The Time Stone (The Time Stone Trilogy Book 1)

by Robert F Hays

  “Can I take your order sir?” the smiling waitress asked.

  “What is this club house sandwich like?” Jim asked, trying to sound as if he had never heard of the item before.

  “Oh it’s very good. I tried one yesterday before we first opened.”

  “But one point two G?” Jim protested.

  “Personal service. Waitresses and human cooks cost more than automated ones.”

  “Ok, the club house sandwich,” Jim said, faking a dejected look.

  “Your diet disk?” She put out her hand expecting the computerized food intake record most people carried.

  Jim was not used to the planned system that advised one on balanced nutrition. He kept forgetting to carry it. “No, I think I’ll cheat on this one.”

  “That’s what most people are doing at this restaurant.” She smiled and walked off toward the kitchen.

  “Damn,” Jim said to himself. “I used the word ‘ok’. That’s an Earth word they don’t… uh… do not use now.”

  Eating the food he was more accustomed to made him feel better. The situation cleared in his mind. It was obvious that wandering the city wouldn’t keep him safe for long. Friends were needed. Ones he could trust and who were unknown to his pursuers. Powerful friends who could assist him in his next goal, finding out what was going on. He had already chosen the potential allies. They were not on this planet so his immediate intent was to get himself off planet by way of the city’s spaceport, a task he knew nothing about and had no confidant to tell him how.

  After leaving the restaurant, he walked another kilometer. On an impulse, he made a right turn down an alley, more for curiosity than anything else, plus an old infantry saying ‘Never use a path or walk in a straight line’. Primarily he wanted to see if there was somewhere in the city that was not immaculately clean.

  The alley crossed another, he made a left. Lined up by the back walls of the buildings were trash receptacles. They looked like a slightly smaller version of the ones he knew on Earth. Chest high with three hinged lids, made from some sort of plastic composite.

  Jim wandered down the alley. Everything was clean, even here. The mild feeling of disgust over the total cleanliness he saw everywhere amused him.

  Then, there it was, the first dirty thing he had seen since arriving. Sitting between two containers was a man. He thought to himself, ‘Could this actually be an old fashioned bum?’

  “Hi there,” Jim said, raising a hand in a friendly greeting.

  “Afternoon sir. Care for a slurp?” The man waved a transparent plastic container that made a slight sloshing sound.

  Jim walked over and sat, feeling the slightly roughened synthetic pavement as he did so. Against his better judgment, he took a ‘slurp’. The man looked like he was in his early sixties. Tall and thin with a long face. The rugged condition of his skin and graying hair betrayed a lack of interest. He either could not afford to, or did not want to, take advantage of modern medical and cosmetic care.

  The style of the outfit he wore was different from any Jim had seen. The jacket had a low collar and wide lapels. Jim had no way of knowing whether it was due to a regional difference in the man’s origin, or if it was a fashion long since out of style. His clothes were old. Jim’s experience with the clothing of this civilization had taught him that it was very hard to wear out a suit of clothes. This man had succeeded.

  By Old Earth standards his classification would be that of a slightly intoxicated regular citizen. But here he would be categorized a filthy degenerate.

  “I thought they cured all the alcoholics.” Jim was in a mood to be blunt.

  The man chuckled as he looked Jim’s up and down. “They tried three times to adjust my metabolism. It did not work.” He took another drink from the container. “You must lead a sheltered life. Where are you from, not this planet?”

  “How did you know that?”

  The man laughed. “For a start, you dress like you come from the city, but you had your hand in your pocket like a farm boy from Concord.” He then raised a hand and pointed. “I can see the tip of your pen phone protruding from your pocket. Here that’s considered a vulgar display. And, you raised your hand and kept it still when you said ‘Hi!’ Most people here nod or make this movement.” He raised his own hand and made a flicking motion to the right.

  Jim was taken aback by the rapid observational abilities of the man sitting next to him. “Anything else?”

  The man held his container up to the sunlight. “Some. It’s almost empty.” He lightly swirled the remaining contents without looking in Jim’s direction.

  Jim fished in his pocket and retrieved a 5G disk. “How ‘bout some local lessons?” He held the disk up between his index and forefinger.

  “Running from the police? Hard to do these days.”

  Jim had run across this man, sitting in an alley, somewhere in a large city. He considered that the odds of him being a member of a possibly small sect were remote to say the least. So why not tell the truth. “No. Someone’s trying to kill me.”

  “Sounds fair enough... Ah, my type of money.” The man took the 5G disk, stood and started down the alley. “I can not stand those pen phones. Back soon.”

  For ten minutes Jim sat. For some strange reason he knew the man would return, which he did and handed Jim the change. During the next three hours Jim learned more about local customs than he had in the preceding weeks.

  The man, who introduced himself as Alfred, surprised Jim. For a back alley drunk, his perception and knowledge was quite extensive. Jim told him everything.

  * * *

  The sun was going down as they sat, working on their third container. The brew was not as unpleasant as Jim thought it would be. In fact, it was rather nice. It also improved with each container.

  “Now I’ve got to find a place to sleep tonight,” Jim said, looking around and contemplating the discomfort of the interior of a trash receptacle.

  “There’s a government shelter and three missions.”

  “Missions, what denomination?”

  “Lutheran, Children of the Prophet Elijah and The Church of the Second Coming.”

  “I think I’ll try the Lutherans.” Jim considered the best place for a multi-billionaire to hide was amongst drunks and down and outs. An organization with which he was familiar was the most preferable. He thought that the Lutherans would be the least likely to have turned into deranged killers.

  “I’ll come with you. Someone has got to keep you out of trouble.” Alfred stood, swayed a little, then beckoned with a wide sweeping motion of the arm.

  The mission was some distance. It took two hours of walking to the outskirts of the city. Jim tried to rumple his outfit a little so that he matched the disheveled look of his partner. No matter how hard he tried, the new clothes refused to cooperate, they kept falling back in place.

  “You’re right,” Alfred said, looking Jim up and down. “That outfit definitely will not do.”

  He grabbed Jim by the shoulder and made a sharp left turn. Twenty minutes later they were standing in front of a small store with a sign that read ‘Used but Nice’.

  Alfred stuck out a hand. “Give me five Gs”

  Jim handed over a five G disk and Alfred weaved his way into the store. Ten minutes later he returned with Jim’s new, old outfit and jacket over an arm, plus a medium sized carry bag. He handed Jim the one G change.

  “Fine, just fine. Where can I change?” Jim asked, inspecting the appropriately aged apparel.

  Alfred turned and walked around a corner into another alley. “In back of this place will do just fine.” In the alley Alfred stopped at the first trash receptacle and opened the sealed lid. “In here, no one will see you.”

  Jim climbed in. It occurred to him that rolling around in the thing may give him that bit of added character he needed to complete the disguise. Once inside, he realized that his idea was not feasible. Looking at the pile of broken plastic packing he announced. “What is this? Even the
trash here is clean!”

  Changing took a few minutes. The clothes he had worn barely fit in his carry bag. Once complete, they continued on their way to the mission.

  “You picked the right one with the Lutheran mission,” Alfred said, his speech becoming quite slurred.

  “How’s that, they have better food?” Jim’s speech was not that far behind.

  “No, there’s a friend of mine that goes there who you should meet, plus the mission is not as pushy. They help you, if you want, but do not play those damn voices all the time.”

  “Voices?”

  “Yes, soft pleasant voices. ‘Jesus loves you, you can help yourself, you can take control of your life’. They call it therapy. I call it damn annoying.”

  “I call it a possible source of mind control. What do they do if you tell them you want help?”

  “Talk to you, send you out to collect money. They give you pen phones that only take in money, you can not spend it. I guess it helps; it keeps guys like me fed. Then they try to get you a job operating floor sweepers or cleaning something.”

  While walking, Alfred pointed out and explained the public transport stations, bank outlets and other things Jim would need to know. The alcoholic beverage vending machines were most interesting. Its method of determining the age of a customer for legal purposes was to analyze skin tone. A person using one had to place the back of their hand on a sensor. Alfred informed Jim that it was extremely accurate.

  The more Jim learned, the more similarities he found with the cities of Old Earth. The differences were in the electronic convenience. Everything was automatic or voice activated.

  The front door of the mission opened as they approached. Alfred stuck his half full container inside his jacket.

  In a small entry room, a computer voice greeted them. “Welcome, you have entered the Lutheran mission. It is against our rules to bring an alcoholic beverage into this building. A container has been detected on your person. Kindly place it in the receptacle to your right or leave the premises.”

  “Damn, they’ve put in a sniffer,” Alfred said. “Come on, we’ll finish it outside.”

  They found a nearby alley where two other men were in the process of eliminating theirs.

  “Jim, I would like you to meet the guys. That there is Phil, the other one is Halbert.”

  Both waved a greeting then Phil offered his container. With a flourish Alfred produced his. One thing Jim noticed was that the wave they gave was exactly as Alfred had demonstrated earlier.

  “This is Jim. He’s that Old Earth guy we’ve been hearing about.”

  Jim’s head snapped around to face Alfred. “Do you think it’s wise to tell them?”

  “I’ve known these guys for years. They’re all right, and you need all the friends you can get,” Alfred said before taking a slurp from his container. “You said you wanted to get off the planet. Phil used to work at the spaceport...” He leaned over with his face close to Phil’s and raised his voice. “...before they threw him out for being an old drunk.”

  Phil smiled and took another drink. “Well, nobody’s perfect.”

  Halbert waved his container in Jim’s direction. “I heard this guy’s making a fortune. What’s he doing here with a failure like you?”

  “He needs our help, wants to get off planet without anyone knowing who he is or where he’s going.”

  “You got money?” Phil asked.

  Jim thought for a moment. The idea of divulging his financial position to someone he had just met in a back alley made him nervous. Alfred, so far, seemed trustworthy and vouched for his friends, so why not tell them? “I can get some.”

  “Go to counter thirty five at the spaceport and ask for Charlie Bonthrone, tell him Phil Raphael sent you. Cost you a hundred plus the fare. He’ll get you a ticket under a phony name and slip you on board without going though the checks.”

  “Thanks, how much do you want for the information?”

  Phil shook his head and waved a hand. “No, money tends to screw up my thinking. You be around tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” Jim said, feeling more relaxed. The apparent refusal of payment assisted Jim’s faith in his new found friends.

  “Then you’re buying the good stuff.”

  * * *

  They sat and drank for a while until all the good stuff was gone. The other two men were similar to Alfred, high intelligence, affected by the ravages of alcohol. They were all so friendly; Jim thought that if he had asked one of them for his jacket they’d hand it over, no questions asked.

  “Are all the gentlemen of the back alley as easy to get along with as you three?” Jim asked as he finished his turn at the container, his speech demonstrating a moderately advanced state of inebriation.

  “No,” Alfred said, and the others nodded. “Some are down right mean, so be careful tonight.”

  Halbert drank the last swallow from the last container and stood. “I think it’s time to go in.” The other three followed.

  While walking, Jim staggered to the right and straight into Halbert, nearly knocking both down in the process.

  “A righty eh?” Halbert slurred.

  “Huh, a what?” Jim inquired, trying to regain his balance.

  “A righty. You stagger to the right when you’ve been on the stuff.”

  Jim looked around for a few moments while Halbert’s statement organized itself in his hazy brain. “Oh, yeah, I guess so. Why do you say that?”

  “Good, I’ve been looking for a righty. I am a lefty.” He grasped Jim’s upper arm and held it firmly. “See, we hold on tight like this. You wander right, I wander left so together we walk straight.”

  Jim laughed quietly as they continued toward the door of the mission. It was quite evident that Halbert’s methods had nothing to do with walking straight. Jim was a beer drinker and not used to the powerful concoction they were consuming. Halbert was just trying to hold him in an upright position as they crossed the road. He didn’t know the current laws regarding public intoxication, but decided that falling flat on his face in a road would not be a wise thing to do.

  * * *

  The night at the mission was relatively comfortable. A simple, but solid meal and acceptable non-electronic controlled beds placed in rows, barracks style. The evening religious service was noncompulsory.

  Jim prepared for bed. A Pastor on his rounds stopped and made his normal inquiries. How are you? Got a job? Have prospects on a place to live? And any help you need just ask. Jim answered with a simple yes or no where possible. He told the Pastor that he was an out of work farm hand from Concord, but didn’t elaborate. The Pastor seemed satisfied.

  At about 2 a.m. Jim awoke to the feeling of someone tugging at his mattress. He opened an eye and saw a figure, apparently trying to remove his jacket from underneath. Jim reached out and grasped an open collar then produced his Colt from under the sheets.

  “Leave it alone or there’ll be a large hole where your brains are now.”

  The figure looked down at the weapon. “Don’t give me that. I’m not stupid. There’s no power pack on that thing.”

  A voice came from the next bed. It was Halbert. “It’s a new model, power pack is in the handle. Better do what he says, he’s crazy. Saw him fry a dog yesterday and laugh his head off.”

  The intruder let go of the jacket and rapidly disappeared.

  “Thanks,” Jim said, pushing the Colt under his pillow.

  “Don’t mention it; just keep the party going tomorrow.”

  For the remainder of the night Jim slept very lightly, waking at every creak and loud snore. Occasionally he reached under the pillow as a patron got up and wandered in the direction of the bathroom.

  * * *

  Next morning they had to leave at 7 a.m. after a small breakfast. There were things Jim needed from his own possessions. He couldn’t go anywhere near the lab or his home, so he had to come up with some way of having the things brought to him.

  A number of options were avail
able. He could ask one of his friends to go, but putting them in such a dangerous position was unacceptable.

  He now had the assistance of a trustworthy gang. Even though disreputable looking and continually impaired, it was better than nothing.

  They ambled in the direction of a park frequented by citizens of their caste. Lack of time was no longer a factor. The guise of a drunk would do as a cover, for a while at least.

  A park bench made an adequate conference table. They sat sipping the good stuff. Passing citizens paid them no attention; the disguise seemed to be working.

  “Do you think they could pick up on it if I made a call to the lab,” Jim asked Alfred.

  “If they’re into everything, like you say, they would do it in a heartbeat.”

  “No one’s looking for me,” Halbert announced. “My voice print has not been registered with any of the systems for years. They probably think I’ve died.”

  “No,” Phil said. “You only smell like it.”

  They all chuckled.

  “So how can I call for my transit?”

  “There are ways,” Halbert said.

  “Bounce the call off another pen phone,” Alfred said.

  “Two of you have pen phones?” Jim said.

  “No, but I can get them. Just do not ask where I did.”

  They all chuckled.

  * * *

  Halbert made the call to Levin at the lab. The instructions were to place selected crates in Jim’s transit and park it in the parking lot. The only other person to be notified was Dr. Redmond.

  The next part of the plan involved Alfred waiting at a distance from the throughway. Jim traveled by bus to a point two kilometers away. It was closer to the throughway on the probable route of the transit if called from the first phone. To take the bus, he had to purchase a pass disk from a vending machine at one bus stop.

  He waited for the arranged call from Alfred. At a predetermined time the phone buzzed, Jim answered it. At the other end Alfred threw his phone into a bush.

  Jim was surprised at the clarity of the make shift connection as he heard the computerized operators voice.