Time Travel Omnibus Volume 2

by Anthology

  Walter hurried to the Curran bungalow, remembered to slow down and tried hard to look casual as he unlocked the door and went in. There wouldn’t be any trouble—he was a good citizen, known and respected—he could let himself into a tenant’s house and wait for him to talk about business if he wanted to.

  He tried not to think of what people would think if he should be caught rifling Clurg’s luggage, as he intended to do. He had brought along an assortment of luggage keys. Surprised by his own ingenuity, he had got them at a locksmith’s by saying his own key was lost and he didn’t want to haul a heavy packed bag downtown.

  But he didn’t need the keys. In the bedroom closet the two suitcases stood, unlocked.

  There was nothing in the first except uniformly new clothes, bought locally at good shops. The second was full of the same. Going through a rather extreme sports jacket, Walter found a wad of paper in the breast pocket. It was a newspaper page. A number had been penciled on a margin; apparently the sheet had been torn out and stuck into the pocket and forgotten. The dateline on the paper was July 18th, 2403.

  Walter had some trouble reading the stories at first, but found it was easy enough if he read them aloud and listened to his voice.

  One said:

  TAIM KOP NABD: PROSKYOOTR ASKS DETH

  Patrolm’n Oskr Garth V thi Taim Polis w’z arest’d toodei at biz horn, 4365 9863th Suit, and booked at 9768th Prisint onM. tchardg’z *v Polis-Ekspozh’r. Thi aledjd Ekspozh’r okurM hwafle Garth w’z on dooti in thi Twenti-Furst Sentch’ri. It konsist’d “v hiz admish’n too a sit’zen ‘v thi Twenti-Furst Sentch’ri that thi Taim Polis ekzisted and woz op’rated fr”m thi Twenti-Fifth Sentch’ri. Thi Proskypot’rz Ofis sed thi deth pen’lti wil be askt ifl vyoo ‘v thi heinus neitch’r ‘v thi ofens, hwitch thret’nz thi hwol fabrik ‘v Twenti-Fifth-Sentch’ri eksiz-tens.

  There was an advertisement on the other side:

  BOIZ”ND YUNG MEN!

  SERV EUR SENTCH’RI!

  ENLIST IN THI TAIM POLIS RKURV NOW!

  RIMEMB’R—

  V THI AJEZ! ONLY IN THI TAIM POLIS KAN EU PROTEKT EUR SIVILIZASH*N FR’M

  ARFNS! THEIR IZ NO HAIER SERVIS TOO AR KULTCH’R! THEIR IZ NO K’REER SO

  FAS*NATING AZ A K’REER IN THI TAIM POLIS!

  Underneath it another ad asked:

  HWAI BI ASHEEMPD “V EUR TCHAIRZ? GET ROL-

  FASTS! No uth’r tcheir haz thi immidjit respons “v a Rolfast Sit enihweir—eor Rolfast iz theirl

  Eur Rolfast mefl partz ar solid gold to avoid tairsum polishing. Eur Rolfast beirings are thi fain’st six-intch dupliks di’mondz for long wair.

  Walter’s heart pounded. Gold—to avoid tiresome polishing! Six-inch diamonds—for long wear!

  And Clurg must be a time policeman. “Only in the time police can you see the pageant of the ages!”

  What did a time policeman do? He wasn’t quite dear about that But what they didn’t do was let anybody else—anybody earlier—know that the Time Police existed. He, Walter Lachlan of the Twentieth Century, held in the palm of his hand Time Policeman Clurg of the Twenty-Fifth Century—the Twenty-Fifth Century where gold and diamonds were common as steel and glass in this!

  He was there when Clurg came back from the matinee. Mutely, Walter extended the page of newsprint Clurg snatched it incredulously, stared at it and crumpled it in his fist. He collapsed on the floor with a groan.

  “I’m done for!” Walter heard him say.

  “Listen, Clurg,” Walter said. “Nobody ever needs to know about this—nobody.”

  Clurg looked up with sudden hope in his eyes. “You win keep silent?” he asked wildly. “It is my life!”

  “What’s it worth to you?” Walter demanded with brutal directness. “I can use some of those diamonds and some of that gold. Can you get it into this century?”

  “It would be missed. It would be over my mass-balance,” Qurg said. “But I have a Duplix. I can copy diamonds and gold for you; that was how I made my feoff money.”

  He snatched an instrument from his pocket—a fountain pen, Walter thought “It is low in charge. It would Duplix about five kilograms in one operation—”

  “You mean,” Walter demanded, “that if I brought you five kilograms of diamonds and gold you could duplicate it? And the originals wouldn’t be harmed? Let me see that tiling. Can I work it?”

  Clurg passed over the “fountain pen”. Walter saw that within the case was a tangle of wires, tiny tubes, lenses—he passed it back hastily. Clurg said, “That is correct. You could buy or borrow jewelry and I could duplix it Then you could return the originals and retain the copies. You swear by your contemporary God that you would say nothing?”

  Walter was thinking. He could scrape together a good thirty thousand dollars by pledging the house, the business, his own real estate, the bank account, the life insurance, the securities. Put it all into diamonds, of course and then—doubled! Overnight!

  “I’ll say nothing,” he told Clurg. “If you come through.” He took the sheet from the twenty-fifth-century newspaper from Clurg’s hands and put it securely in his own pocket. “When I get those-diamonds duplicated,” he said, “I’ll burn him and forget the rest. Until then, I want you to stay close to home. I’ll come around in a day or so with the stuff for you to duplicate.”

  Qurg nervously promised.

  The secrecy, of course, didn’t include Betty. He told her when he got home and she let out a yell of delight. She demanded the newspaper, read it avidly, and then demanded to see Clurg.

  “I don’t think hell talk,” Walter said doubtfully. “But if you really want to . . .”

  She did, and they walked to the Curran bungalow. Clurg was gone, lock, stock and barrel, leaving not a trace behind. They waited for hours, nervously.

  At last Betty said, “He’s gone back.”

  Walter nodded. “He wouldn’t keep his bargain, but by God I’m going to keep mine. Come along. We’re going to the Enterprise.”

  “Walter,” she said. “You wouldn’t—would you?”

  Ke went alone, after a bitter quarrel.

  At the Enterprise office he was wearily listened to by a reporter, who wearily looked over the twenty-fifth-century newspaper. “I don’t know what you’re peddling, Mr. Lachlan,” he said, “but we like people to buy their ads in the Enterprise. This is a pretty bare-faced publicity grab.”

  “But—” Walter sputtered.

  “Sam, would you please ask Mr. Morris to come up here if he can?” the reporter was saying into the phone. To Walter he explained, “Mr. Morris is our press-room foreman.”

  The foreman was a huge, white-haired old fellow, partly deaf. The reporter showed him the newspaper from the twenty-fifth century and said, “How about this?”

  Mr. Morris looked at it and smelled it and said, showing no interest in the reading matter: “American Type Foundry Futura number nine, discontinued about ten years ago. It’s been hand-set. The ink—hard to say. Expensive stuff, not a news ink. A book ink, a job-printing ink. The paper, now, I know. A nice linen rag that Benziger jobs in Philadelphia.”

  “You see, Mr. Lachlan? It’s a fake.” The reporter shrugged.

  Walter walked slowly from the city room. The press-room foreman knew. It was a fake. And Clurg was a faker. Suddenly Walter’s heels touched the ground after twenty-four hours and stayed there. Good God, the diamonds 1 Clurg was a conman! He would have worked a package switch! He would have had thirty thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds for .less than a month’s work!

  He told Betty about it when he got home and she laughed unmercifully. “Time Policeman” was to become a family joke between the Lachlans.

  Harry Twenty-Third Street stood, blinking, in a very peculiar place. Peculiarly, his feet were firmly encased, up to the ankles, in a block of dear plastic.

  There were odd-looking people and a big voice was saying: “May it please the court. The People of the Twenty-Fifth Century versus Harold Parish, alias Harry Twenty-Third Stree
t, alias Clurg, of the Twentieth Century. The charge is impersonating an officer of the Time Police. The Prosecutor’s Office will ask the death penalty in view of the heinous nature of the offense, which threatens the whole fabric—”

  TIME CONSIDERED AS A SERIES OF THERMITE BURNS IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER

  Damien Broderick

  My time machine was disguised as a Baronne Henriette de Snoy rosebush in full bloom. I left it in the Royal Botanic Gardens, next to a thicket of imported English foliage. We could have appeared near the library building itself, but I wanted to get the lay of the land and insinuate myself. Besides, seeing time machines pop out of the air can make people nervous. Moira remained inside, shielded, and said through my inload, “Good luck, Bobby. Try not to get arrested again.”

  “Should be back in a couple of hours, max,” I murmured. The internet and global communications systems had been dismantled six decades earlier, after the tsunami of leaked classified documents. “I’ll keep the images rolling, but let’s nix the chitchat. Oh, and if I do get arrested, maybe you should come and get me.”

  My wife sighed. “Just don’t get all tangled up, I hate time loops.”

  There were still trams running along St. Kilda Road, so I waited at the nearest stop and took one up Swanston Street to the State Library.

  In this year the trams floated atop some kind of monorail set flush into the road, probably a magnetic levitation effect. Luckily, as the garbled pre-catastrophe records suggested, public transport was free in 2073 Melbourne, so I had no hassles with out-of-date coins or lack of swipe cards or injected RFID chips, all that nonsense that’s tripped me up before and always ruins a nice outing. Especially if it ends with incarceration in the local lockup.

  On the tram, I had a different kind of hassle, the usual sort. Other passengers stared at me with surprise, disdain or derision. You couldn’t blame them. For obvious reasons, we’d found no reliable records in 2099 or later of the fashions in 2073. I was clad in the nearest thing to a neutral garment Moira and I have ever come up with: an inconspicuous grey track suit, no hoodie, sports shoes (you never know when you’re going to have to run like hell, and anyway they’re comfortable unless you find yourself up to your ankles or knees in an urban Greenhouse swamp), backpack.

  A broad-shouldered youth with acne was nudging his bald oafish associates and rolling his eyes in my direction. I moved further down the tram and tried to merge with the crowd. Most of the men, except a few elderly, sported shaved heads decorated with glowing shapes that moved around like fish in a bowl. The women wore their hair like Veronica Lake in those old 1940s black-and-white movies.

  We crossed Collins Street, which didn’t look all that different from 1982 or 2002—it’s startling how persistent the general look of a city can be, even in periods of architectural enthusiasm and mad-dog greedy developers. The thug followed me toward the back, smirking. He grabbed my track suit pants from behind and tried to give me a wedgie. My pack got in his way. I had a neuronic whip in my pocket, an Iranian special I’d picked up at a flea market in 2034, and I wrapped my hand around it, but didn’t want to use it and cause a ruction.

  “You’re a bloody weird, dinger,” the thug informed me. “Watcha, going to a fancy dress party with yer downpoot mates?” He jolted me with a knee to my thigh, and I oofed.

  “Don’t hurt him, Bobby,” Moira hissed in my inload. “My dog, what the hell are these morons wearing?”

  A seated middle-aged fellow was jostled and got to his feet.

  “See here, enough of this lollygagging foof! Leave the poor fellow alone, it’s obvious he’s a braindrain.” He took my arm, and stepped past me. “Here, son, have my seat. I’m getting out at Lonsdale anyway.” He trod heavily on the thug’s foot as he passed, confident in his shiny top hat. Probably didn’t hurt much, they wore something like soft woolen gloves on their feet, each toe separately snug, and I hoped water repellent. Maybe the Greenhouse effect wasn’t quite critical yet, but Melbourne is famous for its abrupt downpours.

  “Lonsdale, yeah, me, too,” I said, for Moira’s benefit, and followed him closely, to the jeers of the style-conscious oafs. My thigh hurt, but I had to force myself not to smile. Obviously this was one of those tiresome years when almost everyone bowed to the dictates of fashion. I stepped down from the tram onto the traffic island, surveyed the citizens wandering along the street, young and old and in between, and despite myself burst out laughing anyway. It was like some kind of cosplay epidemic had overtaken downtown, maybe the whole continent. For a moment the attire had baffled me. It was baggy in the wrong places and tight everywhere else. Looked horribly uncomfortable, but that seems to be the rule with fashion in a lot of decades.

  “Bobby, this is crazy!” Moira was laughing in my inner ear. “They’re all wearing their pants over their heads!”

  It wasn’t just those on the tram. Most of the men in 2073 Melbourne central district, I realized with another snort of amusement, were wearing business suit trousers or blue jeans on top, arms through the rolled-up legs, sparkly shaven heads shoved through the open flies. A few women with their hair up in luxurious folds wore the same, although many preferred skirts, hanging down over their arms like something a nun would have worn back when I was a kid, in the days before nuns dressed like social workers.

  “And check out the leggings,” I muttered under my breath.

  Everyone had their legs through the knitted arms of merrily patterned sweaters, cinched at the waist by the inverted trouser belts. Something modestly blocked the neck holes. I saw after a moment that baseball caps were sewn into the necks, brims forward for the men, up or down depending on age, and backward for women, like tails. I could tell by the sniggers and glances that passers-by all despised my own absurd and out-of-date garb.

  “Wow, fashion statement,” Moira said.

  “You think this is silly, check your wiki for eighteenth-century toffs. Those stupid wigs. Those silk stockings. Gak.” A woman gave me a sharp glance. Man in ridiculous clothes talking to himself in broad daylight, cellphones a thing of the past. “Hey, I’d better shut up and get it done.”

  I crossed to the library at Little Lonsdale Street, settling my pack more comfortably. It was heavy on my shoulders. Item by item, we’ve worked out the optimal contents for the pack: obvious things, like food for several days, a sealed course of Cipro plus a box of heavy-duty paracetamol, two rolls of toilet paper (you’d be amazed and depressed how often that turns out to be a life saver), a code-locked wallet of cards and coins from several eras, although hardly ever the ones you need right now, but still), a googlefone that doesn’t work beyond 2019 because they keep “upgrading” the “service” and then it stops, a Swiss Army knife of course, a set of lockpicks, a comb, a false beard, and a cut-throat razor (useful for shaving and cutting throats, if it ever comes to that), and a holographic wiki I picked up in 2099 containing yottabytes of data on everything anyone will ever have learned about anything but with an index I still haven’t mastered. One of these days. And that wiki might not even exist if I botched this job.

  I paused on the library steps, under the bold banners proudly announcing next week’s unprecedented exhibition of the original Second Mars Expedition logs. No need to look again at a map of the floor plans, we’d got all those from water-stained future records and I’d memorized everything that seemed relevant. I rummaged, found my bottle of aluminum thermite powder and an old ceramic cigarette lighter, put them carefully in separate pockets. The Optix woven into my hair was recording everything in its field of view, date-stamped for later archiving. If I got out of this alive and in one piece. At least Moira would have it backed up.

  #

  I left the backpack at the counter, where it was stored for me in a locked cabinet, but nobody patted me down to find the pocketed neuronic whip and my other handy tools, or insisted that I pass through a scanner. That had been several decades earlier, when people were more angstish about everything. Still, I was sweating slightly. They’d
removed most of the paper books from the library, except for displays of volumes set up as objets d’art, and the great circular reading room with its groaning wheeled chairs and hooded green lamps was full of chatter. People leaned across long tables toward each other, disputing like students in a yeshiva, displays flickering with information and gossip. Immersive learning, they’d called it back here in the 2070s—not a bad way of finding your way around the dataverse, and a damned sight more sensible than the droning memorization I’d had to put up with as a kid.

  I found a librarian eventually and asked to speak to the Director of Collections. She looked at me with extreme distrust but put a call through, and finally sent me across to an audience with Dr. Paulo Vermeer, who regarded me with similar sentiment. I tried not to stare at the Bessel function graphs dancing on his naked skull.

  “Doctor, thank you for seeing me. I’m hoping that I might have the privilege of viewing the Second Mars Expedition logs in the vaults here, before they go on public display next week.”

  “And you are?”

  “Professor Albert M. Chop,” I told him, “Areologist,” and presented a very sincere Fijian passport card with my holographic likeness rising from its embossed surface, a University of the South Pacific faculty ID, and a driver’s license dated 2068. He gave them a perfunctory glance.

  “You’re young for such a post.”

  “It’s a new discipline, of course.” I wanted to tell him that I was older than he, just the lucky beneficiary of longevity plasmids from the end of the century. Instead, I watched as he regarded me with bland mockery.

  “Whatever is that costume, Mr. Chop, and why are you wearing it in these hallowed halls?”

  “It’s my habit,” I said, and tried to look humble but scholarly. Moira was sniggering again in my ear; I tried to ignore her and keep a straight face.

  “Your what?”