Time Travel Omnibus Volume 2

by Anthology

  The suitcase. There it was, unequivocally. And, quite as unequivocally, the two plainclothes men, after a very brief conference, were hammering on the door, trying to break it down.

  Vanning turned green. He took a hesitant step forward, and then saw the locker, in the corner to which he had moved it. The time locker—

  That was it. If he shoved the suitcase inside the locker, it would become unrecognizable. Even if it vanished again, that wouldn’t matter. What mattered was the vital importance of getting rid—immediately!—of incriminating evidence.

  The door rocked on its hinges. Vanning scuttled toward the suitcase and picked it up.

  From the corner of his eye he saw movement.

  In the air above him, a hand had appeared. It was the hand of a giant, with an immaculate cuff fading into emptiness. Its huge fingers were reaching down—

  Vanning screamed and sprang away. He was too slow. The hand descended, and Vanning wriggled impotently against the palm.

  The hand contracted into a fist. When it opened, what was left of Vanning dropped squashily to the carpet, which it stained.

  The hand withdrew into nothingness. The door fell in and the plainclothes men stumbled over it as they entered.

  It didn’t take long for Hatton and his cohorts to arrive. Still, there was little for them to do except clean up the mess. The suedette bag, containing twenty-five thousand credits in negotiable bonds, was carried off to a safer place. Vanning’s body was scraped up and removed to the morgue. Photographers flashed pictures, fingerprint experts insufflated their white powder, X-ray men worked busily. It was all done with swift efficiency, so that within an hour the office was empty and the door sealed.

  Thus there were no spectators to witness the advent of a gigantic hand that appeared from nothingness, groped around as though searching for something, and presently vanished once more—

  The only person who could have thrown light on the matter was Gallegher, and his remarks were directed to Monstro, in the solitude of his laboratory. All he said was:

  “So that’s why that workbench materialized for a few minutes here yesterday. Hm-m-m. Now plus x—and x equals about a week. Still, why not? It’s all relative. But—I never thought the universe was shrinking that fast!”

  He relaxed on the couch and siphoned a double martini.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” he murmured after a while. “Whew! I guess Vanning must have been the only guy who ever reached into the middle of next week and—killed himself! I think I’ll get tight.”

  And he did.

  TIME ON YOUR HANDS

  John York Cabot

  The package had been sent to Reggie Vliet at his club. It had, upon being opened by that amiable young playboy, presented quite an emotional jolt. Shock and nostalgia had been the prime essentials of his emotions. Shock at the realization that old Lowndes was dead; nostalgia at the recollection of what the small object had once meant to him.

  The small object was a watch. Lowndes’ watch. An extraordinary timepiece which gave the wearer the astounding ability to flip back, very much in the flesh, into any page of any historical era he might wish to visit.

  The watch, in fact, was used to that advantage by Reggie himself several years previously. Used, thanks to the kindliness of the strange butler, Lowndes, to enable the young man to have a go at changing history.

  Reggie hadn’t changed history on that occasion. But he had succeeded, through his prowlings through the pages of Time, in bringing back from history enough evidence to force the coldblooded old colonel, now his father-in-law, to permit him to marry the girl of Reggie’s dreams.

  At the time of the arrival of this strange timepiece Reggie was, and had been for several years, thank you, quite happily married to that girl. Married so happily, in fact, that it seemed years since—upon returning from the historic past and winning the girl—he had given the watch back to Lowndes.

  And now, as he gazed at the watch and remembered it all more forcibly than he had ever recalled it since, he realized also that the arrival of the timepiece signified that Lowndes was dead. For Lowndes had told Reggie, back then, that his present to Reggie and his bride-to-be would be a provision in his will which would pass the watch on to Reggie, should the eccentric old butler ever go the way of all flesh.

  Reggie felt sad to think that Lowndes was dead. So sad, in fact, that he almost quite forgot the watch as he mechanically, idly, strapped it to his wrist and fiddled with the dial. The explosion in Reggie’s bean followed with terrifying immediacy, and for a second he thought he was losing consciousness. Then daylight returned.

  Perplexed, Reggie shook his head. He noticed then, with some surprise, that his head showed no indication of exploding again. He shook it again, cautiously.

  “Well, anyway,” he said aloud, “I’m not drunk.”

  Then he remembered his fiddling with the watch. His heart turned a triple somersault and didn’t quite right itself. Something very funny was going on in his stomach and now his head was hurting!

  He stared dazedly about a magnificent chamber. His brain was struggling to assimilate the evidence his eyes were presenting. It was monstrously unbelievable! Impossibly incredible! He shut his eyes desperately. It would all be gone when he opened his eyes. It had to be.

  He opened his eyes again. A despairing moan trickled through his lips. Nothing had changed. The chamber was just as magnificent, just as real as ever.

  Reggie began to tremble at the thought. The soft jelly-like surface of the wonderful bed trembled with him. He passed a hand over his suddenly damp forehead and noticed, for the first time since he had left the privacy of his club, the Time Machine strapped securely to his wrist. He peered at it closely. It was set for year minus one. Somehow it gave him a feeling of confidence.

  If things got blackish he had merely to set the machine and Pip Pip! he’d be out of it. His nervousness began to fade away. His perky smile appeared again at the corners of his mouth.

  He even felt a bit debonair, for he was still dressed as he had been in the library. Cutaway coat, striped trousers, boutonnière—neatly turned out.

  Excitement and a delicious sense of adventure were stealing over him. He, Reggie Vliet, was again actually living in the past. He could enjoy it, relish it, admire it, and—change it. That was why he was here. To scramble the past, knock it off its customary track, blast it out of its timeworn groove.

  The thought made him laugh delightedly. He thought of old Colonel Vanderveer, ancestry-ridden and heredity-conscious. Why, with an upheaval in history the old boy might turn up a beggar or a thief or a milkman or even a fifth columnist. Then let him object to the humble Randhope name. Reggie laughed louder. Why the old goat would probably be happy to have his daughter’s name linked to the Randhopes, or anybody for that matter.

  “Fifth columnist,” Reggie chortled, “or maybe even a congressman.”

  So engrossed was Reggie with these entrancing visions that he did not hear the soft footsteps behind him. He was cheerfully oblivious to all but his own happy contemplations. But not so oblivious that he failed to hear the smooth, liquid voice at his side say:

  “Greetings, strangely attired one.”

  The smile remained on Reggie’s face through force of habit, but he started suddenly and toppled off the soft edge of the bed. He struck the floor in a confused heap of arms and legs and rolled over once. Then he climbed to his feet. The smile was still stuck on his feet like a mask. He turned slowly to face a dark-haired, puzzled-looking girl, attired in a loose, flowing white garment that did little to conceal her lovely feminine contours.

  The smile on Reggie’s face began to thaw. Then, when his lips were manageable again, it widened.

  He smoothed his hair and straightened his tie. “I say,” he declared, “they didn’t exaggerate about you at that. You’re all they said, er—Miss Cleopatra, and then some.”

  The girl’s frown deepened. “Cleopatra?” Her smooth voice was doubtful.

  “E
r—yes.” Reggie cleared his throat. “You are Cleopatra, aren’t you?”

  The girl’s eyes lighted and then she smiled, a brilliant flashing smile that had a couple of dimples and a lot of white teeth mixed together very attractively. “Cleopatra,” she said, and gestured about the room.

  Reggie beamed. “We’re getting on, aren’t we?” He took her hand and seated her on the side of the bed, slumping himself next to her. “Now, Cleopatra,” he said briskly, “what’s all this I hear about you throwing yourself away on this mug, Anthony?”

  The girl shook her head and glanced fearfully about the room.

  “Now just relax, Cleo,” Reggie said soothingly, “maybe I was too blunt about everything. I mean, we hardly know each other.” He smiled and she smiled back at him rather uncertainly. Reggie congratulated himself modestly. A plan was buzzing around his head. If he could eliminate Cleopatra and Anthony it might have terrific repercussions down through time.

  He smiled again at the girl. It’d be fun, too.

  “Cleopatra . . .” His voice held a muted throb. His eyes closed soulfully. “How I’ve waited for this moment. I’ve lived for it, dreamed and hoped for it for centuries. To see the beauty, the glory, the incomparable loveliness that is you and you alone. To be near the immortal woman, whose life has fired the imagination.”

  Reggie opened one eye cautiously to see how it was going.

  He looked closer at the girl and opened the other eye. Something was wrong. She was staring over his shoulder transfixed, completely oblivious to him. The Vliet pride suffered.

  “After all,” he said peevishly, “you could at least listen.”

  Reggie became conscious, then, of another presence in the room. It wasn’t anything he could hear or see or smell. It was as if the very air had been charged with some electric force that beat against him in prickling waves. He turned slowly.

  Standing before him was a woman.

  “Cleopatra,” he breathed. He knew it instinctively. Just as a person wouldn’t need an introduction to Niagara Falls, so Reggie needed no introduction to this magnificent woman.

  “I beg forgiveness, mistress,” the girl alongside Reggie said tearfully. “I found him when I came to draw your bath.”

  Cleopatra made a slight gesture with her hand. Her eyes burned steadily into Reggie’s. The girl slipped away.

  Reggie loosened his collar with his forefinger and stood up weakly. Very brilliant of him, he thought dazedly. Making his torrid play for Cleopatra’s maid. He noticed uneasily that Cleopatra had crossed her arms and was regarding him with a smoldering intensity.

  “Warm, isn’t it?” He loosened his collar again and smiled enthusiastically. “For this time of the year, I mean.”

  Her lips curved slightly. Reggie looked at her closely, his fascination temporarily over-riding his feeling of fearful awkwardness. She was not tall, yet she created that impression. It was something in the way she held her head. Her features were ordinary except for a curiously alive, vibrant quality about her mouth and nose. Her hair was a splendid, thrilling crown that sparkled like black diamonds as it cascaded in a tumbling stream down her back. But her eyes were a new experience to Reggie. They were green and then they were black and they danced and glittered like quicksilver. Reggie turned his eyes away and blinked. It was like looking too long at a flashing neon sign.

  “It is warm,” she said unexpectedly.

  Her voice was clear and yet it was the type of voice that can purr at times.

  “Oh, oh yes,” Reggie nodded vigorously, “warm.”

  Cleopatra moved toward him. She wore a cream-colored, mesh-like garment that buckled at her shoulders and ankles.

  Reggie backed a step, bumped into the bed and sat down. Cleopatra moved languorously toward him, seated herself beside him.

  “Where are you from, strange one?” she asked quietly.

  Reggie was puzzled about the language. Either she was speaking English or he was speaking Egyptian. Anyway, they seemed to understand each other and he was satisfied.

  Cleopatra was waiting for an answer. Reggie’s reeling senses were beginning to right themselves. “It doesn’t matter,” he said soulfully. “How I’ve waited for this moment. I’ve lived for it, dreamed and hoped for it for centuries. To see—”

  “I have heard that before,” Cleopatra interrupted him coldly. “That is what you told my maid.”

  “Not to mention half the senior class at Vassar,” Reggie said brightly, and then checked himself. Maybe Cleopatra lacked a sense of humor. “The words have been burned into my heart,” he murmured brokenly. He risked a quick look at her, and breathed with more assurance. He took her hand gently, holding his breath. She was looking at his wrist.

  “What is that?” She touched the Time Machine with her finger.

  Reggie swallowed. “It’s rather a long story. I don’t—”

  “Let me have it.”

  “Now, Cleopatra—”

  “Let me have it.”

  Reggie hesitated, then removed the watch. It wouldn’t hurt as long as he stayed close to it. Also Cleopatra didn’t look as if she had a lot of patience.

  Reggie watched her anxiously as she twirled it around on the leather strap. She made delighted, gurgling noises to herself which Reggie thought slightly out of character. Finally she slipped it on her wrist and held out her arm proudly, twisting it this way and that to catch the reflection from the light on its glistening surface.

  “Very pretty,” Reggie said diplomatically. “Now wouldn’t you rather I kept it for you? Nice and safe, you know.”

  Cleopatra shook her head in a delighted negative. Her brilliantly lustrous hair swished back and forth past Reggie’s face. He forgot about the Time Machine and captured her small soft hand.

  “Cleopatra,” he began.

  “Cleopatra!” A mighty bull-like roar blasted through the room.

  Reggie started. He heard heavy, dominant footsteps pounding closer.

  “Cleopatra!” The tapestries billowed in the breeze.

  The footsteps neared, a horrible sound of clanking armor accompanied them, and then a mightily muscled, flashing-eyed, beplumed warrior strode into the room.

  “Anthony!” Cleopatra’s voice exclaimed.

  Reggie swallowed hard. Anthony was advancing ominously toward him. His cruel, predatory nose was outthrust like an eagle’s beak. His eyes sparked with green fire. His mighty hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically.

  “Glad you could make it,” Reggie said feebly. “Heh heh. Not much of a party without Anthony, Cleopatra was just saying. Yes sir.”

  Anthony paused and looked at Cleopatra.

  “Who is this scrawny creature?” he rumbled.

  “No one to worry about,” Reggie interjected hastily, “Just stopped off to see how you love birds were getting along. Can’t really stay a minute longer. So pip pip! And all that.”

  Anthony’s huge hand stretched out and fastened on Reggie’s shoulder. “Not so fast,” he said ominously. His eyes sought Cleopatra’s. “Who is he?”

  Cleopatra leaned back on the bed and stared at him through lidded eyes. “Since you are really concerned,” she murmured, “he is nothing but a poor traveling peddler. Look!” She held out her arm, displaying the Time Machine. “See the pretty bauble I received from him.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Reggie cried. “You can’t have that. I need it.” He struggled helplessly in Anthony’s grasp. “Fun’s fun,” he said excitedly, “but give me back my—my watch.”

  “Silence!” Anthony thundered.

  Reggie chose to ignore this excellent advice. With a shrill cry he lunged toward Cleopatra, his hand reaching desperately for the Time Machine, his only link with the future.

  Something that felt like a fence post crashed into his head and he felt himself falling backward. Then, something hard hit him in the back and Reggie knew he was on the floor.

  “Guards!” he heard Anthony thundering, “take this man to the dungeons and chain him
there! He attacked your Mistress!”

  Reggie felt powerful hands on his arms, and then he was jerked to his feet. His dazed eyes focused on Anthony, the picture of rage incarnate, shaking a sword at him.

  “You’ll pay for this,” Anthony bellowed, “you’ll go to Rome to fatten our lions you miserable dog. I’ll watch them tear you apart myself at the next arena games. Take him away guards . . .”

  Reggie looked from Anthony to Cleopatra, who stared silently at him, a faint smile curving her full lips. His eyes gazed despairingly at the Time Machine on her wrist.

  “Well,” Reggie managed to croak, “All roads lead to Rome at that, don’t they?”

  Then something struck him on the head once more and he could feel himself being dragged away as a sea of darkness engulfed him . . .

  During the vague black nightmare of the next hours, Reggie Randhope regained consciousness momentarily at three separate intervals. On the first of these, Reggie opened his eyes to see that he was lying in what appeared to be the scuppers of an ancient sailing vessel. He was chained and shackled, and there were others beside him who were held captive in like manner. His clothes had been taken and he now wore a dirty toga. From the smell of fresh sea air, and from the nauseating lurching of the deck beneath him, Reggie gathered that he was somewhere at sea. It was gratefully that he swooned into unconsciousness again.

  On the second occasion that Reggie opened his eyes, he was being tossed about on some great landing dock by men in togas. Tossed about without any regard for the finer niceties of his physical self. Strong, bearded men were doing the tossing.

  Reggie had time to ask himself: “Can this be Rome?” And then someone failed to catch his hurtling, hog-tied body, and his head crashed into a dock piling, blotting out consciousness again.

  And then, to a confusion of sounds, a bedlam of roaring voices Reggie regained consciousness again. Opening one eye slyly this time, he found that he was in some sort of a cart or chariot—still shackled: And opening the eye a bit wider, he realized that the roaring came from huge hordes of toga-clad citizenry lining a narrow street along which he was being carried.