaid my wallet, but I still didn't know whether they used money in this era. He waited with a patient, friendly smile while I decided just how to put it. "The fact is that I haven't eaten all day and I wonder if you could help me get a meal."
He said in the most neighborly voice imaginable, "I'll be glad to do anything I can, Mr. Weldon."
* * * * *
My entire face seemed to drop open. "You--you called me--"
"Mr. Weldon," he repeated, still looking up at me with that neighborly smile. "Mark Weldon, isn't it? From the 20th Century?"
I tried to answer, but my throat had tightened up worse than on any opening night I'd ever had to live through. I nodded, wondering terrifiedly what was going on.
"Please relax," he said persuasively. "You're not in any danger whatever. We offer you our utmost hospitality. Our time, you might say, is your time."
"You know who I am," I managed to get out through my constricted glottis. "I've been doing all this running and ducking and hiding for nothing."
He shrugged sympathetically. "Everyone in the city was instructed to help you, but you were so nervous that we were afraid to alarm you with a direct approach. Every time we tried to, as a matter of fact, you vanished into one place or another. We didn't follow for fear of the effect on you. We had to wait until you came voluntarily to us."
My brain was racing again and getting nowhere. Part of it was dizziness from hunger, but only part. The rest was plain frightened confusion.
They knew who I was. They'd been expecting me. They probably even knew what I was after.
And they wanted to help!
"Let's not go into explanations now," he said, "although I'd like to smooth away the bewilderment and fear on your face. But you need to be fed first. Then we'll call in the others and--"
I pulled back. "What others? How do I know you're not setting up something for me that I'll wish I hadn't gotten into?"
"Before you approached me, Mr. Weldon, you first had to decide that we represented no greater menace than May Roberts. Please believe me, we don't."
So he knew about that, too!
"All right, I'll take my chances," I gave in resignedly. "Where does a guy find a place to eat in this city?"
* * * * *
It was a handsome restaurant with soft light coming from three-dimensional, full-color nature murals that I might mistakenly have walked into if I'd been alone, they looked so much like gardens and forests and plains. It was no wonder I couldn't find a restaurant or food store or truck garden anywhere--food came up through pneumatic chutes in each building, I'd been told on the way over, grown in hydroponic tanks in cities that specialized in agriculture, and those who wanted to eat "out" could drop into the restaurant each building had. Every city had its own function. This one was for people in the arts. I liked that.
There was a glowing menu on the table with buttons alongside the various selections. I looked starvingly at the items, trying to decide which I wanted most. I picked oysters, onion soup, breast of guinea hen under Plexiglas and was hunting for the tastiest and most recognizable dessert when the pleasant little guy shook his head regretfully and emphatically.
"I'm afraid you can't eat any of those foods, Mr. Weldon," he said in a sad voice. "We'll explain why in a moment."
A waiter and the manager came over. They obviously didn't want to stare at me, but they couldn't help it. I couldn't blame them, I'd have stared at somebody from George Washington's time, which is about what I must have represented to them.
"Will you please arrange to have the special food for Mr. Weldon delivered here immediately?" the little guy asked.
"Every restaurant has been standing by for this, Mr. Carr," said the manager. "It's on its way. Prepared, of course--it's been ready since he first arrived."
"Fine," said the little guy, Carr. "It can't be too soon. He's very hungry."
I glanced around and noticed for the first time that there was nobody else in the restaurant. It was past the dinner hour, but, even so, there are always late diners. We had the place all to ourselves and it bothered me. They could have ganged up on me....
But they didn't. A light gong sounded, and the waiter and manager hurried over to a slot of a door and brought out a couple of trays loaded with covered dishes.
"Your dinner, Mr. Weldon," the manager said, putting the plates in front of me and removing the lids.
I stared down at the food.
"This," I told them angrily, "is a hell of a trick to play on a starving man!"
* * * * *
They all looked unhappy.
"Mashed dehydrated potatoes, canned meat and canned vegetables," Carr replied. "Not very appetizing. I know, but I'm afraid it's all we can allow you to eat."
I took the cover off the dessert dish.
"Dried fruits!" I said in disgust.
"Rather excessively dried, I'm sorry to say," the manager agreed mournfully.
I sipped the blue stuff in a glass and almost spat it out. "Powdered milk! Are these things what you people have to live on?"
"No, our diet is quite varied," Carr said in embarrassment. "But we unfortunately can't give you any of the foods we normally eat ourselves."
"And why in blazes not?"
"Please eat, Mr. Weldon," Carr begged with frantic earnestness. "There's so much to explain--this is part of it, of course--and it would be best if you heard it on a full stomach."
I was famished enough to get the stuff down, which wasn't easy; uninviting as it looked, it tasted still worse.
When I was through, Carr pushed several buttons on the glowing menu. Dishes came up from an opening in the center of the table and he showed me the luscious foods they contained.
"Given your choice," he said, "you'd have preferred them to what you have eaten. Isn't that so, Mr. Weldon?"
"You bet I would!" I answered, sore because I hadn't been given that choice.
"And you would have died like the pathetic old people you were investigating," said a voice behind me.
I turned around, startled. Several men and women had come in while I'd been eating, their footsteps as silent as cats on a rug. I looked blankly from them to Carr and back again.
"These are the clothes we ordinarily wear," Carr said. "An 18th Century motif, as you can see--updated knee breeches and shirt waists, a modified stock for the men, the daring low bodices of that era, the full skirts treated in a modern way by using sheer materials for the women, bright colors and sheens, buckled shoes of spun synthetics. Very gay, very ornamental, very comfortable, and thoroughly suitable to our time."
"But everybody I saw was dressed like me!" I protested.
"Only to keep you from feeling more conspicuous and anxious than you already were. It was quite a project, I can tell you--your styles varied so greatly from decade to decade, especially those for women--and the materials were a genuine problem; they'd gone out of existence long ago. We had the textile and tailoring cities working a full six months to clothe the inhabitants of this city, including, of course, the children. Everybody had to be clad as your contemporaries were, because we knew only that you would arrive in this vicinity, not where you might wander through the city."
"There was one small difference you didn't notice," added a handsome mature woman. "You were the only man in a gray suit. We had a full description of what you were wearing, you see, and we made sure nobody else was dressed that way. Naturally, everyone knew who you were, and so we were kept informed of your movements."
"What for?" I demanded in alarm. "What's this all about?"
* * * * *
Pulling up chairs, they sat down, looking to me like a witchcraft jury from some old painting.
"I'm Leo Blundell," said a tall man in plum-and-gold clothes. "As chairman of--of the Mark Weldon Committee, it's my responsibility to handle this project correctly."
"Project?"
"To make certain that history is fulfilled, I have to tell you as much as you must know."
"I wish somebody would!"
"Very well, let me begin by telling you much of what you undoubtedly know already. In a sense, you are more a victim of Dr. Anthony Roberts than his daughter. Roberts was a brilliant physicist, but because of his eccentric behavior, he was ridiculed for his theories and hated for his arrogance. He was an almost perfect example of self-defeat, the way in which a man will hamper his career and wreck his happiness, and then blame the world for his failure and misery. To get back to his connection with you, however, he invented a time machine--unfortunately, its secret has since been lost and
never re-discovered--and used it for anti-social purposes. When he died, his daughter May carried on his work. It was she who sent you to this time to learn the principle by which the Dynapack operates. She was a thoroughly ruthless woman."
"Are you sure?" I asked uneasily.
"Quite sure."
"I know a number of old people died after she sent them on errands through time, but she said they'd lied about their age and health."
"One would expect her to say that," a woman put in cuttingly.
Blundell turned to her and shook his head. "Let Mr. Weldon clarify his feelings about her, Rhoda. They are obviously very mixed."
"They are," I admitted. "She seemed hard, the first time I saw her, when I answered her ad, but she could have been just acting businesslike. I mean she had a lot of people to pick from and she had to be impersonal and make certain she had the right one. The next time--I hope you don't know about that--it was really my fault for breaking into her room. I really had a lot of admiration for the way she handled the situation."
"Go on," Carr encouraged me.
"And I can't complain about the deal she gave me. Sure, she came out ahead on the money I bet and invested for her. But I did all right myself--I was richer than I'd ever been in my life--and she gave that money to me before I even did anything to earn it!"
"Besides which," somebody else said, "she offered you half of the profits on the Dynapack."
* * * * *
I looked around at the faces for signs of hostility. I saw none. That was surprising. I'd come from the past to steal something from them and they weren't at all angry. Well, no, it wasn't really stealing. I wouldn't be depriving them of the Dynapack. It just would have been invented before it was supposed to be.
"She did," I said. "Though I wouldn't call that part of it philanthropy. She needed me for the data and I needed her to manufacture the things."
"And she was a very beautiful woman," Blundell added.
I squirmed a bit. "Yes."
"Mr. Weldon, we know a good deal about her from notes that have come down to us among her private papers. She had a safety deposit box under a false name. I won't tell you the name; it was not discovered until many years later, and we will not voluntarily meddle with the past."